Exclusive Preview: Christmas, Part 7

I've been thinking about ways to better reward the higher tier. Truth is, I haven't really kept my side of the bargain, which was to provide both Constant stuff, and exclusive short fiction, too. However, I've been so wrapped up in Constant that all these short stories bouncing around my head haven't yet been written. Those should start coming out in March. In the meantime, I thought it might be nice to give an exclusive sneak peek at forthcoming chapters. This is work-in-progress though it's been through a few editorial passes already, and gives you a longer sneak peek at what should go out on Wednesday or possibly, the week after that. It's an opportunity, I guess, to feedback on an earlier version of stuff, if you feel that there's been a giant misstep. Or, maybe, to see how much things might change during the revison between this version and what gets posted.

If you enjoy it, let me know and I'll push one of these out every two weeks or so.

Seven: Loose Ends

I’m buzzing with anticipation, with trepidation. Stripping naked, panties and bra go to the bottom of the wardrobe with yesterday’s dirty clothes. Then, I carefully fold the red skirt. The white sequined top follows. I place both at the foot of the bed. Earrings go in their little box on the vanity. I’m taking my time, savouring the nervous thrill.

            That’s a lie. What I’m really doing is procrastinating. Truth is, I’m scared. I’m excited, but I’m also freaking out of my little blonde head.

            A wisp of pale blue, the babydoll sits atop a small pile of lingerie. Driven by the same instinct that led me to grab the maid’s outfit, I dug this out from where it lay at the back of my closet. It’s the one I was wearing when I first woke up as Cindy. Last time I saw it, Julia wore it for all of five minutes. Now, it’s my turn. This’ll be the first time I’ve put it on since waking up one April morning last year and discovering my tits were real, and so was Cindy for the foreseeable future.

            The negligee’s tight around the chest, I’ve grown two cup sizes since that first morning. Now, I’m practically spilling out of the thing. In contrast, the matching panties fit better. No bulge, just a flat front and a rounded ass. The babydoll’s hem tickles smooth, hairless thighs. The girl in the mirror pats down her front with trembling fingers, plucks at the neckline, strokes her hair. God, she’s sexy in a wide-eyed, innocent kind of way, though there’s nothing innocent about those curves.

            It hits me, then, like a thump to the tummy. Christ: I’m doing this, I’m going to have sex with a man. Willingly, this time. My stomach does a little dance, half excited flutter, half nauseating lurch. Maybe this is how a girl feels the night of her prom. Or a young woman on the third night. Do girls even wait that long anymore? I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t know but it’s getting late. What the fuck am I doing? I’m fluttering about like some teenage girl before a first date. I’ve already sucked on his cock, he’s eaten me out, stuck his finger up my twat; what’s the big deal? I mean, we nearly did it this morning.

            But it feels like a big deal. This morning was—in the heat of the moment, morning horny and a blurry confusion of drowsy desire. But this feels different. There’s time to think and frankly, nothing good come out of letting a girl overthink things. In his presence, it’s easy to pretend—no, not pretend, we’re past that. Be the girl he thinks I am, the girl he wants me to be. Left on my own, doubt returns, self-recrimination returns, the outraged voice of my former self whispers in my ear: how could you, what are you doing, look at yourself, what kind of a man are you?

            Looking in the mirror, I don’t see a man at all. Only a beautiful young woman, who reaches for her hairbrush.

            Five minutes to brush out my hair, thick golden cascade to one side: for him, to run his fingers through, sweep to one side, expose a pale and waiting shoulder, a slender neck wanting for a kiss. Then makeup; I want to look my best, for him. Lipstick, first, press of the pencil and then gentle glide of the brush: full lips, richly contoured and coloured, soft, inviting. An incitement to crush his mouth against mine, parted lips, hot sigh, his tongue sliding past mine. Mascara, curl of long, dark lashes and that expressive look. For him, this wide-eyed gaze, the bashful adoring glances. And concealer, because dammit if there isn’t just too much to hide.

            Shit, it’s 11:15. He told me to come down at a quarter past and goddamn it if I’m not ready. A final flurry of care, poking stray hairs into place, thread the earring through the lobe, a final pat of powder, tugging the negligee into place. Why are you so nervous? the voice asks, entirely reasonably. This is disgusting. He’s a man. You’re a man. Why do you care what he thinks? Why make yourself pretty for him? I ignore the voice, focus on the exhilaration and anxiety flickering at the thought of keeping him waiting. He might punish me. I might enjoy it.

            Heading downstairs now, barefooted steps silent in the dark. The carpet is luxuriously soft beneath my toes. The air, cool against my thighs, my bare arms. He’s laid out candles and they light the way to the master bedroom.  This trail of flickering lights run past the front room, awash in bright, flat moonlight. Then, the living room with its artificial tree, still glimmering with Christmas lights. Down the hallway, past the kitchen where I cooked him dinner and where, tomorrow, dressed as his sexy, servile maid, I’ll clean, cook and curtsey. This gleaming guide winds down the hallway to the bedroom, the same room in which I spent last night curled in his arms.

            In pale artificial candlelight, family photos along the wall tell their story in shades of wavering grey. Semi-circular console tables hold pretty flower vases in beige and pink. I am reminded that he is still a married man, and a father. At the end of the hallway, his door stands ajar, the light seeps out invitingly. Now I see the rose petals scattered along the way, crimson flecks curled like wisps of cut red ribbon.

            Now I hesitate, and my hand is at my throat. I can still turn back, leave, catch a taxi and head home. Michael would understand. The one who doesn’t understand is—me, that is, the me who woke up furious and betrayed nine months ago wearing this same negligee—he doesn’t understand how I could—stand here, soft curves veiled in pale blue. Yet I yearn to take the final few steps leading into that room. I tremble like those petals in an unseen wind. This isn’t Icarus. Under Julia’s coercion, that night was an exercise in punishment because for her, sex with another man could only be punishment. Humiliation, shame and guilt: for all her inner conflict, this was how Julia wanted me to experience femininity. Not pleasurably but an unending cycle of guilt, shame and humiliation.

            There’s nothing shameful in this lingerie draped across luscious curves. Yes, it’s designed to entice and provoke but that’s exactly what I want to do. Yes, I’m wearing makeup; yes, I’ve put it on specifically for him. There is no guilt. As for shame: in my agreed promise of submission to his desires, there’s only a promise of pleasure.

            A first step and in that movement towards his room there is a conscious and willing acceptance of the femininity I present so well. Then another step: an understanding of my role in what comes next. My fingers curl around the door jamb.

            I will lie on his bed and spread my legs for him, and he will…

            I sway, catch myself against the door frame and shiver in the cold air because suddenly, I’m hot, nipples hard and belly tight and—what the fuck am I doing wasting time hovering in this fucking hallway when what I want is right through this door?

            Mr Connor used his time to decorate the room. There’s an open bottle of chilled bubbly and rose petals everywhere and candles—real ones, hot flickering and dripping wax on every shelf and surface. Mr Connor stands by the bed wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He’s tall and good-looking and he’s waiting for me with a look of such joyful excitement I can’t help but smile, too. He’s the boy at Christmas who got exactly what he’s always wanted, and he can’t wait to play with his new toy.

            We drink Champagne, nibble on strawberries, talk—a little—but mostly we sit together wrapped in the nervous energy of two people about to have sex for the first time. There’s an open box of condoms waiting by the bed. I rest my hand against his arm. He returns the favour. His hand at my breast draws a pleased gasp as he gently kneads through the silky softness of the negligee. We kiss, caress. He strokes my hair, and I stroke the cock tenting his boxers. He whispers comforting words as he guides me onto the bed. He takes my hand. His lips trace a line of kisses from shoulder to elbow to wrist as he brings my hand to the heavy oak headboard, and waiting there, leather cuffs. He binds my wrists to the headboard and then lays another trail of kisses down my forehead, nose and lips, neck, then thigh, knee, back of knee and calf. Along the way, he tugs my panties down, slips them off over my ankles, drops them to the floor. Then he takes my ankles and binds them, too, to the footboard.

            Now I’m spread-eagle on his bed, naked but for this insubstantial negligee. I test the straps that hold my arms. They’re too strong to break—if I strained and thrashed with all my might, maybe I could break free—maybe. Suddenly, the horrible vulnerability of my situation, the absolute powerlessness of my position—hammers down on me. The pleasant haze of a moment ago is torn away like mist in a storm.

            I can’t breathe. There is no escape from this. I am the maiden offered up as sacrifice, willingly chained to the altar of male desire. Yet, as I look up at him, I see—such fervent worship in his gaze that any thought of escape fades and leaves behind only warmth humming beneath the skin. Yes, I am tied to his bed, but even without these cuffs I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

            Mr Connor takes his time. He kisses and tickles, licks and bites. He orders me to stay quiet, slides his hand up beneath the babydoll and pinches a fat, jutting nipple. He smiles wickedly, twists the nipple and I gasp and moan. Each touch is pleasurable torture. My breath rasps in my throat and I am hot and my hips twitch with desire as his fingers draw idle lines across my body, tracing out abstract symbols of pleasure in my flesh. His hand slides across the babydoll, it whispers across my skin. By the time he strips off his boxers, I’m hot and panting. His cock jumps up, ready. I lick my lips. Soon, that thing will be inside of me. I shiver, take a shuddering breath. It’ll fit, at least there’s that, I’ve got a pretty good idea of its length, yesterday and the prosthetic’s deep enough. A little bubble of hysteria pops and I giggle as he climbs onto the bed, positions himself between my spread legs. The restraints bite into my wrist, my ankles as I test them. They confirm my helplessness, my surrender.

            Looking terribly serious, he straddles me, then shimmies forward until he’s kneeling over my tummy. He takes care to sweep my hair out of the way, avoids pinning it with his knees. His eyes glitter and now he’s breathing heavily, too. A touch at my ear, my neck and shoulder, and then his hands return to my breasts, squeeze firmly, fingers curling into the babydoll’s neckline. His ministrations grow harsher, faster, he kneads my tits, lunges down and bites at the swell of flesh. I gasp, and then he grips the babydoll and with a single, rough yank, tears if from my body. The delicate straps over my shoulder snap, thin fabric rips and he tosses it to the floor. He grabs my breast and crams it into his mouth, sucks on the nipple, tongue flicking back and forth. I feel his teeth, squeal, want to hammer my feet against the mattress. Ropes at my ankles pull taut. Then, he thrusts his cock between my boobs. He roughly squeezes my flesh around his cock. He’s fucking my titties and fuck me if I’m not loving it, I’m soaking down below and my ankles jerk against their bondage as I try and bring my thighs together, ease the growing pressure, wrap my legs around his waist.

            A moan escapes, silenced as the tip of his cock presses against my lips. Open up, good girl, he snarls. I do as he orders, swirl my tongue, seal my lips around the head. He grunts with pleasure. If possible, he grows even harder, roughly fucks my face, my tits with sharp, jerky thrusts as I slurp and suck.

            Then he’s gone, sliding backwards on the bed. A brief pause as he tears open a condom, rolls it down over his penis. I watch, breathing hard. Mr Connor rises over me, arms either side of my head. His cock points like a spear towards my pussy. I feel its heat. He’s looking straight into my eyes and I’m looking straight back at him. It’s a terrifying intimate moment and—

            I’m afraid. I want this but I’m afraid. I’m so fucking horny but I’m also scared, little girl scared, girl on the night of her prom scared. Icarus and Julia’s apartment. Memories of girl sex promise only pain and humiliation. I can’t breath, squeeze my eyes shut, feel a cry rise in my throat. Were my arms not tied to the headboard, I would grab him and push him away. Were my legs not tied to the foot of the bed I would kick him away. As it is, I strain against my bonds until my muscles ache. I twist and pull. My wrists burn and my back arcs. Trembling, I fall back onto the bed. He remains a silent presence above me. He waits and says nothing.

            I open my eyes. He still gazes down at me, adoringly. I remember his touch and the pleasure he’s brought me. How his voice in all its conflicted caring has for months now trembled up my spine and led me to this very time and place.

            I lick my lips, toss my head to clear hair from my eyes and can see him clearly, now. I want this; I need this.

            “Fuck me,” I say.

            And what happens next isn’t just fucking. It’s no nasty rut on a hotel mattress. He pushes into me, and I’m so wet and aroused I nearly come instantly. But I don’t, I’m very brave, I hold out for, like, thirty seconds. Instead, I gasp as he opens me up, and moan as he begins half a minute of slow, luxurious strokes in which he penetrates me a little deeper each time until, on the last, he bottoms out, pushing all the way in until his balls rests against my ass. And it feels—good, so fucking good as he slides in and out of me, and for those blissful thirty seconds I focus entirely on the sensation of this penis inside of me. Inside of me, pushing ever deeper into my cunt, spreading my lips, rubbing against my clit. With each thrust, another moan, growing louder. My hips rise to meet him. The bonds at wrist and ankle creak and strain. Squirming with pleasure, the wave grows, my chest heaves, nipples hard pebbles of pain and pleasure, hot and I roll my head from side to side for the overwhelming sensation of it all and yearn, somehow, to physically express and release the pressure but, with arms and legs tied I can only throw my hair and bite my lip in rapturous frenzy, twitch and strain as pleasure swells—I moan, louder….

            A final thrust impales me on his cock and I—break. The wave crests. He holds me tightly as I buck and cry out in mournful ecstasy. I strain against my bondage. I want to wrap the entirely of myself around this man. Draw him even deeper into me. The headboard bangs against the wall. I come, again, a second wave, smaller but dragging me down even deeper. Something inside cracks, I’m crying even as I clench down on his cock with prosthetic muscles I’ve never properly used before, because goddamn it if I haven’t just learned the difference between a finger, a dildo and a real live penis shoved up inside me.

            When he withdraws, still hard and ready, I whimper and feel empty. My hips twitch to invite him back in. His smooths my hair to one side and traces my tears.

            “Untie me,” I snivel. “Please.”

            Looking stricken and full of concern, he quickly released my ankles, then my wrists. “Cindy—I’m so sorry, I thought—”

            I silence him with a kiss, wrapping myself around him, arms and legs and pull him as close as I can. I want him inside me again but lack the words to tell him. My innards swirl with feelings I can’t and don’t want to understand. Instead, I cradle his face between my hands, and kiss him, neck and cheek and eyes and mouth, again and again.

            He smiles, a little bashfully. “You’re okay, right?”

            I laugh, a disbelieving sound. “Oh, you stupid—yes,” I kiss him again, “Yes.”

            A rumble of pleasure from him as he strokes my shoulder.

            With gentle but persistent pressure, I push him down into the bed. “Your turn.”

            He shakes his head, grins ruefully. “No. You know I can’t—”

            “Please.” I kiss his chest, his neck. “I want you to feel what I feel.”

            Mr Connor shrugs and lies back in the bed. I clamber on top of him. He’s going to cum, this man. I don’t care what his problems are, he’s going to cum. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of girls I’ve taken to bed and who left unsatisfied. Frigid, nervous, messed up, fucked in the head—and yeah, there’s been quite a few of those—it never mattered. Each and everyone, I found the trigger, their secret centimeter of flesh, the fantasy or whispered word that got them going. And I can’t see why this guy should be any different. Yeah, he’s got issues, his confidence is shot, he’s stressed, tired; whatever. He’s going to cum, and he’s going to do it inside of me.

            So, now it’s my turn to straddle him and I start with the torso. I lay kisses across his belly. My nails trace his firm stomach, lines of firm muscle. Kisses across his chest, a line weaving from pectoral to pectoral, ass in the air as I nip and lick. His dick remains erect but a little floppy now, slapping against my bum. Dipping down, I take a little, cat-like lap at his nipple. He gives a little jerk, lays his hand on my head to stop me doing it again. “Ah—no,” he says, grinning.

            I flutter my eyelashes. “You sure? I promise you, it feels great.”

            “For you, maybe.” He covers his nipple. “Not for me.”

            I kiss the back of his hand.

            “Close your eyes,” I say. “Relax.”

            “I’m the one in charge, remember?”

            “Starting tomorrow, you said.” I check the clock. “I’ve got twenty minutes.”

            “I admire the enthusiasm,” he says. “But—” and then he goes quiet as I roll the condom off his cock, toss it to one side and take him in my mouth. It tastes gross, but that doesn’t matter. I hum for joy and watch him and feel him grow hard again.

            He chuckles, breathes out and closes his eyes.

            Grinning wickedly, I return to kissing: first thighs, then his flank leading to shoulder, collarbone, ear, then along his arm, bicep, elbow and wrist and then hold his wrist as I continue to distract him by lavishing attention on his body. Gently, I raise his arm above his head and nuzzle at his neck. Then, with a quick and smooth movement, I slip his wrist into the leather cuff and pull it shut.

            His eyes snap open. “Hey—”

            “Shh—” I lay a finger against his lips. “Don’t you trust me?”

            He pushes my finger away with his free hand. “It’s not a trust thing. This isn’t what I—”

            “Want?” I take his free hand in mine, hold it gently but firmly. “I know, I get it, it’s only girls who ought to be tied up, right? Well, you can tie my up again right after. You probably should, to be honest. After all, I’m being a very naughty girl right now.” I kiss his fingertips, his palm. “But still—don’t you think it’s only fair? You’re going to do—all sort of terrible things to me—tomorrow, all day long. Why not give me ten minutes?”

            He looks doubtful.

            “How about this,” I say. “If you really don’t want to do this, all you need to do is stop me.”  I smile innocently. “Surely a big strong man like you can stop a tiny, weak girl like me from tying you down?”

            It turns out he can’t, obviously, though he gives it a good effort. But I’ve got leverage and frankly, despite slim arms and slender shoulders, I’m a hell of a lot stronger than he is, he just doesn’t know it. A brief struggle, some nervous laughter and then his arms are bound over his head, much like mine had been.

            I flip my hair back and resume kissing him. This time, when I lick his nipples, he jerks and protests and can’t do anything about it. Briefly, I wish for more—tits to suckle, real nipples to play with—but he’ll do, he’ll do. I scrape my nails across his chest, drawing hisses of uncomfortable arousal. I twist about, thrust my cunt in his face as I grab his cock by the base and plunge down, mouth open. He cries out, I take him in as deep as I can. No deepthroating here, I nearly gag, but it’s my turn to be rough, spit-slick hand job alternating with licks and slurps and sucking. It’s when my lips are sealed around his shaft that I feel his tongue thrust into my pussy. I wasn’t expecting it, the bastard catches me by surprise, my moan vibrates the length of his cock as I shudder and shove my cunt in his face. Hot breath and eager tongue laps at my lips. I nearly cum again, swirl my tongue and bob once, twice, tits swaying pendulously with each jerk of my head.

            Then I let him pop free, his hard cock slaps my chin and trails spit. I wipe the back of my hand across my face as he eats me out. I could stay like that forever, God, it feels so good but I’m strong and crawl out of reach of his magnificent tongue. I twist to face him again, crouching over with a  predatorial grin. Grabbing a condom, I tear it out, roll it down his cock. He watches, chin slick with wetness. Now I raise over him, pussy hovering over his erect manhood. His eyes are wide, his cock twitches in hard anticipation. I toss my head, sway my hair across his chest. Then, I plunge my pussy down onto his waiting rod and he cries out, Ah! and I cry out too, manifest joy at the sensation of him filling me once again. Yearning for his hands on my tits, I grab them myself and ride him, reveling in the raw physicality of his cock, my cunt, these breasts and his muscular thighs pressed against my knees. I’m so into it, riding my way to another orgasm that I nearly forget my goal, here; it’s not about me, it’s him and to be honest, as great as it feels it’s not as good as before, I preferred it when I was beneath him.

            Face contorting with desire, gasping with each rise and fall and there’s hope in his eyes, disbelief and fervent desire. Grinning wildly, I rake his chest with my nails, throw back my hair, rise and plunge down one last time, take him in a deep as I can and clench tight, he groans, yes, oh god, yes and I feel him swell and—

            I slap him, hard.

            He rocks back with the slap, cries out—but he’s still hard, harder even as I continue to ride him. “What the—” he protests, and I slap him again, the other way. Now he’s angry, looks ready to throttle me, arms straining against his bonds. “Stop—”

            “Shut the fuck up,” I growl, though everything feels so fucking good it more kittenish squeal than threat. He squirms, tries to throw me off—but we’re locked together, cock to pussy and I’m not going anywhere.

            “Cin—”

            I nearly headbutt him as I lunge forward, smashing my mouth to his, pushing into him, forcing my tongue against his and him wriggling beneath me until—he begins to kiss back, groaning around my tongue, into my mouth as I grind into him, short, savage jerks of my hips, arms jerking above his head, headboard banging and he stays hard, fuck doe she ever, and if he doesn’t come soon I  sure as hell will, fingers clawing his hair, holding him close, animal breathing, and then he’s ready, I can feel it and clutch him close and whisper hoarsely in his ear, “cum,” and—

            He does.

            After that, it takes time for him to return. I undo the cuffs and hold him close. My breasts pressing into his back. Eventually, his breathing returns to normal.  He releases a deep breath. “Wow,” he says and then, “fuck.”

            “You ok?”

            His mouth opens and closes a few times before he shakes his head. “No.”

            “What’s wrong?”

            It takes him a moment to find the words. Candles flicker lower and the night gathers around us. The full moon bathes the house, a sliver of silver light slipping through the curtains. It’s very quiet except for his breathing, and I see by the clock that it’s just passed midnight.

            He holds my hands over his belly, leaning back into the softness of my chest. His voice is quiet. “That’s now how it’s supposed to be. I tie you down, make you beg, fuck you silly until you cry my name.” He shrugs. “But instead—”

            “You’re doing it again.” I gently kiss the nape of his neck. “These fantasy of yours, they’re always missing something. Know what that is? You. The thing missing from your fantasies is—you.  You’re so goddamn focused on me—on tying me up, fuck me cross-eyed—that you forget about yourself. And like, I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t accept that because my fantasy most definitely involved you crying out my name, okay?”

            He stares at me for a long moment. “But I’m supposed to be in charge.”
            “And you are,” I say.

            “You hit me.”

            “Seemed the best to way to get you out of your own head.”

            He frowns. “For twenty years, I’ve chased this. Wanting to be dominant, the master, the top. You know? That’s what I wanted. Or though I wanted? Then you tie me down, slap me around, sit on top and order me to cum—and I do.” He shakes his head, despairingly. “Do you realize that’s the first time I’ve cum during sex in over a year? Christ. What if I’ve been chasing the wrong thing my whole life?”

            I laugh. He looks hurt.

            “Oh, sir,” I say, rubbing my hands across his body. “You really do overthink this shit sometimes. You’re no submissive,” I say. “You’ve got authority inscribed in every fiber of your being. You radiate confidence. Control. Fuck, it’s in your voice, sir, when you talk to me, I get this shiver that just makes me want to… listen, sit in your lap, or do whatever will please you. What happened tonight, that was just a—crisis of faith.”
            “I want that to be true,” he says. “I do. But today—”

            “Listen.” I slide around to sit facing him. “How’s this, then: another theory. What if, when you saw that little mix twenty years ago, you know, that girl you told me about at the party, the one that set you on this path… what if it wasn’t the idea of dominating her that got you all excited? You saw her all tied up and squirming and you got excited and assumed, because that’s what society told you you’re supposed to think, that what excited you was her vulnerability, her submission. Because you’re a man, right? And men, they should be in charge, dominant and powerful.”

            As I speak, I take his hands, place them on my body. “But what if instead, what you really wanted wasn’t to fuck her, but to be her? Just for a moment—a fleeting but indelible instant burnt into your soul—you wanted to know how she felt. Wondered, why did she allow herself to be tied up like that? She looked helpless but also fiercely sexual, I bet, and you yearned to know how that feels. So soft and vulnerable—” and here, I hold his palm to my breast, so he feels the softness—“yet passionate and—commanding.”  With his hand beneath mine, we explore my curves, breast and waist and hips.

            “She demanded your attention, didn’t she, this girl? But you couldn’t admit any of this to yourself. Obviously. Wanting to experience what a girl feels? That’s shameful. Instead, you projected that desire onto others, onto… me. And it’s like that old quote, you know, the one from that movie. Like, I’m allowed to dress like a boy if I want, that’s cute, it’s just pretend, right? Maybe a bit transgressive these days, but nothing threatening and I can get on top and take charge for a bit and that’s fun, too, so long as I know my place and return to it after. Most of all, it's okay for me to pretend to be a boy because it’s okay to be a boy. To look like a girl—or act as one—that’s degrading because you think being a girl is degrading. But secretly, all these years you’ve wanted to know what it’s like, haven’t you? What it feels like for a girl?”

            He stares at me for a long time after that. He retrieves his hand, clasps them in his lap. Then, the corner of his lip twitches. He laughs. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

            I hold my hand to my chest in a gesture of utter innocence. “Who, me?”

            “Oh, I’m going to punish you, Cindy,” he says, crushing me to him in a fierce embrace. “So hard.”

            After that, we kiss a little more then leave the bed to clean up a bit. I collect the discarded babydoll. The straps hang broken and loose. “Um, yeah, about that.” He grins sheepishly. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not really. It’s your fault, really. You just looked so fucking amazing in this.” He takes the scrap of clothing from me. “But you looked better out of it. Your tits, I just—” A laugh, cheeky grin. “I wanted them.” He rubs the negligee between forefinger and thumb. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
            I look at it for a moment, take it back and drop the babydoll in the wastebasket. “No need,” I say. To be honest, it was past time I got rid of it. I’ve outgrown it.

            That night, we share the same bed. He wears a black pyjama set and looks pretty damn sexy, and I slip into the lingerie set he gifted me for Christmas. I sleep in his arms. Neither dream nor nightmare disturbs me. In the morning, we have sex again, lethargic waking fumbles into energetic fucking with my legs over my head, tits bouncing everywhere and my eager yelps echoing off the walls. He cums again, and his grin is so wide and pleased with himself, and with me, that’s it’s infectious. I nearly skip to my room to slip into the maid’s outfit. By the time he comes downstairs, I’ve merrily buzzing about, tidying up yesterday’s mess and making breakfast. He whistles appreciatively when he sees me. A little pink-faced and breathless, I curtsy. Christ, but I’d forgotten how tight this corset was. But Mr Connor nods approvingly, and I blush at his approbation. He sits and waits to be served. During breakfast, he keeps a running tally of every infraction. Afterwards, he leads me to the living room and orders me to lay over the armrest of the sofa. I hear him remove his belt. My face burns. And when he lays into me, it hurts so fucking much I sob into the sofa; and when he massages my bum and rubs soothing lotion into the welts, I nearly swoon; and when he directs me to floor between his knees and drops his trousers, I don’t protest but eagerly go down on him. He cums in my mouth and I swallow it all down and he’s pleased and that pleases me, too.

            One by one, over the length of that Boxing Day and the following Saturday, he ticks off his other fantasies. I nearly fall back on the safe word when he shows me the butt plug. It’s a tiny thing, no bigger than a finger, but I nearly hyperventilate when he shows it to me. I’m dressed in the maid costume at the time, the corset nearly does me in, I scrabble for the laces as my breath burns in my lungs and my vision narrows, but he grabs my hands and orders me to be good, to breathe in and out slowly, to relax—and I do, and next thing I know, he’s slipped the lubricated plug up my ass and brought my panties back into place. Good girl, he says again, and I wiggle with discomfort and blush.

            It’s still there when in the early afternoon, he leads me to a soft yoga-style mat he’s laid out in the living room. The Christmas tree is still again and I’m lying on my back, staring up into its glimmering lights. He reveals a box full of ropes and ties. He slips a blindfold over me eyes. Slowly, methodically, he begins to tie me up, much like in the video we watched on Christmas day. As he works, he speaks to me in a soothing, deep voice.

            “It’s Rose’s brother’s fault, really,” he says. “He got me into this. A few years after we got married, we had a vacation, her parents, brother and sister, and me, all on the family yacht. Gorgeous boat, they’ve got. And so we’re docked and her brother, Sal, he’s showing me these knots, can’t sail if you don’t your knots, he says. I copy him, and I’m pretty good at it, I hadn’t realised just how complex these things get. But I’ve got a knack for it, tying up loose end, and learn my anchor hitch, my bowline knot, no problem. I’m enjoying it, which is unusual because I never liked Sal, always found him a bit of a creep. I ask him to teach me some more, and he laughs. You ain’t seen nothing, he says and takes me to one side. On his phone, he’s got this video. Shibari, you ever hear of it? Japanese rope-craft. Pretty dark history to it but in the video, it’s this beautiful young woman, she’s all but naked, and this man is tying her up. But it’s not—sordid, it’s artistic, there’s something beautiful and sensual to it. The rope work was amazing. So intricate, and the girl—she looked—well, amazing, too. Sal nudged me, grinned, can you imagine doing this with sis, huh, think Rose would like this? Christ. No, obviously it wasn’t something Rose would ever be into. And no idea why Sal thought saying that was okay. Like I said, a creep. But truth is, afterwards I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And I did try it with Rose. Nothing that serious, just tying her wrists her back, or to the bed, little bondage games and that kind of stuff was popular, almost mainstream in a way. But she wasn’t into it. What ended up happening was that I kept my fascination secret, like everything else. But this, this I could practice. It’s popularity probably peaked over a decade ago, though I think it’s getting fashionable again. Anyway, when I had work conferences, business trips away, if I could find one, I’d sign up for—workshops, I guess you’d call them. I’ve been to a dozen or so over the years. And yes, I’ve been tied up, too, because some teachers insisted you experience both sides, that you know what it feels like to tie, and be tied. And fifteen years ago, these workshops were a lot more balanced, plenty of guys getting tied up, gay couples, hetero couples switching it up. These days, not so much. Last few I’ve been to, it’s only the girls getting tied, most of the workshops won’t even allow tying up the men. And just to be clear, those girls I tied, practiced with, I never cheated on Ruby, not in that way, anyway. I already felt guilty enough doing this kind of thing in secret but I wouldn’t ever fuck around behind her back like that. Anyway, that all ended a few years ago. I practiced a few times on a doll here at home when everyone was away. But that was it.”

            And by this time, he’s pretty much done and I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey.