TORCHWOOD FANFICTION: Felix Tempts Jack Part III

 

Part III – Trepidation + Loneliness = a leap of faith

You remind me I live in a shell

Safe from the past and doin' okay but not very well

No jolts, no surprises, no crisis arises

My life goes along as it should

It's all very nice, but not very good

And I'm ready to take a chance again

Ready to put my love on the line with you

Been livin' with nothing to show for it

You get what you get when you go for it

And I'm ready to take a chance again with you

-          Ready to Take a Chance Again, as sung by Barry Manilow

Ianto’s flat was exactly as Jack had imagined, or is the word dreamed.  Slightly winding slightly dingy white walls and badly carpeted steps abruptly led to an immaculately painted door that opened to the smell of hardwood floors and sandalwood.  It was a nerd boy’s Shangri-La.  It was open-spaced, living room to the right and dining room to the near left.

“I’ll take your coat,” Ianto said as he showed Jack a felt-covered hanger.  “You can leave your shoes on the mat.”  Jack nodded – just like Ianto. 

The furniture was comfortable but spare – a three-person beige couch and two matching lounge chairs.  The book Ianto was reading before this misadventure started lay on a cedar coffee table, a green bookmark neatly poking out like a lonely dick at a 6th-grade dance party.  Once Jack had his shoes off he walked towards the dining room table wrapped against the nearby wall.  The table was heavy, tinted glass that matched the cabinet cut out which served as a wet bar.  Jack stopped at the bottle of Laphroaig.  It always fascinated Jack how the crew spent their enormous Torchwood salary.  Gwen and Reese were “saving for that dream house”; Tosh supported various family members; for Suzie, it was designer clothes and shoes; while Owen had every medical gadget known to man.  And now Ianto – creating a persona of an English gentleman.  He would correct me and say he was a Welsh gentleman.  “Sorry,” Jack said looking at the Glenlivet, “I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur.”

“Ah, yeah,” Ianto replied.  “I think we’ve both had enough to drink.  How about I put the kettle on?”

Jack chuckled, “Sure!  And a bit of seltzer, please? I’d hate to vomit all over your nice furniture!”  Ianto scurried into the kitchen, pushing aside the swinging wooden half doors.  Jack smiled watching the young man move which reminded him that he always liked how blue jeans made asses look yummy.  “Can we sit at the table?” he called out to Ianto.

“Sure,” Ianto said tentatively.  As he retrieved two cups from his white cabinets, Ianto wondered, in a slightly drunken haze, Is this how he seduces people?  Sitting at the table drinking British tea?  “Do you . . .?”  He stopped himself as he was a dutiful manservant and already knew what Jack liked in his tea – black with a bit of honey, just like his heart.  The kettle’s whistle brought him out of a haze and he was reoriented to the task at hand.  He prepared the tea on a tray then thought to add a snack and added a plate of brie and crackers.  When he came out, Jack was sitting at the table and had already started on his scotch. 

“I never drink tea alone,” Jack grinned.  “Please,” he pointed to the seat across from him, “We should talk . . . need to negotiate terms, consent if you will.”

Ianto sat down as instructed.  “I see you don’t dally . . . come right out with it.”  It wasn’t like he hadn’t anticipated this . . . that things would go here.  And his loneliness and nearly uncontrollable intrigue with Captain Jack Harkness led him to conclude that deep down he wanted to have sex with this man . . . right now, right here, ah shit.  “Since sleeping with you is a fait accompli,” he said with a firm tone he wasn’t certain was his voice, “I want to make something clear.”  He took a sip and straightened his back, “I am not experienced, by anyone’s measure.  More importantly, I’ve never . . . never slept with a man.”

“It’s not much difference,” Jack dismissed, taking a large gulp of the hot liquid.  “Lots of kissing . . . lots and lots of kissing . . . I like that part . . . like it a lot.  Did I ever tell you about that Alturnian I made out with that one time when I was doing an investigation in Inverness?  Nearly froze the top of my dick but what a lovely . . .”

“Yes sir,” Ianto interrupted, “your prowess is known throughout the galaxies.”

Jack stopped smiling and gave him an irritated look.  “Ianto, when are going to stop calling me ‘sir’ when you know your status in this relationship?  I mean really?” Jack took another sip, of the scotch this time.  He needed liquid courage if he was going to get this outright, “where some people are control freaks, you’re an aficionado.  You are no sub, baby.”

Ianto’s face was flush and hot, but he pushed on.  “What does that mean?  I am talking about . . . being present for you . . . I don’t know how to . . . ah, how to . . . how to pleasure you.” 

Ianto’s blush returned Jack’s smile which made Ianto shift in his seat.  “What do you want to do?”

Ianto thought for a moment.  “Watch you cum.”

It was Jack’s turn to blush.  “Brazen hussy!  Who knew that inside that suit was a heathen in training!”  They both laughed and when that died down everything got uncomfortable again.  The inside of an empty teacup was never so interesting.  Jack’s voice was a whisper, “Ianto, I’d never hurt you, sexually or otherwise.” 

“You damn right you won’t, Jack Harkness!” came Felix’s voice seemingly from out of nowhere.  Ianto wasn’t certain if his pet had just saved him from the worst mistake of his life or if this moment was part of some inescapable destiny.

Ianto Jones decided all this psychobabble rat wheel thinking wasn’t getting him laid.

How a Dom feels about his Sub

Oh my! Now this is something Angus would say. It is the sweetest!

New video!

📘    🌈    💕💕    (●'◡'●)(●'◡'●)    ✡✡✡✡    

3rd Installment of COVID-19 and the Submissive

COVID-19 & THE SUBMISSIVE - Musing # 1348: Family Quarantine – Day 1 minus 2

Chapter 2 – Deetz, Angus, and Toni

I undressed him like a King, slowly, ensuring each item was precisely folded or hung as if each item were also human.  I am the son of the 11th Earl’s valet.  I learned servitude from my father as he was part of a dynasty – a Mac Innes male had worked for an Earl of Glamorgan since the 1800s.  Da wasn’t bi like me but he greatly admired his earl.  I love my earl too, but I do it on my knees atop of a ketubah, a marriage contract.  I’ve spent much time wondering what my queerphobic father, dead now almost six years, would think of how I was fulfilling my duty.

2ND INSTALLMENT OF COVID-19 & THE SUBMISSIVE

COVID-19 & THE SUBMISSIVE - Musing # 1348: Family Quarantine – Day 1 minus 2

Chapter 1 – Deetz and Angus

Some background, eh?  My name is Desmond Mac Innes-Reese.  Most folks call me Deetz.  I’m married to the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Mac Innes-Reese, a descendent of Welsh royalty and one of the richest men in the world (yeah, just like the fairy tales).  My sister Ciara says I look like Bruce Lee’s brother from another mother.  Angus looks like he just left the cover of some corner store bodice ripper, kilt and all.  We’ve been married for nearly six years and things are changing. 

Higher Society - Pt.4

HIGHER SOCIETY – Part 4

a fanfiction based on the George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story (1940) and the musical High Society (1956), both of which were based on the Broadway play, The Philadelphia Story (1939) by Philip Barry. I don’t own the story, but I own the characters in this adaptation.

Chapter Ten

Mmm yeah! (Woo, woo)

Women think I'm tasty, but they're always tryin' to waste me

Make me burn the candle right down

But, baby, baby, don't need no jewels in my crown

-“Tumbling Dice”, Rolling Stones

Present time

The pool itself was only Olympic size while the entertainment portion of the patio's layout was what one would anticipate at a seaside hotel. There was a full-outdoor kitchen on the west side and a full bar with a temperature-controlled snack station on the east. Toni hung her clothes in one of the five cabanas, also largess with its individual bathroom with forest themed walk-in shower. A decanter of scotch, bucket of ice, and two glasses were on a side table between two white reclining lawn chairs. When she came out, towel across her shoulders, Toni said, “Geeze, this is beautiful!”

Angus scanned her like a drunk john at a strip club. 

“Yes. It sure is.” He put a store-bought pretzel in his mouth and immediately regretted it.  

“Compliments will get you nowhere, Earl Glamorgan!  But thank you anyway,” she replied. 

The surrounding garden foliage caught her attention. Toni walked up to a flowering bush to sniff the pedals. “Attar of Roses, Sweet bay, Cotton lavender,” she said as she pointed to the well-curated collection of foliage. “Your grandmother’s work I suppose? She has excellent taste.” Toni ran her hands across the petals and leaves. “My mother owned a greenhouse and flower shop. I worked there every summer until I left for college.”

Higher Society - Pt3

HIGHER SOCIETY – Part 3

a fanfiction based on the George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story (1940) and the musical High Society (1956), both of which were based on the Broadway play, The Philadelphia Story (1939) by Philip Barry. I don’t own the story, but I own the characters in this adaptation.

Chapter Nine

There's a girl across the bar
I get the message she's sendin'
Mmm she ain't lookin' to married
And me well honey I'm pretending
Last night I dreamed I held you in my arms
The music was never-ending
We danced as the evening sky faded to black
One step up and two steps back

- “One Step Up”, Bruce Springsteen

Present time . . .

Angus stood in front of the full-length mirror while his valet, Roman, helped him dress. The older man, nondescript as all good English servants should be, had been with Angus since his split from Deetz.  He knew what I liked without me saying. He could hear the start of the party and from the window of his spacious bedroom, he could see the royal motorcade winding toward Morganwg. 

Tonight was a big deal so why did he feel like shit? “Roman, I said I wanted the red tie, not the maroon!” he barked at the man. 

Immediately, Angus felt bad.  I’m not like that, I’m not that kind of earl, Angus thought. “I must apologize, Roman. It’s not you and this tie is fine.”

“I’m sorry Your grace is of ill-mood.” Roman finished and bowed before leaving without any acknowledgement of the apology.

Toni took advantage of the servant’s exit to gain entry. 

“I hope this isn’t a bad time, er… or place.”

“For?”

“I was hoping to ask you some questions on background – nothing we’ll publish, just to give me an idea of who you are, how you think.”

Angus waved her in. He finished the Glenlivet in his glass and pour another double shot. 

Toni walked around identifying various angles to reflect the surprisingly austere look of the room. 

The furnishings looked stolen from the last fantasy novel you read and seemed to be there because they had nowhere else to put it. However, despite the dubious placement, the owner was low to depart with any piece of family history. Even the hygiene products on the dresser had an old-timey flare too them. Toni took a few shots for background then put her camera away and sat on a nearby armchair far from the bed. She took out her legal pad. “I must say, your Grace, you look rather handsome tonight.”

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"

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.”

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.

ALL TIED UP - bad audio but good try

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 diary of the 12th Earl of Glamorgan, Angus Reese

October 22nd – 2:45 am

This is the second time I’ve had sex with a man.  Well, maybe the third if you count the blowjob tonight in the back of that gay bar.  What was that place called?  And who has full out fucking after being attacked and nearly killed?  Deetz saved my life.  He took on all five of those bodybuilders – who thought I’d be friendly when they saw me in the bathroom - threw them around like a ragdoll in the hands of a rageful three-year-old.  I’ve known this man since childhood and I was typically the one defending him.  But years of reclusive living and martial arts training all over the world has made his muscles tight and his body lean.  He’s lying here next to me in my bed at family’s London townhouse, Churton Place.  And I want to touch him – make sure he’s real, this is real, and if how I’m feeling is real.  Does that make me homosexual or bisexual? 

And what about that blowjob, eh?  You know, I’ve had my fair share of exhibitionistic sexcapades – backs of limos, single-engine planes, even driving on the Autobahn.  They have all been satisfying, thrilling even.  This was different though.  Other times things would end with predictable release and relief.  This time though, it was so amazing, I wasn’t sure it didn’t happen to someone else and I just watched.  I felt vulnerable and powerful all at the same time. 

I insisted on going out tonight.  I lied to Deetz and to myself – saying I wanted a kick, a bit of a laugh.  I told him, I’ve had gay friends, but we’d never been to town together.  Since the first time Deetz and I fucked, a short while ago in his sister’s cottage back home, I was curious, no eager, no hungry to have that orgasm again.  Before this, sexual pleasure was like a slot machine where the house always wins.  Could it be that all the women I’d been with were selfish cows bending over so compliantly because it was what was expected of them?  Some were probably just ignorant, having never thought of what would pleasure them.  And for all their bragging, most blokes are just as sexually blind.  I, however, can’t cower behind such foolishness.  I’ve been schooled.  Mistress told me my mate had to be ‘someone born to serve’, ‘someone who gets pleasure from taking care of me but won’t let me get away with my shit’ and be ‘a check on my power’.  Is the son of my father’s valet my soulmate?

Deetz and I almost didn’t go, between trouble finding a suitable club and his sexy casual outfit that was acting as his body’s psychedelic highlighter.  I think the jeans were thanking him for the privilege of hugging his skin.  Then there was the beige silk shirt that barely contained all his tattoos and the brand on his back that lights up like an electronic menorah when he cums.  Deetz is a Jew with Druid blood whose lips and tongue make you feel like Bella Lugosi’s most willing victim. I get now why five o’clock shadows are so appealing to women.  Not only do they convey potential danger but add a secondary sensation when he kisses my neck.  So, I insisted on going so I didn’t jump him in the middle of the kitchen during dinner with the rest of our investigative crew.

Fast forward to loud beats, low-shelf booze, and brutal porn on the multiple screens.  I asked, no begged him to ‘show me where the fun is’.  He took me to the spot – I remember the name now, The Dungeon.  It was a nearly enclosed part of the alley behind the club, lit with black light bouncing off psychedelic paint swirled haphazardly across the plastered ceiling and concrete floor.  Pipes were erratically secured horizontally and vertically along a maze of walls - a wide, winding passage that smelled like 14-year old yearning.  The plumbing seemed nonsensical until you noted the people and objects chained to people that were secured to those pipes.  “I should have brought my handcuffs,” I think Deetz said.  The live show of men fucking and sucking one another in every position but fully prone all around me wasn’t what made me hard.  It was when Deetz lifted my hands above my head.  “Tie, tie, tie,” I know he said while pushing my wrists against a horizontal post.  I responded like Pavlov’s dog as the command was a familiar one from my time with Mistress.  The best training for a future Dom was to serve as a Sub.  I enjoyed the hell out of those three years. 

Deetz has these weird kinda psychic powers.  He senses your emotions by touching you or something you’ve recently touched.  Pressed against that wall, his hands rubbed up and down my torso like an MRI taking slices of my soul.  He paused at my hips then broke out in a huge grin.  His brown eyes formed ebony balls as he kissed me while undoing my fly.  His lips were playful, lightly pressing then darting away.  He reached past my fly and cupped my balls, rolling them gently in his warm hand.  I lifted up on my toes then came down to give him more of them.  He stopped kissing and closed his eyes, exhaling then leaning back slightly.  Then he opened his eyes and stared at me as if the secrets of the universe had just arrived in his mind like an urgent email.  He squatted, pulled out my cock, and started licking it like I was his favourite flavour Tootsie Pop. 

Psychic powers were the only way he could’ve known that is what I like – that the slow, slick feel of tongue and lips moving up and down my shaft created waves upon waves of tiny orgasms that I don’t get otherwise.  It was fucking death by a million taste buds cuz I could feel every one of his quickly grasping then letting go of micro-sections of my dick’s skin.  At one point, I was so overwhelmed by the sensations, feelings surfacing that I didn’t understand, and I started to ask him to stop.  But instead, the word out of my mouth was, please.  Then he took my entire dick in his mouth and held it there, swimming in juicy, waves of warmth until my thighs stopped quivering.  He wasn’t going to let me cum yet, just set things up.  Then, he pulled back and lonely, cool air made my erection recoil slightly.  I looked down at him, confused as to why he’d stopped.  “Hold on,” he said before diving back in.

His lips massaged my head like he’d spied on me some night while I masturbated.  Deetz let his tongue massage the underbelly while his mouth pulled on it firmly, slowly at first then increasing it until his movements matched the beat of the surrounding music.  It was the spot and configuration with some extra ingredient – he took the time to learn my needs and was enjoying the giving, signs of a true Sub, according to Mistress.  Most people want my company to get access to my wealth, my connections, or just to say they slept with royalty (remember that model and ‘internet sensation’ two years ago?).

I was near the edge but something kept me from just letting go.  Self-doubt began to surface.  This whole thing – this experiment in man-on-man love – the ride I was on seemed ripe for taking other chances.  If I was going to be vulnerable, would he be so also?  I took a chance.  I released one of my hands and placed it on the side of his head.  I looked at him intently, massaging his ear until he looked at me.  “Look at me while I do this to you.”  He inhaled deeply as I pressed his head tight against my crotch and felt him swallow my dick.  One time. Two times.  The third time and I came so hard I nearly collapsed.

I regained my composure and my breath to find him still squatting in front of me, balanced on his heels like a poster child for Southeast Asia’s tourist industry.  He was still looking at me, with a smug smile, while wiping the excess spit and cum from the corners of his mouth.  “Your Grace is satisfied?”

A challenge, eh?  I squeezed his chin and lifted his head back with a slight jerk.  Shaking my exhausted penis at him, I commanded, “You left a spot.  Clean your mess.”

He licked all around my head like a mop hunting for dirt and a pay raise.  He had me aroused again – ah, the blessings of being under 30!  This time though I was directing the show.  When I felt close, I grasped my shaft and pulled it out of his mouth.  He had fallen into some trance and kept his mouth open once I was out.  I dropped my head on his tongue, sticking halfway out of his mouth.  Resting my head there, I reached below and massaged my balls.  I nodded at him and he replaced my hands, his fingers quickly finding the intensity I like.  I came again, this time more quietly, drops of sperm rested on his tongue.  He knew what to do with it once I was done.

Deetz stood up, a bit wobbly but smiling like the cat who finally caught the mouse.  He kissed me in a perfunctory but giddy manner, like someone on their first date – more gratitude and lust than kindness and love.  He seemed pleased with himself – pleased that he had so thoroughly satisfied me?  And in some sick, royalist, man-taking-over-the world-cuz-I’m-ordained-by-the-Almighty-to-do-so, I felt a sense of power that the Roman’s must have had when they overran Gaul.  Deetz Mac Innes has opened, no touched that part of me that I’ve long to share with someone.  It was sexual desire driven by ego, DNA, and White privilege.  If I was bothered by my desires and BDSM predilections it was only that more people didn’t have the freedom I have to indulge similarly.

Standing with my dick in the wind, all I could think of was that I wanted, no needed more.  I was hungrier than ever to see this experiment, no experience, to its natural end – whatever THAT would look like.  Deetz’s gleeful eyes made me think it was time to go home and finish fucking, which we did after the slight detour into self-defence.  But when we finally got there, I tapped that ass.  And by “tapped” I mean Exxon can only dream about that session of drilling production.  Now, Deetz is asleep on his stomach, his brand still shimmering, black embers occasionally popping like watery fireworks against his skin.  His breathing is a quiet, steady hum and his eyes are moving rapidly behind his closed lids.  Is he dreaming?  Is he dreaming about me?

The sleeping man felt the eyes of his lover.  “You okay?” Deetz mumbled while turning over onto his side, his face near Angus’s thigh.

“Yeah, just jotting some things down for my meeting tomorrow,” Angus lied.  He had prepared his notes days ago.  “Go back to sleep.  We’ve gotta be up early.  I’ll need your help in the morning.”

Deetz yawned, “Yes, your Grace,” he said before kissing Angus’s thigh and turning over like the dutiful wife in some 1950’s, middle-aged marriage.

Angus stared at his best friend for some time while, his eyes lingering around the naked man’s edges and curves.  He wondered, if this continued, what would he tell his family?  His associates at the Club would look askance and give him the silent treatment.  Would he have to say something to the King and Queen?  They were his godparents after all.   Angus Reese suddenly felt something mega-rich, white men aren’t supposed to feel.

Fear.

Chapter 4 of Life Before Project Iceworm

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4.

It’s a ten-hour flight from D.C. to Cardiff.  Angus spent the first two playing daddy to Alpert.  Unbeknownst to me, Angus had texted our personal flight attendant, Daisy, to “clear out anything from the airport stores appropriate to a 3-year old”.  The boy had more fun opening and getting Angus to assembly them than actually playing with them.  Angus didn’t seem to mind, likely he was taking mental notes for our next session of pillow talk – you know, the laundry list of what one isn’t going to do with or to their children.  Maybe if I’d paid attention to his mental wanderings then I wouldn’t be in the pickle I am with him now.  But, that’s another story.

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Chapter 1

Standing at the front bow looking out from Aunt Nora’s latest £8-million acquisition, The Conspiracy Theory, should have cleared my head.  Instead, the sunless sky and dank Atlantic Ocean secured my foul mood in a depressive rapture no silver lining could relieve.   So when I sensed my husband of more than five years looking for a parka to cover my bare arms, I bristled while feeling riddled with shame.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!  I’m being ungrateful.  He’s a wonderful man

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Project Iceworm: Part 1 - Lady Nora Makes Trouble

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Standing at the front bow looking out from Aunt Nora’s latest £8-million acquisition, The Conspiracy Theory, should have cleared my head.  Instead, the sunless sky and dank Atlantic Ocean secured my foul mood in a depressive rapture no silver lining could relieve.   So when I sensed my husband of more than five years looking for a parka to cover my bare arms, I bristled while feeling riddled with shame.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!  I’m being ungrateful.  He’s a wonderful man – I don’t deserve him.  I’m married to my childhood sweetheart, the kindest person on Earth, a damn Peer of the Realm – and did I say he’s rich and now I’m rich too?  And yet, as I visualize then hear each of his steps up the stairs and toward me, Angus’s concern felt like a steel brush against a fresh wound.  Damn, I hope he didn’t see me wince. 

I should have concentrated on Reason #491 why Angus Reese was the best thing to ever happen to me – he was never fully predictable, like right now.  Instead of asking how I felt, he simply stated in his deep Welsh accent, “You know, I’m out of pretzels and a nip of something.” He placed a bowl and a flask at my feet instead of a mackintosh around my shoulders.  I noted with the eyes in the back of my head that he looked at me with his head cocked to the right, the wind whipping around his shoulder length brown hair with his worry only coming through in the dark spot within is emerald eyes.  “Additionally, your sister said I should check your stitches, change your bandages, and put more of that foul ointment on.  I swear she is trying to ruin our sex life!”

Okay, he won’t leave unless I at least turnaround and look at him.  But, if I do that, I can’t continue to wallow in this rage and pain.  There was comfort in rolling around in this muck of self-recriminating madness and I’m a conflicted, complicated man.  A nearly graduated rabbinical student and yet I now understood the thrill of a Catholic monk’s self-flagellation.  I was a survivor of vicious sexual assault during my adolescence who was transformed into a therapy success story.  But right now, I appreciated the thrill a cutter gets with each secret, light dorsal level slice to the underside of the thigh.  Recent events could correctly labeled as a ‘triggering event’ while this current spat with Angus was the nuclear fallout.

“I’ll come down in a minute,” I replied, choosing not to turn and look at him.

While he walked back to whence he came, the wind carried back to me his haughty insinuation, “I will be waiting in the stateroom.”  I gave in and turned around just to see his fine behind disappear in the growing fog around the ship’s deck.  He was going to get his way, he always got his way with me.  Over these years, he’d learned me – a brooding philosopher and social critic who would choose some 15th Century ivory tower over human companionship at every chance.  This was just the worse in a series of mental battles common, it is said, for someone pursuing a contemplative profession.  Barmy thing was, Angus never wavered, never blinked, and never let me completely give into my darkness nor, this time, into my stupidity.

Finally forcing my legs to move, I got to the stairs and made my way toward the galley.  In doing so, I passed our ship’s captain and chief mate, James and Daisy, respectively.  Upon seeing me, they bowed with proper gentility.  I should have considered more fully how the pilot and purser of our private jet were also talented sea persons who ran a glamorously refurbished ice clipper like a traditional 19th Century English country estate. But I didn’t.  Growing up as the son of a valet who served the 11th Earl of Glamorgan on the Morganwg Estate and now married to the Earl’s only child, I was used to the opulence that most people paid good money to salivate over through various versions of “The Real Housewives of Somebody’s Fairytale City”.   As I entered the galley, freshly stocked with food and cookery like a set on a Jamie Oliver show, I only needed to wonder where everything was, not if it was there.

Pretzels and my special dirty martinis were Angus’s particular weaknesses.  Funny this was as I quit drinking nearly ten years ago and the carb levels in one of my pretzels would clash with my austere workout routine that gave me that “Bruce Lee’s white brother from another mother” look.  My husband, however, could eat a pot of pasta with a tub of ice cream and still maintain a six-pack.  I, on the other hand, lived on broths and the best drug for me was pot.  Luckily hubby was still doing venture capital investments, as a ‘side hustle’ (a cute colloquialism I got from my BFF from Chicago), in two Colorado marijuana farms and a dispensary, all of which were considering a merger and a franchising the operation.  I had them breed a brand that was less focused on the “munch” and more on the “chill”. It helped me get out of my head.

My latest creation for my love was a lobster stuffed pretzel with a creamy sriracha sauce.  I had to carefully deep fry this otherwise, I’d overcook the delicate crustaceans.  My martini recipe presents as if James Bond was a blues singer - 60 milliliters of Bombay gin, not the Safire however because of its citrus overtones; 15 milliliters dry, white Vermouth, 5 milliliters teaspoon of jalapeno juice, 10 milliliters of brine, three drops of 3 Crabs Fish Sauce – the Squid brand, if you’re in a pinch.  Shake this with ice; don’t stir.    I did it in a thermos for temperature control but served it in a chilled glass with three fresh green olives.  Two of these and he’s ready for love.  At three, both of us were coming out of things sore, drenched in sweat, with torn 1200 thread Egyptian cotton sheets. 

Although my wounds were healing, carrying a tray was out of the question.  Daisy was kind enough to assist but peeked in the stateroom door before entering fully.  She was one of those quiet, downstairs servants who said nothing and saw everything – I wondered what stories she shared with James and if it helped their relationship.  No such luck this time however as Angus was still dressed in sweat pants and matching gray jersey while seated on the armoire.  “Thank you, Daisy!  Put the tray on that end table,” he said using his Dom tone.  She nodded deferentially then quietly disappeared.  The click of the closing door left me with a choice – try to pretend I was better or put aside my ratchet feelings and get over myself.  The first was a lie that he’d see through and get pissed about while the other was damn near impossible.  Luckily he gave me an out.  “Serve me, now.”

“Yes, your lordship.”  I was an inflamed but coddled Sub tied by a slave contract stapled to a ketubah, a Jewish marriage pledge, to a hungry, attentive Dom who I now wished would beat me and leave me maimed. Who knew BDSM could be therapeutic?

I poured his drink and served him, as instructed.  “Stand there until I am finished,” he added.

I held attention before him for what felt like an hour but was actually 20 minutes.  He finally finished his first pretzel and drink then pointed to the bed, waving for me to sit down.  He got the medical box my sister, Ciara - a large animal veterinarian and talented herbalist - made up for me after my hospital discharge and sat down next to me.  Putting Florence Nightingale to shame, Angus carefully removed the old bandages covering my numerous sets of stitches and applied the wretched smelling homemade cream.  I tolerated it because she swore would improve my physical recovery and trusted it because she was the best healer in Cardiff.  My body would probably have hurt less had I not insisted on discharging myself prematurely and refusing the Vicodin when offered.  But Angus’s hands were gentle and he watched closely for any grimace or cringe. 

“Wait here,” he said after applying the fresh bandages around my torso.  He ducked down and opened the drawer of the captain’s bed and removed one of our asanawa, hemp rope used in traditional Japanese Kinbaku or “tight binding”.  “Assume position,” he said plainly.  He stretched the ends of the 4mm rope to check for imperfections.  We had picked up this “habit” while vacationing in Japan before I started school. This form of BDSM infused itself into our role-playing.  The practical philosophy behind this ancient art was that the binding would evolve with the relationship.  But due to fact that studies were in America, we were often apart for months at a time and thus we were still in the early stages of adaptation.  And, it takes years for a ‘rigger’, who is usually the Dom, to learn the various rope techniques.

“Yes, your lordship,” I answered while turning around, locking each of my hands by the crook of the opposite elbow.

He assessed my positioning and once mentally establishing a satisfactory design, started applying a modified Ushiro Takatekote, or “bound hands behind the back.  “My ties will be on your wrists alone.  Your wounds reopening would not please me.”

“Thank you, your lordship.”  Angus crossed the rope over my thumbs twice then stretched them back, forming overlying intersections of rope at each wrist and working inward toward the elbow until he reached mid-way, tugging occasionally to reduce slacking.  Counterintuitively, I felt better with each twist and tie. Perhaps counterintuitive for most abuse survivors and particularly since he and I were fighting, somehow this ritual always settled the both of us.

He turned me around, his lips offering that smile of satisfaction for a job well-done. My head dropped as I felt ashamed of my earlier foolish protestations but he lifted my chin and kissed my forehead.  “I have neglected you.  I should have done this some time ago.”  I kicked off my shoes while he positioned himself on the bed.  He reached out to help me lay down with my head on his lap.  “I have one of those classic movies you love cued up,” he whispered while caressing reddish brown freshly growing curls on my head since my latest injuries.  “Alfie,” he said before he grabbed the remote for the 72”, 4K curved flat screen tellie hanging across the room.

“Jude Law?” I impertinently asked even after the 5.1 Dolby surround sound opened the story.

Angus tugged harshly at my braided tungsten slave necklace, “Are you challenging me?”

“No, your lordship.”

I felt him smile with satisfaction.  “1966, Michael Cane and Shelly Winters, directed by Lewis Gilbert who also directed three 007 movies.”  He went back to petting me and noted my heavy respiration.  “Do your relaxation breaths.  Let it go, at least for now.”

He was right, of course.  I began the an opt done routine – short, deep breath in then and extended breath out.  I did this over and over until tears swell then fell from my eyes.  When they soaked through his pant leg, he stroked my cheek.  “Thank you, your lordship,” I said.

He sighed, stuffing his natural inclination to fix things. “Let’s let it go for now and solve this little mystery of Aunt Nora’s, okay?”  Just as she had done in years past, Lady Nora was calling on us to chase some mystery on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.

“Right,” I answered.  The film’s story opened and I let the scenes flow by me.  Next I knew, I had closed my eyes, having fallen into a good sleep - restful for the first time in quite a while. 

When I woke up, the movie was over and Angus was clicking away on his mobile.  I sat up and before he could put the device down, I could see that he was reading emails.  He removed my binding.  “Katherine gave birth the other day.  Twins this time,” he said trying to present as nonchalant while wrapping and placing the rope in its particular place in the drawer with the rest of our customized sex toy collection.  “The Covington’s are due in September.”  Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly broody and wistful.

I’d swear my husband had a biological clock that rivaled a 40-year-old unmarried Evangelical Christian woman.  “Well, modern science does wonders nowadays,” I responded, sitting up and reaching for a towel to wipe my mouth.  “Maybe I can be fitted with some artificial uterus or something.”

My light-heartedness wasn’t received well.  “You wouldn’t survive the first trimester.”

I sighed.  Evidently, I’d dropped the argument as soon as the rope hit my flesh while his angst continued.  “Mate,” I countered, “I told you when we got engaged, I love kids.  I’m done with school now.  We can have as many as you like – the idea of being a stay-at-home-dad works fine for me.”

“That’s just it.  We can’t have any kids, not together at least.” 

“Is that what’s bothering you?  Think that dropping a few dollops in my ass or down my throat is wasting good sperm?  Been married to me a handful of years and you’re already going all Orthodox Haredi on me, eh?”  I shifted my position so I was sitting next to him.  He was leaning forward, balancing himself on his elbows a top of his knees.  “Trust me, I think you’ve got a bunch more left from where they came from!” I finished.

“You don’t get it.”

“Incorrect, I appreciate that there are biological barriers to having children who share both of our genetics but what I don’t get is why you put so much stock in it when there are thousands of children who need the kind of home life we can provide and there are entire national economies based on surrogacy.”

He gave me a dirty look. “Both sound horrible.”

Shit, I hate when he moralizes things like some 60s American television melodrama that needs a resolution in 48.2 minutes so it can advertise Pall Malls.  I never win when he gets like this.  It’s like that time he couldn’t decide between starting a farm to raise food for the estate because it was ecologically progressive or promote the locally sourced farmers in the surrounding area.  I didn’t push him to convert to Judaism because I was afraid he’d start reading Talmud, 1^st century biblical commentary, and I’d lose him amidst arguments between Hillel and Shammai.

I smiled at him, though, my handsome man with his scrunched-up nose, irritated eyes, and furrowed brow.  I touched his shoulder so I could better read his heart and found that proper hereditary parenthood wasn’t the only thing bothering him – actually, it wasn’t the most important.

“Up deck, you were having a flashback,” he finally said.  “You haven’t had one of those in years, since before the wedding.”  He sat up and I feared his face would be awash with disgust as his intonation suddenly lacked its usual cheery fluctuations.  He noticed my apprehension when he looked back at me.  “Don’t look for trouble,” he added while rubbing the palm of his prosthetic hand.  I’m worried, that’s all.  Maybe we should’ve stopped back in London before going on this investigation.  You could have talked to Marge, let you have a few more sessions before we headed here.”

Suddenly, a different kind of worry accumulated in my throat.   “I’m so sorry.  I had no idea this would haunt me like this,” I said, trying to clear the lie, sitting like leftover bile against my tonsils, from strangling me.  “I’m not used to losing a fight.”  From young adulthood, I had studied many different martial arts and had done some amateur bouts – many thought I would do mixed martial arts, MMA, professionally but instead I got called back home when Angus’s father and my dad were murdered.  It was during that escapade that Angus lost his left hand.

“Deetz,” Angus asked, readjusting himself on the bed to lean against the headboard.  In an irritated voice, he stated, “You never told me what happened.  I get a message from Ciara to ‘come to Jerusalem immediately’ as you were ‘being taken to hospital’.  She said you’d been attacked by some gang, hit your head badly but that was all she knew.  By the time I got there, they had you in an induced coma so your brain would shrink back to normal – they weren’t certain if you’d be, well, be yourself again.  The coppers were all over it but no one would tell me much – some national security bullshit.  When you did wake and I started throwing my British government credentials around to get some answers, you waved me off, demanding I’d not make a fuss.  All this,” he shook his head, “All this time and I’ve never known all of what happened.  It’s like the abuse shit all-over again.  You’re supposed to tell me stuff like this!”

He was offended and rightfully so. “I’m sorry.  The hospital is in an Orthodox area and I was unconscious.  They had my emergency contact list from the Institute but wouldn’t have understood, accepted that you would be my primary contact, so they called Ciara.  They would only recognize her as my legitimate next of kin.”  I reached over and poured him another drink from the thermos, more for me than him.  He took it but barely drank before returning the glass back to the nightstand.  I sighed heavily and plopped up against the headboard.  “The police’s initial assumption was that the attack was an act of terrorism and you know the Israelis view any kind of Arab-on-Jew violence like it’s the precursor to the next Intifada.  Inserting your status didn’t help either as Israelis are notoriously protective of their sovereignty.” I took his origin hand and kissed his palm with tearful sincerity.  I tried to put words to what happened and why it bothered me so.  It wasn’t like some random robbery or East End gang’s roughabout.  These men saw killing me as a holy act that would halt decades of cultural eradication.  It was differently dehumanizing than the sexual abuse I experienced as a teen but familiar all the same.  Maybe Angus was right about talking to Marge.  “I can tell you now, if you’d like.”

Angus grabbed his craft basket from the drawer under the bed next to the sex toy compartment. He settled next to me and attended to my story like someone listening to BBC radio program during the War. After the amputation resulting from our encounter five years ago with a Russian xenophobic hell bent on creating Putin’s master race, a physio-therapist suggested Angus take up crocheting to improve dexterity, fine motor skills, and coordination between the two hands.  Initially, he didn’t take to it, later admitting that it “wasn’t masculine enough”.  But I convinced him to rethink his heterosexism and do it privately.  Since that time, he seemed to find the activity soothing and had completed some nice throws for our homes in London and Cardiff as well as winter hats for my sister’s kids. I noticed that his new project was taking on the shape of a baby outfit.    

“The last I saw you was after we were with Toni,” Angus said, defining the starting point.  He gave my story ample attention without eye contact as he worked each hook, tug, and loop.  He offered little more than the occasional nod or “ah”.  And as I talked, I realized three things.  One, how unworthy I thought I was to be a parent – something I was desperately trying to keep from Angus.  Two, how much danger I’d unconsciously exposed myself to during my entire time I was on internship in Israel.   And three, how complicated my relationship with Toni really was.  Once I was done telling him the story, I sheepishly admitted, “I am nothing if not a complex man.”

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