CWs/TWs: This story contains depictions of consensual and consensual/non-consent-driven BDSM, bondage and references to current events including the COVID-19 pandemic, the heavily militarized police presence and overblown response to peaceful demonstrations in America’s cities.
The reader is strongly advised to exercise discernment and discretion as to whether some, any or all of these potential triggers might negatively impact them. If so, the author strongly encourages the reader to choose a puppy/cat video such as the one at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmcpwN6JKxU instead.
You’ve been warned.
For the rest of you, I hope you enjoy!
Kelsey turned from the TV at the sound of the door, reflexively grabbing the remote and muting the disturbing images from the protests. She just caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders disappearing into the bathroom. The shushing rush of water from the faucet and the first few bars of a nonsensical song he’d made up to help him time twenty seconds of handwashing were the only sounds. Silence fell a moment later, followed by the gentle rasp of a towel on skin, and he appeared again, sagging against the wall.
He looked like he’d just witnessed a murder.
Under the harsh red of an incipient sunburn, his ashen complexion and dark eyes lent him the shell-shocked appearance of a soldier returning from war. His hands trembled where he pressed them to his face. Usually he stood erect as a Marine on guard duty, shoulders back and chest out, swaggering through the world as if daring all comers to test his resolve. Now he slouched as if his knees were too weak to bear his weight, shoulders slumped against an invisible burden.
“What happened?” she blurted. Hurrying over, she took a knee and put her arms around him, leaning in close. To her alarm, he melted into her arms like a little boy seeking comfort from the newfound harsh reality of just how big and scary the world can be.
“Downtown looks like a battleground,” he whispered, so low that even right up against her ear she had to strain to hear him. “Police in riot gear. Armored cars. Troop carriers. Half the windows are boarded up. They’re hassling anyone they see on the streets.”
Isaac shuddered and blew out a breath, then spoke again, his voice gaining strength and volume like a spiderweb taking shape, one silken strand at a time. “They stopped the train at Washington Park. Six cops got on, all in body armor. Said it was a ‘routine’ ID check, but I forgot mine at home and they ignored me. Took five people off the train. Four were black men. The other was a young Asian girl, maybe sixteen or so.”
Kelsey pressed closer, offering and taking comfort from the proximity. The sharp, astringent scent of alcohol overlain with a perfume that spoke of ocean mist wafted off his skin, the legacy of the hand sanitizer he’d no doubt doused himself with the moment he got off the train. A misshapen lump against the outer curve of her hip bore silent witness to the presence of his mask, which he’d taken to wearing religiously anytime he had to be in close quarters with anyone but her. What a crazy fucking world we live in, she thought bleakly, kissing him on his temple.
“What did you do?”
He sighed. “I took video and live-streamed it online as they took everyone off. That was all I could do. I got dirty looks, but none of the officers said anything.”
She swallowed hard against a tsunami of commingled emotions inspired by the guilt and impotent anger in his tone swept over her. On one hand, she understood and ached over his desire to act, to put himself between the police and the people they were harassing. On the other, having him safe at home while the others weren’t weighed down her conscience. She knew it was an incredibly privileged point of view to have, and one she was fortunate to be able to indulge, but she ached for those the police had taken and their families.
“You did what you could,” she said fiercely. “And I’m so grateful you did. Maybe that video will help.”
He wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek against hers, chin on her shoulder. “I should have done more.”
“Like what?” she demanded. “Get yourself arrested too? Start a fight with the police you couldn’t possibly win on a train? We both know you’d have just been painting a target on your own back.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He sounded ineffably weary, and it hurt to hear.
“What can I do to help you feel better?”
He only shrugged and burrowed a little deeper into her embrace.
“Would you like to tie me up?”
He pulled away and regarded her narrowly.
“I—don’t know that I’m in a safe headspace for that right now.”
Her heart skittered in her chest. “I trust you,” she said. “You won’t do more than I can take. Let me do this for you.”
A complex thunderstorm of emotions marched across his face. The ashen, haunted look eased and his brow wrinkled.
“Are you sure?”
“You hate when I ask y—” The arch complaint fractured into a shrill squeak as he wrapped his hand in her hair, gripped and pulled her into him. Her squeak faded to a moan as he crushed his lips against hers and she opened to him, thrilled as much by the fact he was there to treat her so roughly as by the domineering treatment itself.
Her head spun and the world whirled around her when he pulled her to her feet.
“Move,” he ordered, hand still tangled in her hair. She did, feeling heat gather between her thighs, and he kept precise step and pace with her as she led/followed him up the stairs, made the turn at the top and into the bedroom.
Everything spun. She had a brief, dizzy impression of his lower leg wrapping around hers, tripping her, and she was falling with his weight bearing her downward, landing face-up on the bed with him just beside her. He kissed her again with feral hunger, and she accepted him eagerly, her senses fracturing into a mélange of color, scent, taste, texture and sound, all part of the whole but individuated into prismatic, glowing motes of sensation which melted into each other seamlessly.
When he pulled away and stroked his fingers slowly down her body, she opened her eyes, stunned to find herself devoid of a stitch of clothing. Her light blue, well-worn Daisy Dukes and black jogging tank were gone, as were the soft pink satin panties she’d put on earlier to entice him. Nothing shielded her skin from his burning, hooded gaze or the gentleness of his touch, and the dichotomy between the barely-contained ferocity in his eyes and the lightness with which he caressed her.
He stood up, and her soul screamed at the pain of separating from him. Walking to the closet, he reached toward the woven wicker basket on the top shelf and rummaged around, plucking items from it and cradling them in his free hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, and the suspense shivered another languid bolt of longing to her core. Slithers and clinks and tinkles and swishes offered the only clues, and she frowned as she tried to match each sound to the range of accoutrements which might have produced it.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, his voice gentle but unyielding. Without hesitation or thought she complied, determined to show with her every action her acquiescence to and acceptance of whatever he might choose to do to her body.
But, that little treasonous voice in the back of her head which motivated her brat behavior noted, he didn’t say anything about your ears.
She listened intently as he made his way back to the bed. A modest series of quick thumps and the ripple of the mattress beneath the impact told her he’d deposited his load. A moment later, she heard the faint but unmistakable rasp of a hank of rope being uncoiled, followed by a shushing sound she knew all too well. He was doubling the rope and locating the center point, the bight, which would serve as the start and anchor to her bindings. Another bead of hot moisture trickled from her, slipping down the curve of her ass to the comforter beneath her.
The mattress rippled and the bed frame creaked as he sat down. His broad fingers closed around her ankle, and she stifled a gasp as he gently pulled until he had her leg aligned the way he wanted it.
“Keep still, babygirl,” he murmured, his lips right next to her ear. She nodded and was rewarded with another gentle, blistering kiss. He took his time pulling away, letting the light stubble on his cheek scrape against her skin. The sexy, sadistic sonofabitch. He knew exactly how to tease her.
He raised up and pressed his lips to her ankle, the unexpected contact sparking fresh sizzles of heat, wringing more wetness from her. If he keeps this up, I’m going to cum before he even finishes tying me!
“Oh!” He sat up abruptly, snapping his fingers. “Almost forgot. Open your eyes.” Burrowing into the pile, he withdrew her favorite black satin sleep mask, the one he’d bought her for their anniversary. Dangling the mask by one finger from the strap, he held it in front of her face. “I’m going to put this on you now.”
“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, surprised by the high, breathy pitch at which her whispered response came from her throat.
He carefully secured the mask around her head, taking care not to pull her hair, then adjusted the satin so it pressed against her eyelids, plunging the sunset-flamed room into darkness before her gaze. His lips found hers again and she breathed in his kiss, meeting him with equal passion. This time, when he pulled away she wanted to scream, rip off the mask and his clothes, clamber on top of him and bury him inside her, not letting go until he filled her with his essence. Calling on every reserve of strength she could muster, she forced herself to remain still and passive as the heat of his body faded.
He pressed the bight of the rope to the outside of her ankle. God, she was so wet! The trickle had become a steady rivulet of heat, and her clitoris was so hard and angry it ached for wanting attention. Apparently heedless to her hunger, he looped the trailing end through the bight and pulled it tight against her skin, checking and adjusting the tension before pulling her other ankle next to it.
Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check. Over, through, under, check…The press of the soft coconut-fiber rope against her skin, the gentle rushing sound it made and the sensation as it cinched against lulled her, almost as hypnotic as the easy rhythm with which he bent to his task. Even behind her eyelids, she could see him easily, his face blank and placid as a Zen master contemplating a stone garden or trimming a bonsai tree, focusing his entire being on the art of restraining her for his pleasure.
The pattern broke with a quick series of tugs as he looped the remaining rope over the ties he’d created, cinching them down before tying off the last bit. She tested the bonds reflexively, noting they ended just beneath her calf. They held firm, and she sensed his nod of approval before he turned to retrieve the next length, which he quickly joined to the trailing end of the first rope.
Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…
This rope was longer, and he made his way up and down her legs this time in a diamond pattern, leaving a runner at the top to serve as an anchor point. The bed beneath her ass was soaked now from her arousal weeping from her pussy.
No. Her cunt. Or more precisely, his cunt. Usually she hated that word, hated the mouthfeel, the sharp syllable like a stapler against her eardrums, the dismissive inhumanity it conferred on the woman to whom it was applied. But now, in her excited state, her entire body was nothing more than his plaything, a warm receptacle for his cock and a willing disposal site for his semen. In this moment, she was more than merely okay with calling her vagina a cunt. She was his cunt, nothing more or less than a vulgar, dripping, slutty hole to be used as he wished.
Now he was at the lower reach of her thighs with another length of rope, lashing it to the loop just below the pout of her trimmed nether lips, his hands playing over her skin with delicate touches as he manipulated the rope, arranging it just so. Kelsey wanted to squirm, to “accidentally” rub her softness against her hand, make him feel her wetness and how he was driving her crazy—
But no. No, she wouldn’t do that, as much as she wanted to rebel against his fastidious care.
Her task, nerve-wracking and torturous as it was, was to hold still until he’d finished. From there, he’d do what he wished, and she simply had to resign herself to the fact that right now he wished for her to marinate in a puddle of her own hot cream while he touched her with such maddening care as to fuse her entire body into one giant nerve ending with her clit at the terminus.
He pulled her left arm in tight to her side. His fingers trailed fire down the tender inner surface of her arm, and she wriggled slightly under the assault, moaning unabashedly, as he secured another length of rope around her forearm, taking care to avoid the nerves, and secured it in place.
Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…
Then the right arm.
Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…
Then the chest harness, over her shoulders, behind her back and under her breasts, weaving her into immobility with the diligent care of a determined spider.
Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…
Somehow, he managed to avoid any of her most sensitive spots, although the moment he looped the rope around her and passed it along the tender underside of her breasts, she very nearly climaxed. It took a lot of willpower and thinking about the nightmare images on the twenty-four-hour news cycle to distract her just enough to prevent her orgasm. Her body was no longer her own, by her own word and will, and that included her sexual responses. Controlling her weeping pussy may not have been possible, but she could and would do everything necessary to stave off cumming until he was damned good and ready for her to do so.
When he tied off the final trailing end, he inspected his work again, starting from her feet and working his way up. He peppered each area of bare skin between the bonds with gentle pecks and almost imperceptible laps of his tongue.
“Squirm,” he said, as he left her ankles behind.
Kelsey was only too happy to comply. Isaac had done his work well, and she could only roll a bit to each side, smearing the puddle of cunt juice over her ass cheeks. She could smell it now, light and salty as the scent of ocean fog on a warm night, and imagined Isaac’s nostrils flaring as he scented and responded to her perfume. The image nearly undid all her determined mental preparation, and she recited multiplication tables in her head until she regained control as he kissed his way up her body, leaving not a single inch of her untouched.
When he reached her knees, she was tense. When he reached her thighs, she went rigid. When he got to her breasts and kissed them without touching her nipples, she wanted to scream for him to put her out of her misery. And then he found her throat, her cheek, her forehead, her lips, and the world blurred into white noise as he kissed her once more with that restrained passion which warned when the storm finally broke, it would rage against and within her body until there was nothing left.
Which suited Kelsey just fine. She kissed him as avidly, but wanted to beg him to lick her nipples, touch her clit, drink from her—anything to ease the impossibly erotic, unsustainable ache between her legs.
With the same maddening slowness, he worked his way back down, this time lingering over the areolas of her nipples but always just missing the tight, puckered peaks themselves. The tease drew a soft sob from her, but she knew better than to try to force the issue. He would give her what he chose, when he chose.
Her resolve lasted as long as it took for him to find the neatly groomed fur on her mound. His lips set her groin alight, and she knew all the good intentions in the world wouldn’t be worth a damn thing if he touched her core right now. She would explode, permission be damned, and accept any discipline he chose to give her. But for all her internal bravery, her hips wiggled as she tried to get him just a little closer to her center…
She nearly screamed as he stood up, leaving her smoldering on the bed, burning for the next touch that would bring her release. Silence reigned, filled only by the throb of her own heartbeat.
A light flick met her seam, parting her pussy ever so gently, only just grazing the furious tip of her clit. She squealed as her will broke, unleashing a flood of pleading.
“Oh, God, Sir, I’m your dirty filthy little fucking slut cunt and I’ll do anything you want me to, just please, please let me cum!”
He chuckled, the sound low and dark as an invisible demon hiding under the bed in a midnight room on a full moon. She tried to gather her fractured thoughts to find the perfect epithet to hurl at him for his apparent ignorance of her plight—
Hot lips wrapped around the stiffened peak of her clit and sucked hard, punctuated by a rough, broad flick of his tongue.
Inside the enforced darkness of the mask, a haze of red flutters over her vision as somewhere, someone is wailing out a long, ululating shriek and her body ignites, dissolving into electricity and light and thunder and it can’t go on, but it does, spiraling on and on and on and on until her throat protests and she realizes the scream is coming from her and gasps for air but can’t get it because the next wave hits under the joyous assault of Isaac’s tongue and it’s everything and she’s everything and she’s sure if he keeps visiting this impossible glory upon her body she will see God on his throne but it’s all worth it to perish under this incredible, punishing ecstasy doled out upon his cunt with such loving ruthlessness by the man she adores and the only one who can claim and keep her submission and oh God here comes another peak and she shatters again, exploding into bursts of flame hot enough to sear the night into noon, weeping hot tears which stream down her cheeks for sheer joy as pleasure spins into pain into pleasure into pain until it’s all one glorious sensation which blurs and merges into yet another rapturous crest, this one the highest yet, and her senses dissolve into minute grains of sand, each one a cosmos unto itself, floating in a universe of pure sensation soft as cotton candy from which she never wants to return…
When she opened her eyes, the mask was gone, as were the ropes. She was sobbing, deep, woeful bellows, her face pressed into something warm and yielding, cradled in strong arms. Isaac’s voice gradually impinged upon her consciousness.
“—s okay, little one. Daddy’s got you. You were such a good, brave girl and you held so still for me. Shh. I’m here. You’re safe, sweetheart. I love you so much…” And on and on he went, stroking her back lightly, holding her close in the stern security of his arms and his presence as he spoke to her like a frightened bird he was trying to soothe. She snuggled deeper against him, letting out all her fear and pain for him. He let her, not trying to rush or move her along, and she knew if she allowed it, he’d hold her this way forever without a second thought.
All too soon, a niggling thought encroached upon her own personal Garden of Eden. Kelsey tried to ignore the mental serpent, but it persisted, nudging her with its snout until she could finally stand it no more. Sniffling, wiping her eyes against Isaac’s shirt, she asked, “What about your release?”
She looked up, afraid of what she might see in his face. To her astonishment, she saw only a gentle love.
“I’ll get mine later, little one.” He cradled her close and tight, kissed her on top of her head and breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of her strawberry melon shampoo and her own natural aroma. “I just wanted—needed—to lose myself in you.”
She nodded hesitantly. “You’ll tell me when you want me, right?”
He laughed, the sound low and musical like the tones of an oboe.
“Sweetheart, I’ll never not want you.” He sobered a bit. “All I needed right then was to lose myself in you. And I got that. You anchor me, little one.”
She smiled. “I like that idea, Daddy.”
Curling into his arms again, she let herself be held.
“Can I see the pictures you took?” she murmured against his chest.
He rewarded her with another kiss on the head.
“Of course, little one.” He paused. “After we’re done here.”
Outside, the world continued to try to rip itself apart, but that was of no account to Kelsey, here in Isaac’s arms. He would take her later, love her tonight, and the sun would rise in the morning. The fight would go on, but in this moment, in this place, they were safe in their little refuge built from and for only the two of them, where the outside world and its terrors couldn’t touch them.
In all its horror and beauty, the world would still be there tomorrow.
This story is dedicated, first and foremost, to the organizers, planners, protesters, “keyboard warriors,” voters and people working tirelessly to create the better world we and our posterity deserve to live in.
To the lovers and dreamers everywhere.
To those fighting the good fight against the scourge of COVID-19, both on the front lines and in quiet battles in their own homes.
And finally, but by no means last in my thoughts or heart, to the woman I love with all my soul.