When he plays the piano, that's when I have the hardest time.
I think he does it because he knows that it makes it extremely difficult for me to hurt him. He knows, today, that I must have it. We talked about it earlier this afternoon and he agreed that he'd hand himself over to me sometime around 8pm.
And I find myself folding clothes in the back room while I thought he was working, only to hear him start to play.
"Damn him," I say to myself. Under my breath. This time, though, I will be strong.
It's hard to explain. There was a guy I used to dominate, his name was Jason and he was blonde and extremely cute. When I'd start in on him, as we made the transition from lounging to my mood, he'd sometimes rub my shoulders or the back of my neck. It felt so good, at times I'd start to get very sleepy. A few times this led me to fall into a dreamy waking sleep, content to just be massaged, and he'd escape torture for the night.
And I guess this is Sean's way. A little music to calm the beast.
Or maybe it's the hopeless romantic in him.
But there is a romantic in me, too. A dark romantic. When I get in moods like this, I just want to see his big, gray eyes looking up at me with true fear, desire and hopelessness. A combination of the things I find so pretty, all behind those sparkling lashes.
I step out, this time, onto the hardwood floors of his loft with quiet determination. His back is to me at the piano, he probably is not quite aware that I'm around. I don't recognize what he is playing - something new, probably, but it's soothing and quite beautiful. He isn't singing or anything, he's just playing, and listening.
In my hand I have a leather gag. He has only worn this thing once, and it was for a short period of time. A dark, surreal night, when it was pouring down rain and he was dripping wet from the water I poured over his head, and I had shoved it into his mouth, buckled it much too tightly and spun him around, on his knees, to face a mirror. I'd growled, "You are pathetic," at him, and he cried.
He wasn't crying out of anything other than frustration; frustration that he had not been able to get me where I needed to be yet, not after two hours of this, of being batted around, slapped, yanked at, gripped, bitten, scratched and verbally abused. Hog-tied, gagged, forced to crawl (oh how he hated that), suck, lick and try, earnestly, to give me that look I needed to see in his eyes.
He was crying because none of it worked; he was crying just how he did when the painting still looked like shit in his eyes, when I'd see him break paintbrushes in half and sob into his hands, and nothing could calm him. That's the part of him that scared me. His own failure killed him slowly inside.
And he felt like he was failing. Being shoved into his own mirror, having to lift bound wrists to prevent himself from crashing into it. Fingertips spread on the glass, he put his forehead to the mirror and cried soundlessly.
I had taken the gag out pretty quickly, and kissed him, kissed him while he tried to catch his breath and regain his composure, and suddenly that was all I needed.
I figured, though, that the gag still held some dark meaning for him. And I was in a dark romantic mood when I picked it up.
Carrying it to him, standing behind him, his head turns slightly toward me and I see his eyes travel down toward it, but his fingers never leave the keys of the piano. Slowly, he turns back to face forward. Momentarily there is nothing but the sound of his playing, then finally he speaks.
"You don't want to use that," he says to me, matter-of-factly.
Jedi Mind Trick, I think, as he is trying to tell me what I do or do not want. "Maybe I want to use it."
The music - it is, indeed, soothing. He stops suddenly, turns half way on the piano bench and takes it out of my hand. I am too startled to grab it back, and soon he's placed it on top of the piano next to the metronome. Turning back, he puts his hands on my hips, turns me away from him, and sits me in front of him, wrapping both arms securely around my shoulders, across my chest.
Warm. Comforting. So this, I think, is seduction.
Once again, he's weaseling out of it. I can't deny that it isn't effective. I find my eyes close on their own when I feel his lips on the back of my neck. I feel his breath on my skin, I feel the erotic suggestion of arousal pressing into me from behind.
"I have a better idea," he says.
His voice, you have to understand, is like a drug to me. When he lowers it to the right tone and says things right into my ear, with the perfect combination of self confidence and seduction, femdom desires often melt from my mind.
He reaches up with one hand and I hear that he's started the metronome, and he says, "We can make love."
This makes me react, without hesitation, by moving to break free from his two arms and reach back around for that gag. I know, now, that it is now or never, and that if I don't get him away from that piano, away from that metronome, and into the wooden chair where I'd planned to bind and gag him, that we'll end up making love on the floor in a matter of minutes.
But his grip doesn't give, and we end up wrestling a bit, and by the time I wiggle free and work my way around to face him, hands gripping his shoulders, breathing hard through clenched teeth, he's chuckling softly. "Easy, easy girl. Ok, ok. I said I would. You can't blame me for trying."
He stands, picks up the gag by the very end of the leather strap (as if it's dirty), and I watch him walk, with such slow precision, toward the room where the wooden chair is.
And I'm left wondering, maybe, if I should have taken him up on the sex - at least first, then the bondage later.
"I still don't think you want to use that," he says to me, his eyes following it in my hands as I've just finished handcuffing his wrists behind the chair, tying his ankles to the legs of it and wrapping one wide strap around his chest to hold him steady.
"Uh huh," I reply. "And why is that?" I can tell you, quite honestly, I was very much in the mood to gag him. In fact, just a few hours prior I had masturbated to that very thought, and the moment he opened his mouth to accept it I was sure I'd be extremely aroused.
But, to humor him, I had to go ahead and ask why not.
His eyes - they are right on me - he blinks, slowly, deliberately. "Because then I can't tell you how these handcuffs feel, biting into my wrists." There is a slight jingling of metal from behind him; he is, indeed, struggling.
"Because, Akasha, then I can't tell you how -- hard --" he hesitates, shut his eyes tight for just one second and kind of jerks forward in the chair, "This fucking strap makes it -- to breathe."
To say I am wet is an understatement: I'm stupefied with desire.
Then his head comes back up, in one swift motion to toss some of the hair from his face, he licks his lips and says to me, "Because then I can't beg you to stop."
Needless to say, the gag is put aside.
Instead, I blindfold him.
He looks very beautiful there, biting his lip, listening to me start to undress. I slap him once, then backhand him, and he shakes his head to regain his composure. He doesn't like to be hit and I don't do it very often, so he knows this time will be somewhat serious.
His trousers come down. Kneeling down, I take him full into my mouth, working him to erection in a matter of a few seconds. His legs strain against the chair, I hear his ankles twisting at the bonds.
Then I remove my panties, straddle his lap, and mount him.
"We can still make love," I say.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes.
"We can just do it my way."
And I proceed to torture him. I torture him by lifting myself off of him and not letting him in me, just letting the tip of his erection push against my wet sex. I torture him by masturbating right there and putting my fingers in his mouth. I clutch, grip and rip at his flesh through his unbuttoned shirt, delighting at how the skin of his cheeks looks so flushed with anguished desire.
"I'm going to gag you," I inform him, "Because you aren't doing any of those things you promised."
"Oh god," is his response, his head back as far as he can put it. "I don't care what you do, just please don't tease me."
He's talking about the arousal games, of course, the ones that drive him mad in the most frustrating way. Neither of us have been much into orgasm control because I like to cum all the time and I love to make him cum just as much (because he makes such great noises), but sometimes I still like to torture him with delays.
Instead, we play the breathing game. First, I go get the metronome, and I hold the little device happily in my hands as he turns his head this way and that, listening to my footsteps. "Akasha, where are you going?"
I set it on the nightstand behind him, and I start it at my own tempo. He hears it, and I see this sweet smile come across his face, a smile that I quickly cover up with my palm, hissing down into his face.
"Stop breathing and I'll fuck you. The minute you take a breath, I'm stopping. Get it?"
It's a new variation on an old game for us, but one that can be quite engaging for me no matter what flavor. I keep my face dangerously close to his, nose brushing against nose, close enough so I can feel his breath on my face. That way, I can close my eyes and still know, just be feeling and hearing, when he's lost the privilege of feeling my tight sex pumping mercilessly at his hardness.
Feet planted firmly into the rungs of the chair, I have the leverage that I need to fuck him at any pace I choose, and I choose one that is quite slow and torturous, and watch him try desperately to measure his breathing against my thrusts.
And, just as I predict, his breathing becomes more spread apart but more forceful (only serving to make me wetter, make me slide with even more ease up and down on his erection), he has to throw his head back and open his mouth wide to breathe as effectively as possible.
I use those opportunities to put my fingers in his mouth, distracting him, telling him to suck, ordering him to lick, all the while staying still on top of him until he inhales again, closes his mouth, and enjoys his few moments of pleasure.
I could play this game for hours. Unfortunately, it exhausts him rather quickly, and when he comes inside of me he does it with a howl rather than a gasp, and just when he's coming off of it, I insert the gag into his beautifully parted lips.
A sweet, exhausted whine of betrayal is all I get, and he's trying, still, to regain his breath, now through his nose.
"I haven't cum," I tell him. "And we can't have that, can we?"
I expect him to shake his head, but he is too spent to do anything but breathe, slouching against the bonds, unable to even struggle any more.
I move behind the chair and lower myself onto his handcuffed wrists, and order him, simply, to make me cum.
His fingers are numb, wrists are chaffed and there is no circulation in his arms, I can tell. He has to struggle in the chair to try to sit up straight enough to get leverage, and I can tell that the buzz from his orgasm is wearing off and he's finding the gag to be extremely uncomfortable.
"You'd better do it quick," I breathe into his ear, positioned right behind him with my face against his hair. "Before you start to drool and look pathetic."
That motivates him to switch hands and obtain better access to me, his fingers sliding into me with ease. My eyes are closed and I'm kissing his ear, reaching around and putting my palm over his nose and the gag. Just a little. Just to feel him sit up straight, wiggle around a little, and try to breathe through my tightly shut fingers.
It's a strain for him to draw air in from the tiny areas my hand will allow, gripped effectively over his nose. And the sounds are very sweet, he's letting out a whimper to alert me that I'm doing a very good job of making it impossible for him to breathe. My other hand goes around his neck, to feel him swallow, which I anticipate he should be doing - hard - with fear.
So that's it - really. He's unable to move, speak, see or breathe, and all the strength he has is going into his fingertips, those fingers he keeps so limber from playing the piano, those fingers that, while sometimes a little rough around the edges, certainly know where to press.
My breathing, gasping and moaning into his ear is motivation enough for him to work harder, as is the tightening of my right hand over his nose and my left hand at his throat.
When I cum, I do it right into his ear, loudly, drowning out his muffled attempts at breathing just for the moment.
It racks my entire body, and when I let my hand drop from his face he breathes in graciously, head down, then up, trying to stop himself from drooling, trying to make sure he can get the air that he needs.
And, like the times before, I can't really let him go just yet. I move over to the bed and collapse on it, just looking at him. It's almost hard to believe, sometimes, that the man who nearly seduced me is so firmly, degradingly bound and gagged in that chair before me.
His fingers, still shimmering with my wetness, are clutching at the handcuffs. I know what he is thinking; clever, he thinks perhaps the added lubrication will help him ease out of the cuffs.
I worry, sometimes, that he will damage his wrists in his attempts to get free, a risk I don't believe is worth it, considering how much his hands play into his livelihood.
So, once again, I let him go. First the gag, and he immediately rubs his mouth on his shoulder and swallows. Then, the blindfold, but he keeps his eyes closed. I kiss him, deep, and his face is so soft in my hands that I find it hard to believe I could do such a thing.