Bound to Accept (4 page)

I glance at him. “Taking me where? Where are
we going?”

“
Fucking you,” he corrects
himself in a low voice, that makes me stop walking. “Fucking
you—hard.”

I open my mouth, but no
sound comes out. It isn't fair. It isn't fair that such a simple,
crude phrase can be so evocative. I've always thought I wanted to
be made love to, but fucking—
being
fucked—sounds so hot when he says it.

Tristan watches his effect on me, studying
my face for further reactions. “I dreamed about you last
night.”

“
What about?”

I'm still a little shaken from the fucking
comment, and that he said it to me where anyone could hear. And
that this doesn't bother me as much as it should.

“
It was a sexy dream.” He
gives me a wolfish grin. “If I tell you what you were doing, you
might run away.”

My heart hammers in my chest. “You won't
know unless you find out.”

“
Are you teasing me,
Kelly?” He runs his hand down my arm, closing his fingers around my
wrist. “Or are you saying you're planning on letting me find
out?”

“
Maybe both,” I
whisper.

Tristan stares at me. Then he slowly shakes
his head. “Jesus,” he says under his breath. “If you were any other
woman, I'd…” But he doesn't go on.

“
You'd what?”

“
Punish you for teasing
me.”

I pull my hand free—or try
to. He's holding on just a little too tightly, and it strikes me
like a fist to the gut that he's really that strong. “I
am
like any other woman,
Tristan. I think you need to get that through your
head.”

“
No, you're not. You're my
best friend.” He loosens his grip on my wrist but doesn't let me
break free. “The girl who has all the Japanese shit on her desk.”
He steps closer, putting my arms around his neck. “The girl who's
daring me to tell her about my wet dreams in the middle of a very
public park.” His hand slides down to cup my ass, and when he leans
in I feel the stubble on his cheek graze my skin. “The girl with
the kind of breasts that keep a man up at night, thinking about all
the ways he can play with them. The one girl in this world I don't
want to hurt.”

He pauses.

“
But if we start going
out, I will want to hurt you. Just a little. I'll want to make you
feel pain—pain and pleasure, combined to heighten sexual
gratification to its fullest potential. I'll want to fuck you.” He
tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger
against my throat. “Tell me, how do you feel about that? Me wanting
to fuck you?”

“
Turned on,” I blurt out,
flushing.

Tristan rests his forehead against mine. His
skin feels a little feverish. “That's a good start.” I can feel his
eyelashes flutter against my cheekbone as he rubs his face against
me, and I'm reminded of a cat marking its territory. His nose
brushes against mine and then he grazes my lips lightly with his.
“You're shaking, Kelly. Are you afraid?”

Honesty, I remind myself. I know this man. I
know he wouldn't really hurt me. I nod my head. “A little.”

“
Here's a secret,” he
says. “Fear can actually make sex better. But only if it is
controlled.”

I wouldn't know. But I think I understand
what he's getting at. It's like the thrill people feel when they
ride a roller-coaster. The giddy euphoria that you've cheated
death. “What if it's not controlled, though?”

“
You can try and ride it
out. Or you can request that I stop.”

That's the first time he talked about BDSM
in an active way, instead of an abstract way, involving the two of
us as participants. He seems to be warming to the idea.

Tristan releases me and we're once again
walking through the park. It's a sunny day and people are playing
with their dogs, or letting their children run around. Even so,
it's pretty quiet.

“
I want to try,” I say,
surprising myself. But the moment I say the words, it sounds right.
“I want to…submit to you.”

Tristan studies me for a moment. Then he
nods. “Then come to my place tonight. Make sure you wear something
comfortable. And don't eat a big dinner.”

Like me, Tristan lives in his own apartment.
His is nicer than mine because unlike me, he actually has a “real
job.” He works as a software engineer at some small, local
start-up. I ring the doorbell. The door opens to reveal Tristan.
He's wearing True Religion jeans and a fitted black shirt that I've
never seen him wear around me.

“
I thought I might have
scared you off.”

“
Nope!” I tuck a lock of
hair behind my ear.

“
Don't front with me,” he
says, pulling my hand away. “This won't work if you lie to me about
how you feel.”

We stare at each other awkwardly.

“
I guess I do find you a
little…intimidating.”

He watches me shift from foot to foot.
“That's normal.” I watch his eyes flick back to my face. “Are you
going to come in?”

“
Um, yeah.” He doesn't
move, so I sort of have to squeeze past him to get through the
door. I think he's wearing some kind of cologne, too. It smells
nice.

“
Patchouli,” he says, when
I ask. “I'm glad you like it.”

We walk past his kitchen, and into his
bedroom. I start to feel nervous—well, more nervous. He isn't going
to jump on me now, is he?

“
Nervous?”

“
Yes.” It's like he read
my mind. His TV is facing the bed. The two of us have sat here
multiple times, controllers in hand, duking it out on Super Smash
Bros. He's got it set to VH1, which confuses me. I thought we were
going to talk about BDSM. “Are we…are we watching a
movie?”

“
Sit down.” It's as much a
question as it is a command. I get the impression that he's
watching me, measuring my worth. I hoist myself up on the mattress
and sit cross-legged, scooting over to make room for him. He
doesn't sit, though. Not right away. He's fiddling with the DVD
player.

“
This will explain things
better than I ever could.”

The screen flickers to life.

“
Dungeon Masters,” I read.
The words are in this bizarre neon font that looks right out of the
80s. “Oh jeez. Not the D&D kind, then, I'm guessing.” I can't
seem to stop babbling.

Tristan hops on the bed and sits very, very
close. We've sat this way before, but now there's a sexual charge
there that wasn't present before. “Stop talking.” He says the words
right into my ear and I have to try hard not to shiver. They seem
to drip right down my spine like cubes of ice, seeping into my
skin, an erotic cold-hot feeling that settles way down low in my
gut.

“
But—”

“
I'll gag you,
Kelly.”

Looking at his face, I believe him. I shiver
a little.

Dungeon Masters is
definitely not referring to the D&D kind. The movie starts in a
dark room, with a cloudy lens. As it sharpens in focus, it shows a
woman bound to a chair.
Okay.
I'm a little disturbed.
That's new.
She is wearing a series
of crisscrossing black leather belts in place of undergarments,
some cinched tightly around her breasts.

She also has clamps on her nipples; they
have gone an alarming purplish color—the nipples, I mean, not the
clamps—but the woman doesn't seem to mind. Not that she'd be able
to tell you if she did: there's a bright red ball-gag stuffed into
her mouth.

A man in leather pants walks onto the
screen. He's got a riding crop under his arm, but I can't take my
eyes away from his pants. They've got all these complicated looking
buckles that emphasize his well-built hips, and he's got one of
those deep Vs that means his abs are really defined. The crotch of
his pants is unsnapped, revealing his penis, which is fucking huge.
It is red and glistening, with thick purple veins that wrap around
it like the garland on a Christmas tree. From the look of it, the
man seems to like what he sees.

He runs the flogger down the woman's front,
from her chin to her groin. Her legs are spread, bound to the back
legs of the chair, and her vagina is pretty much open. She's
completely shaved. It's like looking at the pages of an anatomy
textbook and not very sexy, although it does make it easier to see
what's going on. He gives her a single, controlled tap,
concentrating on her clitoris, and I flinch in sympathy. The woman
writhes and arches in the chair, but doesn't make a single sound.
He smacks her breasts next, first the left, then the right, before
dropping to his knees.

Is he going to go down on her? No. Instead,
he inserts the end of the flogger into his mouth, sucking on it
suggestively, letting his tongue play over the tip like he's giving
a blowjob and—

Oh my God, he's inserting it into her
vagina. I dig my fingers into the sheet. Fingers lightly brush
against my thigh, close to where the woman on screen is getting
violated.

“
Do you want me to turn it
off?” Tristan asks softly, rubbing my thigh so gently, such
compassion in his voice, that I can't imagine him doing the things
I'm seeing on the TV set.

He's enjoying it, too, though. I can make
out a telltale bulge in the crotch of his jeans. Or is it my fear
that's making him that way? “No.”

He presses a light kiss to my cheek. “My
brave girl.”

“
Does she…” My mouth is
having trouble forming the words. “Does she like that?”

“
Oh, yes,” he says in a
low voice.

Even if I decide that this isn't my—what did
he call it?—my scene, I think it might be good to understand. He
was right; this really isn't anything like what my friends write
about in their books. Usually, their books are about some beautiful
woman getting abducted by a foreign millionaire, who has sex with
her while she's imprisoned in the Waldorf Astoria-esque basement of
his mansion in the Hamptons.

Except for the handcuffs, and the fact that
the sex in those romance novels is usually non-consensual, at least
at first, they're pretty boring and tame.

This, on the other hand, would make a great
story.

Tristan hasn't taken his hand from my thigh
and leaves it there as the scene changes. The woman from before is
now spread-eagle on a bed, her gag swapped for a blindfold. The man
in the leather pants is there, and his penis is still out, though
he's not quite fully erect anymore.

“
Please,” she begs,
“Master, please, may I come?”

“
Yes,” he says. “Come like
the whore we both know you are.” He removes the nipple clamps, and
the woman gives a full bodied shiver, along with a small
cry.

“
Thank you, Master,” she
gasps, weeping. Tears trickle down from beneath the leather
blindfold.

The man wipes the tears
from her face with his thumbs, making the gesture look almost
affectionate. It's the first show of compassion he's given so far,
but he ruins it by snapping a thick leather collar around her
throat.

A chain runs from her collar, and he draws
it out lengthwise down her body, running his finger along her skin
as he follows the chain's path, until he comes between her legs. He
spreads her labia with his fingers in a V-shape and affixes the
charm—it's another clamp—to her clitoris.

I wince.

“
Clit clamps actually make
the skin very sensitive,” says Tristan. “It's a lot easier to
achieve orgasm that way.”

“
You want my cock as a
reward,” the man on the TV says, and for the first time I notice
his voice is shockingly high. Not at all what I was expecting,
which was a deep baritone, like Tristan's.

“
Oh, yes, please,
Master.”

“
Show me, then,” he says.
“Show me how much you want me inside of you. Show me what you'll
look like with my cock buried deep inside your slutty, wicked
cunt.”

Slutty, wicked cunt? I
choke back a nervous giggle, darting a sideways look at Tristan—and
am shocked into turning my head in a full-on double-take. Because
Tristan's not watching the movie. He's watching
me
, and the intensity in his eyes
makes my mouth go dry. Slowly, I tilt my head back towards the
screen, but I can feel the weight of his eyes on me.

The man bends out of sight for a moment, and
then comes up holding what looks like a penis made out of glass. He
lubes it up with his mouth like he did with the flogger in the
other scene (that can't be sanitary) and inserts it into her
vagina, pushing it in and out, slowly at first, and then faster,
and the woman's hips pump with him, lifting her rear almost off the
mattress. Every time she arches her spine, the clamp fastened to
the collar around her throat by the chain tugs on her clit, and her
moans are so loud, almost like she's in pain, but not quite.

As he services her with the glass penis, the
man in the crotchless leather pants fists his erection. It doesn't
take long before he's hard again, and then he swaps the dildo for
his own penis. He thrusts into her—without a condom, I can't help
noticing with disapproval—and traces the woman's mouth with the
glistening tip of the glass dildo. She parts her lips, and her
tongue comes out to taste herself. He pushes the dildo into her
open mouth, keeping time with his own thrusts, in, and out, it's
almost hypnotic. I couldn't stop watching even if I tried.