Bound by Lust (2 page)

He nodded once, bent and kissed me on the lips. Not a peck but not a proper kiss, either. I sat, transfixed, confused, exhausted as he tied my hands with laundry line looped over the beams of our deck that hung over our heads. This was the little shielded bit of the yard, under the deck but looking out over the expanse of the yard. We sat here at the picnic table in the summer and watched the rabbits come out hesitantly from under the shed.

Once he had me tied so that my arms had a bit of slack but not enough to put them down, he unbuttoned the top four buttons of my blue thermal T and popped my bra open. My breasts bounced free, pink nipples pebbled from the chilly air.

“Now you stay here while I finish the soup. And think about what you want. Do you want to let it go, or do you want to keep that anger and hurt and our mistakes alive?” Then he dipped his head and sucked first one nipple and then the other.

I felt the tug and thump of arousal mixed with some melancholy flex in my belly and lower in my cunt. For once I kept my mouth shut as he went back inside, the door banging and his bare feet whispering on the red linoleum stairs as he went back up to his pot of soup.

“Well, fuck,” I said to the misty rain.

I looked at the grass—so green it seemed neon—and tried to remember the very brief good-bye that I had shared with Kevin. More of a dismissal if you had to know. But it had hurt, more than I had realized, until I found myself crying for no fucking reason. Or yelling. Or a combo deal that scared everyone but me. Kevin and his cock and the sweet dirty way he talked to me when he fucked me had been a lifesaver during my pain. His arms around me while my husband drank away his pain at some crowded bar had been solace—false solace—but at that point I'd have taken any kind of solace at all.

“This is stupid,” I said, coiled there on the picnic table with my arms tied. Some blonde bird of prey who couldn't take flight but couldn't fully roost.

I didn't want to be aroused. And I didn't want to admit he was right. I certainly didn't want him to come and fix this for me—with me. But as I sat there, waiting, heart pounding—I realized I was wet. And not just from the misty rain. I was wet between my legs with the tight swollen feel of arousal.

“Damn.”

“Who ya talking to, babe?”

I gasped, sounding stupid and girlish, but even I could hear the lust in that one little sound.

“You know,” Anthony said, advancing on me. “It really gets me hot, the thought of you twisting here in the wind like this. At my mercy.”

I made a sound in my throat I wasn't anticipating, and he smiled at me.

“Let's see if you like it too.” He unbuttoned my jeans and dragged down the zipper. I watched his hands as if I'd never seen them before. Anthony pushed my waistband down just a bit so that he could slide his fingers into my panties. His fingertip found me, parted me, entered me. “Yep, you like it too. Don't you?”

I refused to answer, biting my lip. He kissed me and turned his back to go.

“Where are you going!” I blurted, ashamed to hear how eager I was. But now my pussy was truly humming with arousal, and he was leaving me?

“Gotta get the carrots in or they won't get soft. And nothing ruins a good rainy-day soup faster than hard carrots.”

“I…oh.” I would not beg. I clenched my jaw and kept my mouth shut as he went back in the house.

Fuck.

I remembered the good-bye fuck. Kevin had cried. I had hated him for crying. His tears had sealed my guilt deep inside of me, and for that I'd never forgive him. I didn't wish him ill, but I wanted him excised from my fucking mind—cut out of my memory like a tumor.

I tested my ties, and my arms sang with the pain of immobility. An ache that thumped in time with my heart had taken up residence just below my shoulder blade. It felt like someone had inserted a blade in there and was twisting it.

I moved a bit to the left, wishing without realizing it that Anthony could pull this off. That melting snow and misty rain and mud wouldn't make me feel rage and guilt and sadness. That when I listened to the drip-drip-drip of melting snowbanks I would only think of him—of him fucking me—of us.

The backdoor squeaked and I froze. “How is she? Is she simmering?” he asked over my shoulder, pressing his lips to the back of my neck, cupping my goose bump-studded breasts in his hands. “Lift your hips.”

Because I wanted him to succeed, I obeyed. I rose up on my knees a bit and let him shimmy my jeans down over my hips. He tugged my legs back so that they came off the picnic table and I had to stand. Belly pressed to the wooden lip of the table, arms
tied to the beam overhead, husband crowding in on my back. He gripped my hips, pushed the silken head of his cock to my hole, and waited.

I wanted to beg, but that guilt flashed in me again. The guilt of hurting not one man, but two, so I didn't deserve to beg.

“You have to let it go,” he said, picking through my mind, it seemed. And then he thrust and entered me.

My toes hovered over the concrete patio, my shoulders screamed, and I embraced the pain. My penance. The pain would wipe the slate clean. The pleasure would bond me and Anthony again so that nothing would come between us again. Even our own grief.

He thrust, and I sighed and surrendered. And then he pulled out, kissed the back of my neck, and left.

Okay, this time I started to cry.

“He says I have to let it go,” I told the laundry line conversationally. I watched rain whip the dogwood in the back of the yard. Tiny buds had started to appear on her branches. New life. New chances.

I remembered the good-bye fuck again and how Kevin had held me while I cried. How he hadn't held my desertion against me. And then how I had simply dismissed him. As if it didn't matter. It had mattered, though, and it had hurt ever since.

“I let you go. I wish you well. I'm sorry,” I said to the green-green grass. “I fucked up and so did Anthony but we can fix it. We can.”

I heard the back door slip open and felt him there, but I didn't turn. I waited to see what he would do, what he would say. His touched my shoulder, still warm under cotton thermal because only my breasts were exposed, and then he bent me just a bit at the waist so my belly brushed the ragged edge of the picnic table. He slipped back into me, holding my hips with his
big hands like they were made of glass.

“I love you, Katie.” He moved and my body responded, plump and swollen with arousal.

I could only nod, unable to speak from the unshed tears clogging my throat.

He moved a bit faster, and my body rode up to meet him, my upper thighs scraping the table lip, my mouth working but no sound coming out.

“Say you love me, too,” Anthony said, reaching around me, finding my clit and giving it firm wet rubs with his rough fingertip.

“I love you. I do.” And then the sob broke free, but Anthony drove into me and the sob became a cry as I came, my body flickering around him. The rain picked up, beating down out of the leaden sky. Drips snaked through the cracks of the deck and baptized us with cool wetness.

I pushed back to him, opening for him, wanting him to come too. He held me in his hands and stilled my hips as he disengaged.

“Oh, come on—”

“Hush,” he said and walked to the front of me. Anthony nudged the picnic table away with a bump of his hip, and it groaned across the concrete as it slid.

He palmed my ass and lifted me a few inches. I wrapped my legs to his waist as his cock found me, slid home—spearing the wet slit of my pussy. My fingers found the overhead beam, and I wrapped my hands around it to hold myself up a bit, the biting clothesline no longer gnawing at my flesh.

We were face to face, lips to lips, his breath on my cheek. His eyes half-open and startling grey, his face set in a determined way. I held on tight to him with my thighs as he fucked me, driving deep, his mouth pressed to mine. His cock nudged all
the places deep inside that made me shiver and say silent prayers to go faster, deeper, harder.

“You're mine again. All mine and no one else's.”

“Yes.”

“And I'm all yours, baby. Like it or not.”

“Yes.”

A fat drop of rain hit my forehead, streaked a cold trail over my eyelid, and fell away. More rain slipped through the deck as the storm raged out in the open, crashing into the new grass, making mud. Making a mess. Washing away the old.

“Spring is good.” He grinned, leaned in, and bit my throat.

I nodded and felt my body grow tight around him.

“Spring is really good.” His voice a soft murmur.

I leaned in and licked him, kissed him, put my mouth on him wherever I could. One of his hands broke free from my ass and found my nipple, pinching hard the way I liked, driving a tiny spike of pain through my body. My fingers sang from holding me up, my pussy thumped with a fresh need for release, and when my husband pinched me once more I tossed my head back and cried out under the steady hiss of rain—coming hard. Surrendering.

Anthony came with a small grunt and then uncoiled the rope that held me. He sat back on the picnic table with me still wrapped around him—my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist. God, I hope no one could see us down here. But if they could—fuck it.

I felt his heartbeat slow, and mine followed suit. He stroked my hair. “There's soup.”

I shivered.

“It's warm inside.”

“I know.”

A huge drop of rain fell and smacked me in the forehead, but
my gaze was trapped on the bright green lawn and the falling rain. Anthony chuckled and brushed it away. “That one got you good.”

“It's okay,” I said, squeezing him with my whole body. “I like it.”

 

 

 

 

 

T
he theme for the Club Night this month was “The Pet Show.” There was no way that Dev and I were going to miss this one, and we put a lot of effort into my costume—or rather, lack of costume, since it was nearly all body paint. I picked the color scheme based on a boxer dog that lives down our street: cream belly and chest, but a beautiful dark brindle all over the back and legs and face. I had my hair cut short and elfin and made a pair of dog ears in velvety faux fur that sat atop my head, half-pricked and endearingly floppy. Dev did the paintwork himself, using a skin-friendly, grease-free ink; he's in graphic design, and he loves to get his art kit out when he has an excuse to do something properly creative.

The airbrushing took a couple of hours, there were so many layers. “It ought to last out the night, unless you rub it off,” he said. But I wasn't making any promises.

To finish off my costume, we had a dog collar—a broad greyhound one that made me hold my head up, with a dog
tag dangling from it—and a chain leash with a leather loop. Engraved on the disc was the legend “Naughty Little Bitch.” We could've got that done discreetly ourselves, using one of those machines you find in pet stores, but Dev made me go into the engraver's shop and order it in person from the man behind the counter. The guy gave me one hell of a look but didn't ask any questions, and I emerged from the shop with my panties so wet and my legs so wobbly that I could hardly walk straight.

“All done?” Dev asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, leaning my head against his chest.

He knew what that meant. Taking the disc from me with one hand, he put the other on my ass and gave me a squeeze and a pat. “Good girl.” I whimpered and rubbed up against him, but he just chuckled. “Save it for Saturday night.”

By Saturday I was strung out on anticipation and so inflamed with arousal that Dev had to order me to stop touching myself as we drove into the city. I shed my coat in the cloakroom with a feeling of profound relief.

Dev was wearing his favorite club costume: a kilt of thick industrial rubber, New Rock boots, and a steampunk top hat and goggles. He looked so good in that gear that I wanted to suck his cock already. I could see that quite a few people had turned up in some version of Furry costume, and I was sure I'd be a lot more comfortable than all of them in the heat of the rooms upstairs, but comfort wasn't what it was all about, here.

Dev clipped the leash to my collar and used it to pull me to him and plant a kiss on my lips, all slippery, possessive tongue, reminding me where my focus lay for the evening. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Already people were checking me out, there in the lobby. I was aware of grins and raised eyebrows and nods. Under my paint I was naked and shaved as smooth as silk. I looked respectable from a distance but incredibly naughty close
up, and that made my nipples stand out like switches ready to be flicked.

“I love you, Rosie,” he growled. “So fucking much. You're so beautiful.” Then he tugged the chain. “Heel, bitch.”

We ascended the stairs slowly, morphing into character with every step, his pace proud and easy, my obedient place at his side and one step behind. Playing this particular game is, for me, the ultimate in intimacy. Playing it in public for the first time was taking our trust in one another to a whole new level.

We went into the bar first and queued so that Dev could order drinks—bottled beer for him, bottled water for me. As soon as he stopped walking I sank to my knees by his leg, waiting patiently as a good dog should. We had considered my staying on hands and knees throughout the night but had decided it would be irritatingly slow to move around, not to mention painful for me and not in a good way. Going to dog height when we were stationary seemed the best compromise.

“Hello Dev.” Black leather chaps loomed over me. It was Bill, a club friend and someone we had played with before, but I didn't try to greet him. I was being a mute animal, after all. “Nice dog you've got there.”