‘Strikes me,’ I said, ‘that you’ve always been the Belle Dame Sans Merci in our relationship. I’m the poor bugger who gets sucked in too deep.’
‘Not any more,’ he said softly. ‘Not now.’
He was dangerously close to nailing me, but at the last minute I remembered that he was a master of the art of reeling women in with poetry and I slammed my palms on the table and said, ‘So!’
‘So?’
‘Here we are, then.’
‘Yes. So it seems.’
‘What’s the plan, man?’ I looked down at his hands on the table, remembering what they did to me last time. I wondered if it hurt his palm when he spanked me. He spanked me. The knowledge slid luxuriously through my brain then plunged downwards to my belly and my sex. He did that thing to me. I let him. I wanted it.
The power of speech seemed to have left him, too, because all he did for ages was look at me. His eyes, unnervingly intense at the best of times, became the whole room, wiping out the gas fire and the kitchenette until only their twin vortices of dark, deep brown were left in there.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ he said at last, and my whole body spasmed, quite involuntarily and annoyingly.
‘Joss,’ I said, a mixture of plea and reproof. ‘Don’t.’
‘All right,’ he said, finally lifting the beam of oppression and directing his gaze towards the ceiling instead. ‘We’re consolidatin
g and building on what you’ve already learned. You’ve learned the positions. You’ve learned to address me respectfully and obey my commands. You’ve learned how hard a spanking you can take. The next thing I want to do involves rope.’
‘Rope? Bondage.’ This was suddenly much more frightening than it had been in my imagination.
‘Very mild bondage,’ he reassured. ‘Nothing that will cause you pain or discomfort.’
‘Right.’
‘Some of the people I know on the scene are huge fans of bondage for its own sake,’ he said. ‘They like to bind their subs in the most amazing contortions. It’s an art form and an expression of their dynamic at the same time. It’s quite lovely to look at, but I don’t have the patience for it, I’m afraid, nor the artistic temperament.’
‘Oh, you do.’
‘Well, let’s say I’m a words man more than a pictures man. I think you’re the same.’
I supposed that was a fair assumption. I was firmly in the same camp as those who didn’t know about art but knew what they liked.
‘The aesthetic side of BDSM is often amazing, but it isn’t the primary focus for me,’ he continued. ‘Not that I can resist a beautifully presented set of cane stripes, or a cunningly designed leather harness,’ he mused, his eyes clouding with lust. ‘God, no. I’m only human. Kinky. Kinky human.’
‘What is the primary focus for you then?’ I asked him.
‘It’s about the headspace. I can’t describe it without sounding insane, but it’s a mix of power and tenderness and ownership and desire and … ugh. Well, as I said, it makes me sound quite mad, but my fellow doms would understand.’
‘I wish I could experience what you feel, just for a few minutes or so,’ I said. ‘I’d like to be able to understand it.’
‘You wouldn’t like it in my head, Lulu,’ he said, and something about his tone made my heart ache.
‘Mine isn’t exactly a party boat,’ I said gently.
‘I know.’
He reached for my hands and we clasped. It was too much. I had a lump in my throat. He lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them.
‘I want to explain,’ he started, but I was in a blind panic, my heart too wide open, my emotions spilling all over the place.
‘Not now,’ I flustered, trying to prise my fingers from his. ‘Get the rope out. Let’s do what you planned first.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll need the bed made up then. You do that and I’ll get the rope and the other accessories.’