The Answer to the Growing Israel-Diaspora Rift = Torah

The Answer to the Growing Israel-Diaspora Rift = Torah: Everyone understands the awkward potential of a large family gathering. Maybe you bump into an aunt or uncle you haven't seen since your bar/bat Mitzvah and brace yourself for a barrage of...

FOR ANGUS . . . 

Psst - He's a sensitive Dom after all!!!  But you didn't hear that from me.  👄👬👬👬👬👽💖💖😅😅

Dom Vulnerability from the Podcast "The Ascension"

My gal, Toni sent me this!  Amazing!

A Teacher Who Gets It!

Tunes for the High Holidays

YOU, ME, AND YOU MAKE THREE

This is a draft of an excerpt from the upcoming second in the Glamorgan Progeny series.  Let me know what you think in the comments section.  Thanks for reading!

I was sitting on the wicker chair with a few papers, books, and mobile scattered across the matching coffee table.  It was a damp, early winter day and I could sense the greenhouse’s residents breathing and talking to one another – I am psychically sensitive like that.  I had been working on a drash, a biblical interpretation, to justify critical points in my article for Tikkun magazine.  I am Desmond Mac Innes-Reese, 1^st Viscount of Glamorgan.  Close friends call me Deetz.  I am a rabbi over a small but growing Welsh congregation that was gaining some international statue because of its unapologetically progressive politics.  We were a welcoming space for Jewish misfits ostracized by more traditional settings.

I stood up, stretched, and sighed at my lack of progress in light of the lateness of the day.  The moon was nice though and I found myself missing my husband of six years, Angus Reese, the 12^th Earl of Glamorgan.  He is an MP representing Cardiff in the House of Commons and currently away on diplomatic business.  He's been gone for two weeks.  The Crown often presses him into secret diplomatic service because of his grasps of multiple languages – a big advantage during high stakes negotiations.  He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.  We are quite ‘close’ and I’ve been missing the feel of his body against mine.  If asked, Angus would claim he wasn’t gay but then again, neither am I.

I walked over to the samovar to get some more tea, reckoning on a few more minutes of work before I went to bed.  Sipping at the hot brew, I looked out to the rest of the garden, bits of snow dusting the bushes which surrounded the ancestral estate.  Remodelling of the mansion was nearly over and our entire clan of reprobates had settled throughout it.  We were related by deeds and blood, having saved one another’s lives more times than we cared to remember and in ways 007 wouldn’t have dreamed of.  But that’s another story . . .

I started back to my seat when I felt a rustling behind me.  I turned around and Mr Handsome appeared like someone teleporting from Blake’s 7 Liberator.  More likely he flew our jumbo, private jet.  “Oi!  You’re home early!”  Ah, finally a legitimate excuse to stop working.  And what an excuse Angus was.  He still looked like a model off the cover of an Arthurian romance novel - long-hair, beard, and all.  Whereas he is buff, I’m slight and tight, like Bruce Lee’s brother from another mother.  We both have random Oriental and Welsh tattoos all over our bodies, only I have a tree of life brand that lights up when I get emotional.  Luckily I was no longer in puberty where burning a hole in my shirt was embarrassingly commonplace.  “Things must have gone well, eh?”

“Right,” he said in a low growl.  He came into the light.  I noted how his suit was wrinkled and his hair was untied.  “I’ve crossed three datelines to get to you.”  He looked a bit wild, his grey-green eyes were dark, glaring at me with a smouldering intensity.  He placed his suitcase on a nearby chair unceremoniously and walked to the middle of the room, hands behind his back.  “Come here.”  I looked at him incredulously.  “Now.”

Romancing my Bone

Please enjoy this little ditty/writing exercise employed as a way to lift this writer's block.  It takes place well-after The Roswell Discrepancy: a human romance in three parts (to explore this story click on the link to Amazon Books to the right and down from this post) and Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts (due for publication at the end of this year - sorry it is taking longer than I would have liked but unfortunately, I don't have a trust fund and the New York Times has yet to discover my masterpieces).  Leave a comment with your thoughts. 

I love this ad!

https://t.co/pJh7vBvrwl

Yum, Yum

Toni just LOVES when I do this.

But then again, so does Angus.

Music in the Key of My Life

Besides being a classic movie fan, I love music, especially lyrics.  If the words match my feelings, what’s going on in my life, I’ll entertain the most vulgar pop song.  You may note that when you Click Here to visit my Spotify music page.  What does a sexy Rabbi listen to?  Come visit my world.  Then explore my website.

Home | Black Poly Pride 2019: Dallas, TX

Home | Black Poly Pride 2019: Dallas, TX

Toni's going and taking us.  Me and Angus need instructing.

Down The Drain

A new story from Angus's Diary

Str8 Boy's Curiosity

March 27^th

Diary, you are a gift from my sister-in-law, Ciara.  I’ve never kept a diary however I am told that all the Earls do so.  I apologize for starting so late.  A lot is going on.

My name is Angus Reese.  I am Welsh, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, a proud house, loyal subjects to the Crown since the late 1600s.  I am about to turn 30 which, along with my charm and good looks, as well, of course, as my money makes me one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe.  But, I’m about to marry a childhood friend.  And that childhood friend is male.

But, . . . when we reconnected, after our father’s deaths, I found spending time with him refreshing.  Business, at the level I play the game, is brutal – not the best atmosphere to nurture any sort of intimacy.  But with him, I could be myself – indulge in my silly, rather embarrassing eccentricities (there’s this addiction to fresh pretzels and obsession with exercise, for starters) and he didn’t blink, just smiled at me fondly.  And he listened, actually listened to my stupid complaints about a recently hired accountant and irritating hiccups in some 8-figure euro deal.  He was different too – not that scared boy, four years younger than me with a beast for a father.  I still want to protect him but in a different way.  I don’t know how I landed here.  It’s not like I’d been fucking blokes all along.  And I still like girls (as does he, by the way).  And the sex was weird, good but weird at first. 

He looks like Bruce Lee’s younger, angry brother – in other words, his countenance redefines “resting bitch face”.  While I was finishing Eton and he was back in Cardiff, I heard rumours that he was sexually assaulted by the junior rabbi of his congregation.  He calls the time afterwards ‘the wandering years’, much of which he says he doesn’t remember.  Because of it, he doesn’t drink now but likes smoking weed with me.  Therapy helped eventually too.  He’s still highly intense, like Socrates on steroids, and brutally honest, like your mum after a few.  But he smiles some now and even laughs now and then.  I’d love him even if he never smiled but I absolutely love it when I can make him laugh . . . or moan.

As they always say, ‘it started off innocently enough’.  If I am completely honest – I was just a bit curious.  I wondered if it was any different, snogging a man over a woman.  He said that’s sexist and heteronormative – whatever that means.  I think I met him halfway, at least a quarter way.  At that first kiss, I was doing all the receiving.  His lips were surprisingly full.  They stoked tiny sparks against my mouth, like a Roman candle at the village carnival.   I felt welcomed, invited in as if something magical was happening and I was at the centre of it.  When I kissed him again, a few hours later, I was a full participant.  It was like having a conversation with someone’s soul.  His cloak of invulnerability tossed aside, finding himself emotionally naked, he tried to push me off but I stood my ground.  Maybe I was standing up for our relationship (although I later abandon us twice).  He made me feel genuinely needed for something more than my title or my money.  And I’m one of those blokes who want, no I need to be needed – it’s just woven into my genetic material.  So, does that mean I’ve been wasting my time all these years with all these Sally’s I’ve fucked, and I was gay all along?

His tongue in my mouth got my dick’s attention but I tried to keep calm until well-after we made it to his bedroom.  We were at his sister’s cottage on my family’s estate.  The huge bay window off a winding creek let moonlight and bright stars bath the room in a soft bluish light.  Surround sound let Miles Davis and Mozart lent an air of sophistication to this passion play.  And weed gave me the courage to get in a bed naked, hard as a steel rod, with a man.   We kneeled in front of one another on the queen size bed, barely able to stop grinning and our eyes glued to our white-knuckle hands clinching at our knees.  I gave up and gave in – let out a FUCK before leaning forward.  His lips waited for me – he was thinking twice about what we were about to do, he later told me.   But I was going to feel those sparks again.  As I got close, his lips parted his tongue came forward against his teeth.  When our mouths touched and he brushed his tongue against mine, I learned the extent to which he wanted me.

When he took his lips away from mine, I shivered.  We got under the covers.  He encouraged me to take another hit off the vape pipe.  He was grooming me, prepping my body for his next onslaught.  He began kissing my cheek, pausing to smell my beard’s sandalwood conditioner (he later told me that the scent turns him on – I’ll never buy anything else) as he nudged his way to my neck and shoulder.  “Dyn hyfryd, a wnewch chi fy ngadael i mi os gwelwch yn dda? Dyn hyfryd, a wnewch chi adael i mi gyffwrdd â'ch calon? (Handsome man, will you let me please you?  Will you let me touch your heart?)” he murmured against the hungry goosebumps on my shoulder.  He wrapped his left leg around mine, his dick buried into my butt cheek.  The tension in his leg led me to believe he was trying to contain himself. 

I could have kissed all night but my dick was jealous and kept bothering my brain with questions like, can you imagine those lips on my head?  I wasn’t sure of the protocol; how do you ask a bloke to suck you off?  Luckily, this dude has some sort of psychic powers and a Druidic brand on his back to match that looked remarkably like a tree of life from the garden.  It’s complicated.  Let’s just say he read my mind.  And my cock was right.  He managed my big boy like a thoracic massage therapist – as if Linda Loveless had a much younger brother!  I’m an amateur linguist but that man’s mouth was speaking a language I’d never heard before.  I felt so powerful, so masculine but I think he later said that was pejorative as well.

Then he put his finger in my ass.  He was rather matter-of-fact about it.  Frankly, I have no idea how he got the digit so wet.  It didn’t hurt for too long and his tongue’s rhythmic circles about my head felt like warm chocolate over ice cream.  At first, he just held the finger there, let my walls get accustomed.  He said something about “showing how the ass is a different kinda cum.”   The idea was scary enticing.  So I relaxed my hole (Wasn’t it already relaxed, kinda?), as he instructed, and let him move that little finger around and around, in and out slightly, then deep with a slight vibration.  He was right; it was different . . . very, very different.

I lay there gobsmacked, with my eyes still stuck in the back of my head.  After my breathing settled, I was able to unglue one eyeball and saw him sitting up on his elbows looking at me eagerly just over my now semi-hard dick.  He sat up a bit higher to lick the sperm I squirted as a result of the ass stimulation.  When he was done, he smiled at his work then sat on his bum and looked at me like a dutiful servant.  It bothered me as if something was expected but I didn’t know what that duty was.  He misinterpreted my look and said that “You didn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to” as if my look translated to some type of buyer’s regret.  But that was just it – I wanted more and didn’t know what that was or what it meant.  He was frozen in fear and longing while I stared back with a big question mark over my head - was there some gay roadmap I missed during the sex ed class at school?  I think those psychic powers corrected his original assumption because he suddenly smiled at me and said something about it being okay and “it’s late anyway; let’s just get some rest.”  But he did have an ask behind that.  He asked to lay his head on my chest “for just a little while”. 

   I didn’t hear that request the way others would have.  He didn’t know then, even with his psychic talents, that I had spent 5 years in my early 20s in training with a dominatrix, one of the best in the BDSM universe.  Unfortunately, once I was ready to branch out on my own, my thinking spoiled by the sexual bubble I came from, I found out very quickly that the same madness that plagues the vanilla world exists in spades inside the world of the sexually flexible.   I knew that I had been bored with the partners I’d been with however until the moment he bashfully asked me that I didn’t realize just how lonely I had been feeling.  Could he be the sub I’ve been looking for?  I wanted, no . . . needed to settle down but I wanted it to be with someone who shared my predilections and wanted to grow together in them.   I moved over from the centre of the bed to make room for him. 

He laid his head initially just below my chin and hesitated before nuzzling farther down on my chest, just above my left nipple.  That’s when he let out such a sigh dripping with contentment.  Initially, I had my hands atop of my head but his actions left me with another decision – should I put my arm around him?  That’s the complimentary response when a lover laid on you, isn’t it?  I’d done this many times before with women I’d slept with – it felt almost obligatory.  I didn’t mean anything by it then but this would be making a statement.  Likely noticing my reticence, he asked if I regretted what happened.  I said no and that was the truth.  But it was also true that I was drowning in the implications of what just happened.  And it was also true that I was so excited, sexually curious, full of wonder about the possibilities that the room for regret was shrinking by the moment.  I took a leap of faith and put my arm around him and said something about “let’s see what happens” – I’d decided to lean into this like a project in a business deal.  And I am known for taking advantage of opportunities that others were blind to.  It was how I turned millions to billions. 

And it so happens, this has been the best business decision I ever made.

Bi Organisations and Campaigners unite around 'B with the T' -

Bi Organisations and Campaigners unite around 'B with the T' -

COMING SOON!!!!

ALL TIED UP - bad audio but good try

The Stewardship Paradigm - A Thought for Tu B'Shvat - Rabbi Sacks

The Stewardship Paradigm - A Thought for Tu B'Shvat - Rabbi Sacks: Few texts have had a deeper influence on Western civilisation than the first chapter of Genesis, with its momentous vision … Read more

ALL TIED UP - part 2

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  It was the cry of that toddler when she realizes her mother is gone.  This scream started however in a dark memory, a mental house of horror and dragged me into a pinpoint within a black hole.   Being bound makes me feel free.  But touching my asshole sent me running from a flashback of being held down and raped. 

We don’t use a safe word.  Angus believes that a good dom knows when something is too much, too intense or frightening for his sub.  So, when my screams overwhelmed the gag, he immediately stepped back and withdrew his finger probe.  He wiped his finger on a nearby paper towel then released me from the handcuffs.  He found my robe on the back of a dining chair then wrapped me like he was swaddling a baby.  He checked my face.  The singular tear making its way from my soul down my cheek startled him.  “Come sit down,” he said.  “Clearly you aren’t as ready for this as originally believed.”

He let me take the ball gag off myself but took it out of my hand and stashed it along with the other toys in the duffle as if it never made an appearance.  Angus escorted me to the couch, careful in his guidance for I was shaking, in a full-blown flashback.  He had seen me like this before - the first time being the night before our wedding.  I felt racket each time it happened.  Although I was suffering from daymares of a sexual assault during my early teens, I’ve been through enough therapy to know that the helplessness felt by someone watching it, particularly if they love you as he loves me, is also devastating.  I am pleased he didn’t apologize – very unbecoming of a dom.  But kept the role-play going, allowing me to keep my dignity.  “I wish to never to disappoint you, your Grace.”

He sat on the end of the couch and patted the seat next to him.  “It is my job to help you along this journey.  That there are bumps in the road is expected.”  He smiled slightly, doing a good job of managing his concern.  He thought a moment then seemed to have an idea.  He reached in the back of his jeans and pulled out one of his hair ties.  “Sit down and hold your hands in prayer position.”  Still shaking and feeling more than a bit dizzy, I started to kneel, but he caught me and pulled me on the couch.  “No, I just want you seated with your hands together but your fingers apart,” he corrected.   I complied.  He wrapped the clothe rubber band to bind my pointer fingers.

I looked at them then smiled at him weakly.  “Thank you, your Grace.”  It did feel good, like a small oasis in the desert.  I lay my head on his lap and he stroked my head.  “This is a setback.”

He sighed but said nothing initially.  For several months, we had been working toward him fucking me while I was bound.  To Angus, being able to do so would be a sign that the trauma no longer ruled me.  Such would mean that there was nothing between me and my true self, symbolized by blissful surrender to someone completely dedicated to me.  Doing so would not only be a sign of his trust in our relationship and him but in myself.  Last month, he had been able to slip two fingers inside my ass and I had a fairly satisfying orgasm.  He said it was “brilliant” and I looked “amazing”.   I know he’s looking forward to applying a stronger, larger tool.  “We didn’t’ meet last month, remember?  These things take consistent attention.  We have two weeks now.  I’m sure we can get back on track.”
“I don’t know why this is so important to me,” I whined like a child who didn’t get what he wanted for his birthday.  “It’s not like the sex isn’t good otherwise.”

“You once said that there are corners and undercurrents to this relationship, all of which you wanted to explore,” he responded plainly, still petting my head.

“I know,” I replied.  Why an abuse survivor would want this was a complicated question.  It's like the assault turned on a switch that wasn’t meant to be triggered just then.  Truth is I love to be of service. There is such power in knowing and accurately responding to the needs of another.  It is a game that calls on a deep sense of your master’s mind and Swiss precision to fulfil his calls before he even imagines them.  I loved to catch him just slightly off-guard with his favourite pretzels or that file he has been looking for.   I’d tried to rid myself of this joy, need to serve another but unfortunately, I’m the guy who saves the drenched kitten in the tree across the street because his girlfriend is worried animal control won’t arrive on time.  I’m no wimp or doormat but the smile on her face when can back with that cat was truly worth nearly breaking my neck.

“The knot must be helping,” Angus interrupted, “for I see you’re back in your head.  I swear you must have a fully furnished mansion in there!”

“With you and a rabbi in every room!”  I turned my head and offered a bashful grin. 

“Only if her name is Rebecca and she’s laying around completely naked.”  He was referring to a girl from my study group he saw during his October visit.  I’d convinced him to come to a student lecture.
I was feeling better.  Getting past these quickly is a good sign, even if I wasn’t recognizing it as such.  “If memory serves me, you were the one doing all the flirting.”

Angus was researching the Glamorgan legends, trying to identify which crazy tale his father told him as a child were actually true and to fill in some black holes in the clan’s history – like what was behind the druidic spell that bonded my family to his in perpetuity.  “She seemed keen on our family history and our connections to the Crown.” 

“Is that what they’re calling it now?!”  I smiled.  “And yes, I am feeling better.”  I raised up my fingers bonded like a ponytail on an old Barbie and added, “Being restrained so efficiently, who wouldn’t feel safe and secure!”

“Cheeky aren’t we!”  Angus pulled the rubber ties off my fingers abruptly.  “Sit up!  Where’s my tea?”

I sat up immediately and went back to the kitchen.  Lifting the lid off the slow cooker, I said, “Lamb stew?  It should be done in a bit.”  I took a tray out of the frig.  “Rosemary and feta cheese?  These will only take 10 minutes after I heat the oven.  We could nibble and watch a movie?  I think 3:10 to Yuma is coming on TCM, 1957 version, of course.”

“Deetz,” he said, in a soft, earnest tone.  “Let the stew cook.  I’m not hungry just yet.”

“Oh!  Okay,” I said putting the tray back in the refrigerator.

“Deetz,” he replied, “I did miss you.  I missed you a lot.”

I looked at my husband letting his neediness rest like a glob of cum on his shirt sleeve.  “I missed you too,” I said in my best ‘aw shucks’ manner.  “We have to plan better . . . the only way this is going to work is if don’t let anything hinder this time together.”  It wasn’t his fault or mine last month – Parliament’s session was extended and the deadline for my article was changed – we just didn’t juggle things right.  “But I assure you, you have my full attention over this break and, during this time, you can have me any way you want.”  I was back to feeling bold again.  Nothing like being needed.  He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure, so I added, “I’m okay now.  Thanks.”

“Don’t over-promise,” he settled on.  “Now, I am hungry.  You know it is always better for me to eat before sex.”  He leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table.

Liar.  The carb crash after he eats means he’d be asleep before the movie’s over and he knew it.  He just didn’t want me to feel obligated, trying to make up for the sex we didn’t have.  I turned back to my tray of unbaked pretzels.  “I reckon I’ll pop these in the oven.”  I did so and realized that I was rather chilled in nothing but a bathrobe.  “I think I’ll put my sweats back on.”

“You’ll do such thing!” he barked, a bit unexpectedly.  He stood up and shed his shirt, socks, and shoes.  “Turn up that heat and you’ll be fine.”  He sat back down and crossed his legs.  “Make me one of your martini’s,” he said waving me on and leaning back in his seat.  “This stupid remote is irritating me,” he growled.

I undid the ties and flashed him.  “Oh my!  I’ll get right on that, your Grace!”  I turned up the heat to 27 C.  The nice thing about being married to money is them always reminding you that that money is now yours as well.

Back in the kitchen, I had just started pouring the olive brine in the mixer when I said, “I’m sorry.  I know these flashbacks are . . . troublesome.”  I couldn’t look at him.

“Mate, I’m the bogeyman haunting your unconscious fears.  They see my love coming, so they racket up the pressure,” Angus replied.  I looked back and he was still fumbling with the remote.  When he reached TCM and the movie, he turned to me and affirmed in a tone I can imagine would have been familiar to Geoffrey of Monmouth, “Your fear will not overrun this marriage.  I won’t let it.”

This is what you get when you marry a peer of the realm.  Who said chivalry was dead?

THE END

ALL TIED UP

Angus arrived at my suburban Philadelphia flat an hour after my last final and handcuffed me to water pipe above my head, near the sink.  He took the cup of tea I’d prepared for him earlier and inhaled a thirsty man’s a sip.  “Ah, still warm and quite tasty!” he said referring to the cup warmer I’d purchased a few days earlier for just such occasions.  I’m a prized slave because I always think ahead, anticipate his Grace’s needs.  When you grow up the son of a valet, you learn tricks for keeping your master happy.  I provide much better service, in many ways than any of the women Angus ever dated - in and out of the bedroom, the beach, the backroom at The Eagle, or the closet on the fourth floor of the estate – yeah, I said closet.

Angus Mac Innes-Reese, the 12th Earl of Glamorgan looked like he just walked off the cover of a best-selling romance.  A solid 6’2”, dark brown hair with green eyes, typically dressed in Miami casual with hair tied in man bun, with Druidic symbols tattooed irregularly on his arms, legs, and stomach, Angus was once the most eligible bachelor on four continents.  Rich, titled men are always welcomed on the market.  Mothers threw their daughters at him and, at that time, he was more than willing to drink the milk.  Then I came along and showed him another way.  We'd married little more than three years now.   How did I do that?  What’s the secret of turning a straight guy gay?  He's not gay but then that's another story.

I’m not gay either – the word that fits best is “pansexual” or someone who would love and fuck anything that moves.  Ever since that emotionally unavailable creature society labelled as my father found me in my twin bed with the stable boy and the daughter of a local wealthy banker, I have felt no shame in who I choose to love or screw with.  I left home and secured this moniker while abroad.  I lived in Thailand while studying martial arts and sleeping with Lady Bois.  Before that, I lived in San Francisco with my boyfriend who loved rimming and my blowjobs.  And before that, I travelled between BDSM clubs and events in Chicago with my BFF Toni.  I was drinking heavily then so, though I was madly in love with her, she spent much of that time rescuing me from various forms of violent sexual debauchery.  Now I choose to be married to this person, Angus, and now my label is “Viscount”. 

Not that I’m a bad catch either.  From the neck down, I’m Bruce Lee to Angus’s Cary Grant.  I have a mess of Japanese symbols and words tattooed around my body along with a brand on my back that sparkles whenever I am aroused.  When I was a teen, that damn thing would burn more holes in my school shirts, particularly in Ms. Edwards’ fourth hour – that woman had an ass I still dream about.  From the neck up, my brown hair and topaz eyes are rather nondescript though with my curls growing out, I was looking less mean and more like the cute boy from the local yeshiva, a Jewish religious school.   Angus had me grow out my hair – I’m sure you know why.

Angus leaned against the sink while taking the measure of my flat.  “We could still get you a maid.”  I love how the superrich always talk in third person – as if to pay homage to all the minions who actually do the work.

“I won’t be able to find anything afterwards,” I replied.

“How do you find anything now?” he teased.  Angus took another big sip from his cup, the steam warming him on this wintery day.  He changed the subject and avoided eye contact when he asked, “How bad have the flashbacks been this time?”

“Who knew you could binge-watch trauma!?” I replied.

“How often?  How many?”

I weakly tried to put him off again.  “Less than when I was last home but more often than I would like.”  That’s the bad thing about sharing your life with someone, you can’t stop sharing ‘cause your partner will just keep asking.  “I need to figure out how to do my morning prayers and 15 minutes of mindfulness meditation – I’ll be better organized next term.”
 
He let that slide, sorta.  “Second-year rabbinical student with a bachelor’s in philosophy and physics and a current GPA of,” he glanced at my computer screen on a nearby counter which was to my school profile, “4.3 – please, you’re overworked if you ask me.”  Angus walked to his duffle bag and pulled out something red, black, and shiny.  “But I have the cure for all those bad thoughts, insecurities, and self-recriminations.”  Under the direct light of the efficiency apartment’s kitchen, I recognized the object more readily.

I returned to form.  “You have always said I talk too much, you Grace.”

He fit the ball gag in my mouth and secured the leather belt in the back of my head just above the neck.  “If only this shut off your brain,” he sighed.  “Oi! Such bad behaviour!”  He checked the handcuffs then looked down at my ankles, likely considering whether or not to bind them.  “I’ll do them later,” he mumbled.  “You do understand that your suffering comes from failing to follow my instruction, eh?  These two weeks off from school will be an opportunity for me to boost your training – that ought to quiet those nerves of yours, end those silly nightmares.”

Angus and I started this form of “play” the night before our wedding when he put my cock in a male chastity harness.  While guests danced to some wedding DJ’s idea of music, he fucked me in a bathroom on the 2nd floor our home in Cardiff, Wales, the Morganwg Estate.  With my dick constrained, I had the best anal orgasm of my life.  Lovely.  Since then our sex play moved into Japanese rope tying, often referred to as kinbaku, I’d found a peaceful relaxation that I heretofore never knew existed.  Kinbaku, or ‘beautiful bondage’, is an aesthetic form of sadomasochism. The goal is to create an eye-pleasing display by the positioning of the body and the construction of the knots.  Although he is rather laid back in most ways, when it comes to money and sex, Angus is Machiavelli if that man had OCD.  He likely had the sex for the whole weekend outlined like an event planner on a tight schedule.  He often said he knew when the binding was right.  “It’s the only time your mind comes close to silence.”  He was right about that.  If he hadn’t married me, I’d hire him to do this – a once a week, a sort of 'Lunch with Rope'.

“It’s chilly in here,” Angus grumbled and went to the thermostat.  The radiators clang as the steam entered them and they pushed out additional heat.  He walked back to me and started methodically undoing my clothes.  Tossing my trousers on the nearby couch, he exclaimed, “Mate!  Going all commando now, are we?”

All I could do was nod my head.  Smiling is difficult when you have a ball gag in your mouth.  I knew he’d be pleased I’d properly dressed dick with the new harness he got me for Yule.  Angus isn’t what anyone would call ‘religious’ but was raised, as were all of us who lived at the estate, to have more than a healthy respect for the old ways.  As the representative of the Glamorgan clan in a mixed marriage, our house had was a strange hodgepodge of Jewish tradition and Druid sensibility.  Chanukah presents meant 150,000 euro donations to 8 different children’s organizations while I got a dick harness for winter solstice.  A win-win for everyone, I thought.

The muscle boy cage had arrived with a note that said, “Prepare for my arrival” with the implicit direction not to touch myself.  He didn’t want me distracted from my finals by masturbating. 

He rubbed his hand up and down my caged unit and moaned in my ear, “Mmm, now what should I do with you?”  He stared at me, biting his lower lip as he does while tracing his finger against the exposed skin between the bars.

I tried not to move, not respond to his lingering touch.  I tried not to move but was being overcome by longing.  I tried not to rub myself against his palm but my waist must not have gotten the text.  I’d only mouth the words ‘I love you’ to Angus three times – at our wedding, once when I thought he was near death, and after a year plus long break up.  It’s just our way, I guess.  Why bother with words when your body doesn’t lie?  And right now my whole body was passing a lie detector test with flying colours.

He abandoned my cock, licked his pointer finger, started playing with my left nipple with a feather-like, circular massage.  He raised one eyebrow before announcing, “Someone on the online group posted an instructional video of a variation on the Kômon Sarashi Shibari technique.” 

I gave an affirming nod.

He offered a hesitant smile as if he was about to break from play.  Angus turned away to retrieve something from his duffle before I could read his expression further.   But I didn’t need my clairsentient powers (yeah, a psychic rabbi – but that’s another story) to know what crossed his mind.  He knew where the line was.  It was agreed upon when we started down this road.  Yet, this limitation continued to be a source of disappointment for him.  When I talked to Toni, who’s a psychologist, she said he probably fears that it is a reflection of my commitment to him in general, that complete surrender here represents me giving myself up fully to the marriage and I’m afraid to do that.  She’s probably right.  She usually is.

Angus laid out his tools on the kitchen alcove like a doctor preparing for surgery.  A bag with three types of restraint apparatus – 1/2-meter-wide of silk rope to affix to my body and ¼-meter-wide harsher hemp rope for my asshole and balls, 5cm wide bondage tape for nipples - safety scissors for quick release, and a special mixture of shea butter with sandalwood, his favorite scent, because he took great pride in keeping my skin pristine.  He stood back a moment to study is wares, a devilish grin creeping across his face.  But he was very contained, no hint of arousal except a thin mist of sweat on his forehead.  A good dom was laser-focused on the needs of the sub and its the dom’s duty to bring freedom and pleasure to his lover.  Angus’s pleasure came from watching me lose my mind in his hands.  We’ve had sessions that lasted nearly 24 hours and he never took his clothes off, never got a hard-on, and only touched me through an application of the rope.  He was taught over four years by one of the best doms in Europe, who happened to also have been my therapist but that too is from another story.

I had started shaking slightly, either from the excitement or the arctic weather seeping through the single pane apartment windows.  Angus studied me again then squinted and decided, “I will leave you uncovered for now.  You have become haughty and need a lesson – your life is cold without my care.” 

I nodded then lowered my eyes.

“Good,” he affirmed.  “Then let’s get started.”  He took the suave and began applying it to my feet.  “I spent these last two weekends at Sensei Yukimura Haruki retreat.” Haruki was a world renown Japanese bondage artist.  We received private training from him when we first started.  Since then Angus had reached out to him whenever he felt stuck in his designs or technique, which coincided, ironically, with ups and downs of our marriage.  Funny thing that.

I closed my eyes.  A moment later, the sound of the paddle against my right butt cheek was more startling than the slap was painful.  “Pay attention!” Angus ordered, like a Black mother in the grocery store with two hungry kids.  He stared at me as a reminder that I didn’t have permission yet to enjoy this and to do so would be considered disrespectful, like premature ejaculation.  After his pause, he squatted down and returned to prep my body.

The suave he applied was creamy, more ointment than lotion.   Its formula also included a warming element that made the cold areas on my body colder, as if the warmth of my left foot came from robbing my right one.  As he moved up to my legs and knees, the previously massaged spots cooled too increasing the heat of upcoming sections but leaving the previous ones feeling abandoned.  “It’s like our weekly Facetime, eh?” he said as he moved up.  He pressed his hands against my inner thighs until I stood shoulder feet length apart, this way avoiding my cock and balls.  “It’s the let down at the end when you hang up after it’s over.  You had been so high, lost before you dialled in the anticipation which makes you drop so much further when it’s all over.”

I miss you too, . . . terribly.

“But it’s good for you too, eh?”  He said as he reached around to work the cream around my ass.  “The longing teaches self-control, does it not?”  He stood up completely as his fingers tapped against the very bottom of my mid-back.  My respiration rate steadily increased.  He leaned into me, letting his fingers move toward my crack, eventually brushing against my hole in a circular motion that would normally have had me swimming in ecstasy.    My heart pounding, he pushed inside while groaning something in French in my ear.  He nibbled on the lobe and I screamed.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t the loud, gasping groan of a toe-curling, ‘little death” that starts in your soul then ripples through your body in all directions.  

TO BE CONTINUED

FROM THE ARCHIVES OF THE AUTHOR

Many years ago, my biographer worked on some fun fanfiction using two characters from a BBC show, Torchwood. It was a Doctor Who spin-off and she wanted to offer psychosexual reflections on the relationship between an immortal and a young man who heretofore had only dated women. Check out this story and a few others and learn why I chose her to tell my clan's story. Enjoy!

Ianto and the New Year's Eve Snowstorm (3871 words) by HippyChick1964
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Torchwood, Janto - Fandom
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Characters: Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones; other Torchwood characters mentioned
Summary:

Ianto is gladly going home for the night and hoping for a quiet evening. Now what is that saying about "best laid plans"?