Surrender (1)

“Stand there and strip for me”, she said, and he felt the muscles in his thighs tense and flex. At that point, he still had sufficient wits about him to recognise that they did so to compensate for the sudden weakness in his knees, which momentarily threatened to force him into the sort of stumble that would certainly result in punishment of some kind. He stood there in front of her feeling oddly vulnerable without his suit jacket, which hung over the back of a faded green armchair in the lounge below. He didn’t know why he’d left it there: only that she would want him to enter her bedroom without it. After a moment’s hesitation on the stairs, he’d left his cufflinks in, and it was while he was deliberating that he saw the blindfold – well, scarf really, but he knew its true purpose – draped casually over the top of the banister.

So there he found himself, a metre away at most from the end of her bed, uncomfortably erect in every sense and oddly reminiscent, in her eyes, of a man about to face a military firing squad; eyes and torso covered in white cotton, shoes gleaming in the lamplight. Of course it was those shoes that he removed first, casting a hand out to one side in the hope of finding something solid against which he could balance, despite knowing perfectly well that no furniture was within reach. The socks came off next, deftness and a hint of showmanship slowly emerging in the way he flicked them off his feet. She was alert to that though, and determined not to allow any of his everyday swagger to cling to him: not while he was in her space. Her hand flicked out and caught him on the cheek, one nail catching a bit and leaving a spot of blood near the corner of his lip. “Less of that”, she told him: “I just want you naked for me.”

He resisted the urge to dab at his mouth with the collar of his shirt, and instead started to unbutton it. He went slowly, but not too slowly, and each time he deftly liberated a button from its hole, she was reminded of the effortless way in which his fingers unhooked her bra. Suppressing a smile, she allowed her hand to curl round the back of her neck and loosen the knot that held her dress together, but she knew that to slip out of it would be to surrender a level of control over her own body: in her head, things really were that delicately poised, though he would never know it.

Instead she focused on the backs of his hands. The hair stopped just below the wrists, tufting out and brushing the veins that spread down towards his fingers. The skin was pale, like the rest of him, but she could never think of his hands as delicate; there was a pleasing solidity and sturdiness about them, and she knew she could depend upon them, in a way that made her shiver inside. They suited a shirt, and the cufflinks he wore to keep his sleeves wrapped neatly around them looked as naturally decorative as any pair of earrings that she wore to work. When he eased the shiny silver squares out, put them to one side, and allowed those sleeves to unfurl, it was as if he was already naked in front of her.

After shrugging off his shirt, which dropped soundlessly to the floor, he removed his belt and then paused, torn once again: should he unclasp his trousers and simply allow them to fall down his legs, or should he bend over and facilitate that process? He waited for her to instruct him, and when it became clear that she would not do so, he allowed himself a compromise of sorts; gravity was given an initial helping hand – just as well, given how snugly the trousers clung to his thighs – and was then permitted to take over completely, leaving him free to step out of the suddenly-slack legholes and move closer to where he knew she was sitting.

He stopped abruptly when he felt her breath on his stomach. “That’s it, stay where you are”, she said. Her hand closed over one of his and moved it to the waistband of his briefs. “Now rub yourself through them till you’re hard.”

It was his fault for not wearing boxers, he knew that. Knew it even as the palm of his hand slowly circled the head of his cock, which was sandwiched tightly between the cotton and the dip of his pelvis. He curled one finger under the shaft and moved it to a more central position, but just as it threatened to burst out over the elastic of his waistband, her hand pressed flat against the ‘K’ in Klein and held it in place; he sucked in his stomach, his breath somehow trapped by her fingers as well, and felt his cock bow like a ship’s mast in high winds.

She watched, fascinated, as the blue-and-white material rippled and flexed. His cock was usually ramrod-straight, so to see it curve out towards her in such an obscene way made her want to hold her hand against him like that forever. To leave him suspended somewhere between pleasure and pain, till he buckled, broke, and submitted fully to her will.

The heat between his legs warmed her fingers and she shifted them higher, easing the pressure on his briefs and scratching pale red lines across his stomach with her nails. “Come on, stop wasting my time – are you scared of letting me see it?” She crossed her legs and glanced up, pleased to see his eyebrows rise in what she knew was annoyance at her goading. As she watched, he cupped one hand over his crotch and used the other to peel his underwear down off his hips and arse; it hung there for just a moment, squeezed between his palm and his penis, then with a wry smile he surrendered the last vestiges of modesty and extended both hands in front of him, a supplicant for her to judge and sentence accordingly.

It was at that point, with him more open and defenceless than she’d ever believed possible, that the vague jumble of ideas she’d had for their afternoon together coalesced and hardened into a clear vision. She stood up and faced him, moving close enough that the tip of his cock grazed her belly; she ignored his gasp of surprise and put one hand on his chest, then stepped back, the connection between them magnetic enough that he followed her without being told to do so, and allowed her to pull him down onto the bed. “Roll onto your back”, she said, and he complied immediately, using his feet to push himself up towards the headboard. Stranded in the middle of the bed like that, with his legs together and arms by his side, he looked to her like a penguin that had been tipped over in the snow, and she hurriedly stifled a laugh, not wanting him to close himself off to her again. She busied her mouth with the insides of his thighs instead, planting kisses across them and pushing his legs apart in the process, then moving up his body and bringing his arms with her, till he was spread-eagled and flushed from her lips.


She’d never believed in handcuffs – cheap, nasty things, for the most part – so in the absence of that tell-tale clink, it came as a surprise to him when she looped a soft leather tie over one of his wrists and secured it to the bedframe. The second tie was pulled tighter, as if she had only been testing the tensile strength of the material with the first, and before he even thought to question it, he found himself bound to the bed by physical restraints, as well as the psychological hold she had over him. He breathed in and out, trying to maintain his body’s regular, controlled rhythms, as he felt her eyes wander over him. The bed bounced to his left and he felt a weight settle into it: her right knee, he realised, the same distance from his ribcage as her left knee was on the other side. She straddled him and he ached for her to lean down and kiss him; to press her bare skin against his.

To be continued…

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