It has always been my philosophy that it is the Sub that runs the relationship. Doms need to dominate, to feel and present themselves as the ones in control. They live to cause and watch the pleasure their acts bring to their Subs. But, if you watched the typical BDSM porn, you’d think it was more ‘SM’ than ‘BD’ and even in cases of the latter, the subtleness of real master-slave relationships is notable for its absence. Although we’ve engaged in a form of Japanese ‘tight binding’ called Kinbaku, we’d never dealt in harshness or intentional infliction of pain. An instance of violent assault as a teen was as much sexually-based abuse as I ever wanted to endure. This is and will always be about control and Angus, fy annwyl, my beloved husband, knows when I’m not in control.
Now don’t get me wrong – I have always liked engaging in a bit of naughtiness if for no other reason than to get his attention. Like the time I changed his computer background to a picture of Grumpy Cat or when I hid his dearest addiction, pretzels, from him during the few hours I was at the market. Those attention seeking actions were done typically when I felt ignored - honestly, he can be so busy at White Hall with all that House of Lords silliness. Then there are those times he instigated my ‘badness’. For example, when he knew we’re going to some party where likely there would be some fit ladies who liked a well-designed bloke. On such occasions, he’d have me wear one of the chastity harnesses – he’d lately taken a penchant for the steel one. And every time a lovely slapper with round, lush breasts started some serious flirting, under the impression that I was available, he enjoyed watching me try not to readjust myself. Once back home, my twig and berries required quite the massage from him - just lovely, refined cruelty I’d say. But, then there were those times when I accidently crossed some line that only rested in his mind. In those instances, Angus made certain I was returned to my proper place by binding me, kissing and stroking each spot before fucking the hell out of me.
A bit of background – we’re a couple of minted Welsh blokes. We’ve been married a few years now but were best of friends growing up. How we ended up in bed the first time. . . another story. And how we ended up married . . .Oi! It all involved the work our motley family did for MI-6’s ‘Department of Alien Affairs’ – all rather hush, hush you know but we get around proving and disproving various off-world and paranormal rubbish – all part of a family tradition . . .yet another long story.
This time our handler, Stone, sent us to France. It was summer and I was on break from rabbinical school (did I forget to tell you I was Jewish in an interfaith marriage. . .sorry, too many details!) and looking forward to what was supposed to be a quick assignment then some time tied to a canopy post in the bedroom of a five-star hotel. We were sent to meet with Dr. Rene Foucault from the Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, France’s spy agency. The physicist had allegedly received a transmission that originated from outer space and had a rhythmic pattern that would pass for language on Earth. Angus, an intuitive linguist, was to see if he could decipher what was picked up and I, who have numerous interpersonal psychic powers, including telepathy, was to learn if this physicist was lying. Other data about the man’s ‘discovery’ was transmitted for review to other members of our crew so we could put together a full report upon our return.
Because in espionage there are only adversaries, Stone arranged for us all to meet at a busy Paris restaurant. On what was a lovely summer evening, Angus and I arrived early and strategically sat at an outdoor table with a good view of the street. The Café de Flore opened in 1887 and was historically renowned as the stomping ground for mid-20th century creative types and intellectuals like Hemingway, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and Pablo Picasso. The choice of location was a nod to Angus, as I wasn’t much on rich French cuisine. Angus, on the other hand, was one of those folks who could eat tubs of lard and gain nothing but a stomach ache. However, as he eagerly perused the menu, he announced, “I think I should get something light. I need to watch my waistline.” He paused then concluded, “Ah, perfect! I’ll order their confit de canard salade.”
I rolled my eyes – the only thing 'lite' about the dish was the lettuce and if he’d gained weight in the last four years it was in his vanity - the man was just as handsome now at 34 as he was at 21 and more buff as well. Although I wasn’t going to tell him about that long gray hair I saw in his brush the other night. I was still hoping the work portion of this trip would be over quickly so the fun part could start.
Looking back now, things probably started off badly because instead of the middle-aged, dumpy science nerd I’d anticipated, the man who sought us after the waiter served our coffee was a fit specimen straight out of casting for that BBC Two show, Versailles - wavy curls and all. I noticed his long, confident strides when he came to the maitre’d and asked for “Mr. Taylor”, our code name. Shit, he was extra gorgeous and just my type - well, my type from my old cruising days. He was about the same size and build of Angus but had a thick mane of strawberry blonde hair tied in the back that, once undone, likely covered his shoulder blades. He wore dark brown trousers with a beige open-collared shirt with tuffs of thick hair poking from underneath. His sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows and he didn’t have tats, as Angus and I, but his forearms were muscular, obviously from something other than typing on a laptop. When he was pointed to our table, he looked directly at me. I found myself feeling slightly embarrassed, like having been caught staring just a bit too intently at the teacher’s breasts. But I couldn’t look away for long, and for my efforts, I got the nicest, encouraging smile.
Angus’s nose was buried in the menu. “Is this guy coming? I am starving.”
“Yes, he is,” I said eagerly but likely employing more of a dismissive tone than warranted. I stood up before Angus had a chance to realize exactly what was happening. “Hello, Doctor!”
“Monsieur Reese, Monsieur Mac Innes I presume?” asked this stunning creature in the loveliest French accent. “Yes, I am Dr. Foucault.” He offered his hand to a sitting Angus first and they shook like pending business associates. He never stopped looking at me through those cocoa colored eyes of his and took hold of my hand in both of his like an invitation to stay for dessert. “Monsieurs, your family’s exploits are legendary! It is truly an honor!” This was starting much like some lady’s romance novel or 70s gay porn – all that was needed was a puffy white shirt or a well-cropped speedo.
He pulled out the empty chair and seated himself. Our waiter came up and Foucault immediately gave what sounded to me like his complete order. Although my French was rusty, it was obvious this man was a frequent guest here and knew what he wanted. Angus gave the rest of his order while I pointed to our guest and fumbled what I hoped meant, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Foucault chuckled then gave what sounded like an alternative option to the waiter, who smiled politely and left. “I hope you don’t mine Monsieur Mac Innes, I changed your order. I appreciate that you may want to eat like a Frenchman while you’re here, however, I anticipate tête de veau, calf brains, may be a harsh start.”
I countered, “I assure you, monsieur, I spent much time in Southeast Asia where monkey brain is considered a delicacy.”
“Monkey brain? I heard they were scooped out of the head and eaten raw,” said Foucault.
I laughed, a little too flirtatiously for the meeting’s purpose, “A legend at best, to intrigue the tourists. But I kept my indulgence limited – mad cow disease and all.”
“Ah, madness!” he grinned, “you English are so tight.”
Angus was observing this exchange like a pensioner forced by his wife to attend a Wimbledon match. He used the waiter’s serving of our espressos as an excuse to interject himself. “What can you tell me, Dr. Foucault, about the signals you received?”
“Ah yes,” Foucault answered as he turned his attention briefly toward my husband, “I have everything here.” He pulled out a tablet from a briefcase that I heretofore hadn’t noticed – likely he was carrying it close to his ass when he walked in. He showed Angus his information, scrolled through various screens. Occasionally, he looked up and gave me a subtle, hungry grin. He was shamelessly flirting with me. It had been forever since someone had done that – thought me attractive in any way other than a five to ten-minute fuck behind some bar or in the bed of some motel the roaches had abandoned ten years past. By the time Angus was done with his review, my flittering eyelashes and witty comments kept the good doctor shifting in his seat.
I’d nearly forgotten that my purpose was to psychically evaluate this fellow. I had to pull my mind out of his pants and my hand away from my thigh before I could assess his intentions. I should have stayed out of his head however as it was filled with various images of how he was going to grind his endowment deep inside my orifices. I tried to be offended but couldn’t identify a rationale because along with the ‘naught bits’ were some thoughts of general interest in my personhood – how refreshing. Ah yeah, and I found out he was telling the truth about the spy stuff as well.
Once the meal arrived, Foucault dropped any pretense of talking to Angus but did reference our relationship as if to analyze his prospects. “How long have you two been, how do you English say it, partners?”
“We’ve been married for four years,” Angus said in a snarky tone, “and we are Welsh.”
I shot Angus a ‘don’t be rude’ look that would have rivaled something from our Aunt Nora. “We’ve known each other since childhood but only got together recently.”
“C'est gentil,” Foucault replied as if he hadn’t heard the intent within Angus’s remark. “Love is very early then, is it not?” He took a bite of his food and his lips moved in such an enticing manner that I nearly missed his next question. “So you two traveled together outside of this work?”
I checked his mind and he was searching for a way to evaluate the relationship without seeming too pushy. As Angus seemed preoccupied looking at the data and typing on the tablet, I offered our dinner guest an out, “Not much as yet. I am in the seminary and Angus is very busy with his new foundation. His organization provides robotic prosthesis to civilians who lost their limbs in war.”
“Seminary?”
“Ah, rabbinical school actually,” I clarified – there, now he knew I was circumcised.
“My wife is Jewish!” There went his next question but I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. I don’t think my Professor Feldstein had threesomes in mind in his course, “Providing Guidance to Jewish Converts”. “She has been trying to convince me to join her one true faith for years.” He wiped his mouth and continued, “A Jewish man traveling the Orient, fascinating! You must have many stories.”
“The past 30 years, . . . It has been a life,” I said, ignoring Angus’s subtle groan. “There was this one time I was in Malaysia. . .” And I was off. I offered story after story for the rest of the meal and Foucault’s interest was not feigned. He asked inquiring questions, laughed at the right parts, and shared a few antidotes of his own – enough such that I realized, in another life as another person, I would have not only slept with him (and his wife?) but I likely would have formed a relationship.
By the time the waiter came around for our dessert order, I was satiated with flirting and I’d adequately imperceptibly communicated to him “thanks but no thanks”. Although Angus and I have “played” together, these have been unusual situations that typically involved a woman connected to a mission, not some habitual condition attached to our relationship. I’ve never even considered it and he has never mentioned any desire for it. I haven’t raised the issue with him because of his early sensitivity to the idea that he was in love with a man. I didn’t want to confuse things. Although I’d been in love with him since we were children, he hadn’t given much consideration to me until we met again as adults. After we slept together the first time, his conflict was between how he’d envisioned his life as the 12th Earl of Glamorgan and the direction our relationship was leading him - not if homosexuality was a viable, suitable social option. What he discovered, in the end, was that the relationship was about his love for me and not a change in labels.
Before leaving the café, as Foucault shook both our hands – lingering a bit longer with mine, of course – my mind was already back to our room’s bedposts and some lovely new ropes I’d just ordered on Amazon. Walking back to the hotel, which wasn’t far from the restaurant, I held Angus’s hand. I was so lost in giddy lust, I didn’t notice the swamp of emotions in my husband’s head. And when we reached our room, things moved so fast I barely kept up.
I got inside first and asked, “Want a Martini?” I have a special recipe Angus loves.
“No,” he replied while taking off his light jacket and dropping it on the floor.
“Okay, I’m going to get some water,” I said heading to the mini kitchen.
But, before I got too far from him, he grabbed me by the back of my shirt collar and yanked me backward. I fell into his arms in a way that would have been quite romantic had he not said the following, “Get your water, take your clothes off and get in the bed now.”
Oh, I reckoned it’s like that. “Of course, your Grace.” But the way he shoved me forward was not an action that was typically found in our script. Still, I was randy as hell and wasn’t giving it much credence. A Master must assert his authority as he sees fit. Anyway, my cock wasn’t minding.
I grabbed his jacket off the floor and dutifully hung it on the chair then headed to the bedroom – I forgot the water. Instead, I undressed faster than a hooker on the clock. I straightened my slave necklace – a twisted tungsten knot – as it wouldn’t be proper to be disheveled when his Grace arrived. I took the rope out of packaging as well so that I could hand it to him properly. If I’d been sufficiently bad tonight, maybe he’d harness my dick as well – oh what fun!
But the Angus that came in that room wasn’t my calm Dom. This person was mad at me. “Put the fuckin’ rope down,” he commanded. “What makes you think you deserve a binding, eh?”
“Your Grace, if I’ve somehow offended. . . “
“Offended?” He nearly shouted. “Lay down on that bed and shut up!” I hesitated not sure if he was playing or. . . “Did I stutter?”
I have a brand on my back – an Allwedd Derw, oak key - Druidic version of the Kabbalist’s tree of life. It ignited when I became highly emotional. During sexual ecstasy, it shot off sparks – something that was difficult to hide doing my days touring internationally for casual sex in gay bars and brothels. Luckily, the other person was usually too high or drunk to know the difference or thought it was a side effect from their intoxicant. At a time like this, it should be bright red or a rich purple but Angus was scaring me such that I started fumbling for the safe word. As I dug in his mind, something I’m bereft from doing to my husband, I realized that I had nothing to fear. I sat on the bed and leaned back on my elbows before I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said turning away as he took off his shoes and trousers. “You wanted to have sex, didn’t you? Looking forward to it, as I recall?”
“You. . . you don’t seem into it.”
He stopped walking toward me and said, “But you are, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” he tossed off as he walked to where I’d left our ‘toy box’ on the right-hand side nightstand. He took out his latest tube of lube, ‘Squirt Juice’ – I would have been amused by the product name if things in the room weren’t so tense. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” He approached me and grabbed my legs, pulled me so that I came down on my back, legs in the air and my crack exposed. I stiffened then sat up on my elbows and considered pushing him off until he leaned over and kissed my knee. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m not that monster,” he said in a much softer tone. I believed him for we were both aware that if I didn’t, the resulting fight would have likely meant one of us would have been hospitalized while the other would return to Wales in a casket.
Still, even as his movements became less forceful, I felt compelled to ask again, “Angus, what’s wrong? Are you mad, I mean really mad at me?”
“Lay back. Be quiet. I’m going to make you cum like you like it,” he said as he applied lube to my crack and to his two middle fingers. His face disappeared between my legs and I felt his origin hand rub the oily concoction around my asshole like an absent-minded massage therapist. He rose up a bit and took my limp cock in his prosthetic hand – a bit symbolic, it seemed, as he lost that hand in our first mission together when I failed to rescue him in time. The whole affair nearly ended our marriage. Just as he started to put my cock in his mouth, he looked at me, as I hadn’t quite laid all the way down on the bed, then said, “I’m fine, really. Let me do this, alright?”
I hesitated but finally gave in and laid flat on my back. He waited a moment, likely looking for my breathing to calm. He put his fingers in my asshole, slow and steady, just like I liked it, in and halfway out until my sphincter relaxed, which took longer than usual. “You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“Shhh! Yes, I do,” he replied. “Get back to that place in your mind you were at before. You’ll cum just fine.”
My dick stiffened slightly with those words. I felt funny getting hard, his tongue running along my cock’s ridges and his fingers fully inside of me, stimulating my prostate, while I imagined how much more pleasant this sensation would feel if I was tied to that bed post. This idea and his expert massaging of my head made my thighs quake and my hips lifted instinctively in hopes of getting deeper in his throat.
When he suddenly pulled his fingers out and my stiff cock dropped from his mouth, I wasn’t initially surprised as I thought he was going to fuck me – not a bad substitute as such indicated he was no longer mad. But when I still felt cold and heard him groaning, I opened my eyes to see him standing over me wanking off. He beat his meat so hard, I was glad it wasn’t my ass. It took him time but eventually, he dumped a load on my stomach like I was some slapper in a money shot. I wasn’t sure if I felt demeaned or needed to demand that my payout be in £20 notes.
I ate willingly as now I could read his mind fully. He wasn’t mad at me exactly but he felt deeply hurt. “Angus,” I finally said when his force-feeding ceased and one of his tears fell and rolled off my neck to soak the comforter underneath me. “Angus, what did I do? You’re not angry about Foucault, are you?”
He sat up abruptly, looked at me, angrier now. Before another tear dropped, he sniffled it and his feelings back inside and turned his back toward me for good measure. He sat at the edge of the bed. “Fuck you, Deetz!” he said under his breath. “That shit was embarrassing, all that flirting you were doing, right in my face like I wasn’t even there.”
I sat up on my elbows again, ignored the cold cum left on my belly. “You’re right.”
“You reckon?” Angus growled. I leaned over to put my hand on his shoulder but he shook it off. “Yeah, I know. You’ve got some psychological explanation to excuse yourself – some bullshit about your childhood abuse.”
He had me again. I thought about what I did – how nice it was to have someone flirt with me not just because they wanted to sleep with me but because they thought I was interesting. I’d never dated, not like other folks. All except one of my intimate relationships came down to a transaction, I was slot A to their slot D or the other way around – a couple of easy orgasms and we’d walked in our separate directions until the next time I got the hankering for human touch and settled again for some emotional quick-n-dirty with a man, woman, or trannie something or other. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to the fact that it was bothering you.”
“You didn’t think it would bother me? Really?! Are you kidding?” He got up and said before leaving the room, “I’m going for a run. Don’t wait up.” The echo from the door slamming brought attention to the pit in my stomach and the cold air on my skin.
I waited several minutes, full of vain hope he’d come back sooner rather than later. Finally, I got up and washed off the remaining dried cum off my chest and belly. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I still looked like Bruce Lee’s son from another mother and a tattooed mess. My military-style buzz cut barely left anyway for anyone to tell I had light brown hair. Yeah, I was handsome in that harsh, rugged way but that wasn’t what Angus saw when he looked at me. And frankly, as I thought about it, I didn’t know what Angus saw in me, even after being together these last years. I was moody, often absorbed by philosophical or theological nonsense, and known more for harsh sarcasm than warm entreaties. And when I wasn’t leading our crew of anti X-Filers, I was trying to write a paper or decipher the meaning behind the writings of Baal Shem Tov. I didn’t need to apologize to Angus. I needed to be grateful he wanted my sorry ass.
I got back in the bed, crawled under the covers to wait for him to return. But by the time he came back, I’d fallen asleep. When he got into the bed, he kept his back to me. After a few minutes of him lying there, I reached out to touch him. He flinched and pulled away. “I get that you’re regretful.”
“Do you think I don’t love you?”
“No, well. . . I’ve never felt such a sense of rage before. I was so. . . “
“I do. I know we don’t say it to one another very often.” I sat up and kept talking to his back, “The word you’re looking for is jealous.”
“It’s not been our habit,” he replied, turning onto his back. “He made you smile. You don’t smile and laugh like that for me.”
His admission of jealousy was touching. “Yes, I do, every day as a matter-of-fact. You’re just used to it. You’ve never seen anyone else treat me that way.” I looked away briefly then continued, “It was nice to have someone flirt with me, I’m not going to lie. But I had no intention of going home with Foucault. You’re not going to get rid of me that easy.” I tentatively reached for his fingers and caressed the top of each one individually. “One day, neither of us will be the fit blokes we are now.”
“Speak for yourself, Mate. I plan to be cute forever!”
I ignored his comment. “Our hair will gray, maybe even thin. Our muscles sag and wrinkles will crowd our eyes.” I took hold of his pointer finger and he didn’t stop me. “And when that happens, we will still love each other as furiously as we do now and see each other as handsome as we are now. We’re building something here and sometimes the construction site has delays, accidents, and building mishaps. As long as both of us stick to it, I’m confident what we leave behind will last lifetimes.”
“You sound like my aunt.”
“That makes sense since it’s what she said to me about us on our wedding day.”
He thought for a moment then asked, “Where is that roping, by the way? For you have been very naughty today.”
I got up immediately. “Yes, your Grace!”
He took some of the lube and applied it to my wrists before binding them, “I don’t want the hemp to mark your skin; its creaminess is well-admired.” His bind was tighter than usual meaning I was to be well-used tonight. So when he came to bind my dick, it was already hard in anticipation. He slapped it. “And yet you still remain defiant? Luckily what I have in store for you requires your dick be exposed and operational.” He pulled me off the bed by my tie then put my hands above my head before he wrapped the excess rope to the bedpost. “You once spoke to me about Emunah – a Hebrew word I believe that means an innate conviction, an appreciation of truth that transcends, rather than eludes, reason. You said that within a marriage Emunah is the invisible rope that binds the couple to their lives together. Do you feel that way? Do you feel bonded to me as I to you?”
He stepped back and admired me while stroking his cock through his trousers. He groaned then shook his head. His face changed, got harder. Then he came back and forced his body against mine, his breath like a harsh wind across my ear. “Desmond Mac Innes-Reese, you are mine. I’ve. . . I’ve changed everything to be with you and probably lost more than I imagine. I will share you with nothing or no other – not your fucking Hebrew books, not MI-6’s international games, nor someone’s moment of fancy.” He grabbed my chin and squeezed. “I will have your love, your loyalty, and your soul and I will take it if I have to. And I will protect you, bind you, free you, and adore you for as long as I live.” He forced his tongue into my mouth and ground his cock against my thigh. I pushed back, hoping that piece of glorious rock would find its way into my more than willing asshole. He laughed against my mouth and drew back. “Really?” He caressed my cheek then walked away. I heard him rummaging in the toy box. When he returned, he had a horse bit that he inserted against my mouth. “I will not share you; however, I will loan you out.”
Like some magic movie moment, there was a knock at the door. Angus left the bedroom and I heard him greet what sounded like two guests. He came back in the room alone and said, “You will know me as a good and generous Master who wants to see his slave pleasured and pleased.” The two naked guests emerged from behind him. Foucault strode in like before – his cock was wider than I expected but swung low and his body hair reached down and wrapped around his balls. I hoped to bury my face there soon. The woman next to him, likely his wife, was a classic ivory skinned odalisque with wild red hair that fell lazily around her ample breasts. A Magen David adored her neck but she was collared in the Gorean style, with a twisted tattoo around her left bicep. How nice that my master remembered how much I love big tits on a woman. And Angus offered me up to both of them like a game show host welcomed new contestants.
I fear the hotel will need to replace the bed as well as the bed posts.
The stories of Deetz and Angus are part of an upcoming novel, "The Roswell Discrepancy" due out in Pride Month 2017, available via Kindle and hardback. Keep watch on this site for further updates!
The stories of Deetz and Angus are part of an upcoming novel, "The Roswell Discrepancy" due out in Pride Month 2017, available via Kindle and hardback. Keep watch on this site for further updates!
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