First Chapter of Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts

 

From my biographer . . . .

Thank you fans of Deetz and Angus!  You've been waiting for so long for the second book and it is coming together, albeit slowly just like everything else in this pandemic!  My travels to home of the Glamorgan Progeny, Wales, UK, has been limited and interviewing these two on Zoom is not that easy - Angus is kind and a bit flirty while Deetz is the king of one word sentences.  But a flight in late March is looking quite likely as the variant numbers seem to be dropping.  Keep your fingers crossed.  I'd say I'd cross my legs too but that sounds constricting.  Meanwhile, I could use your help.  Here is a link to a draft of chapter one of Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts.  It is five years later and Deetz Mac Innes-Reese is about to graduate from rabbinical school.  Hubby Angus is anxious for them to start a family but Deetz has other ideas.  Meanwhile, Deetz's best friend, La Tonya "Toni" Hoffman has come for a visit and Miss Sassy needs a favor.  And, of course, the aliens never stop - this time something is killing members of an Inuit village in Greenland but do deities have such unusual teeth?  As always, there are government shennagins, passionate sex, and, of course, things are complicated - in the 21st century, what does marriage look like?  You know the boys will have unique answers, some of which will piss off the "woke" in Project Iceworm: a human marriage in three parts.

I miss him deeply

 

THE LAST BOOK FROM R. SACKS

BOOK REVIEW

Losing ANOTHER DAD – a remembrance of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh

 

Sail on silver girl

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine

Oh, if you need a friend

I’m sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

 

-         “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” as performed by Simon & Garfunkel

 

Note:  The “Sail on silver girl” refers to, according to Art Garfunkel, his wife who, like Angus, hated her grey hairs.  Garfunkel called her his “Silver Girl”.

*******************

Angus faced the full-length mirror and sighed.  “I don’t know Deetz.  It still looks loose,” he complained while alternating between tugging at his suit jacket’s shoulders then the sleeves.  “Maybe we should try the dark brown.”

I was standing behind him serving in my valet/husband role.

I lifted the jacket from the shoulders then placed it correctly on his body.  “You’re slouching.” I adjusted his body like a chiropractor on a mission.  He groaned when I readjusted the last vertebrae.

“That’s why it seems ill-fitted.”

Angus kept fidgeting, so I had to adjust it again.  After a few more back and forths, I gave up and just took it off him.  “You are determined to thwart my work.  Luckily, the funeral isn’t until Saturday.”  I hung the offending item on a hanger and carefully laid it atop the matching trousers across our unmade bed.  I looked down at the formal black suit with its gold medals and pins, remnants of appreciation from the Crown to Reese ancestors.  The oldest ones were for valour in battle.  The more recent ones were for saving the Commonwealth from everything from aliens to recessions.  Lots of MPs representing stressed communities in and around London turned to the Reese piggybank many times behind Margret Thatcher’s back.  At 35, my Angus had a few pins earned three of his own for his diplomatic assistance during many a difficult negotiation.  His linguistic skills gave him a leg up for he knew not just what the other side said, he knew what they met.

Angus leaned into the mirror, eyeing wayward grey hairs that were trying to hide below his temples.  He yanked at them with the determination of a mum ridding her child of lice.  “Argh!  How did I miss these?”

I reckoned that this was calling for a no-nonsense intervention.  I walked over to him, forced him to face me, then plated a wet kiss on his forehead.

He groaned, tried to push me off, and wiped the wetness off with the back of his hand.  He didn’t get very far and I had him back into my arms very quickly.

“Mate,” I said while tugging at his waist, “it’s hurting a lot, isn’t it?”

Initially, he looked as if to flub me off but then changed his mind.  “It’s like Father dying all over again.”  He frowned.  “The Duke was like a second dad for me, kind of like Mountbatten was to Charles.”

“I remember.”  Angus went to Windsor fairly frequently.  When he was in short pants he spent more time there than he did in Morganwg, the Reese family estate.  I should know as often Angus demanded his parents bring me, the son of his father’s valet, as well.  As children, he and I were inseparable.  And dear reader, royal families are no more or less wacky than poorer folk.  It’s just that the rich and powerful do it in gold, diamonds, and furs.

“Daeth ef a Charles i'n priodas (He and Charles came to our wedding),” Angus said in Welsh. “And that stuff with Harry and . . . it’s just the same shit that he did to Diana.  Harry is sensitive like his Mum and Charles hates him for it.  Charles knows it was his cowardice that created that whole mess.  I mean . . . “  Angus was loud now like he was working Question Time.  This was escalating.  Mr. Calm struggles with extreme emotions.  He was damn near catatonic for three days after the twins were born.

“Yes, Luv.”  My tone must have given him permission to be vulnerable because he started crying – no, actually sobbing.  I brought him into my arms.  He slumped over me and I felt his tears dripping down my tee shirt collar.  Good thing he couldn’t see my smile for I do so love taking care of him.  I snuggled up closer and lightly kissed his ear.  He tried to wiggle away from my attempt to soothe.

“Well,” Angus said while trying to compose himself, “at least I won’t have to suffer his parenting advice.  I don’t think I could stomach that really.”  He looked directly into my eyes then burst out laughing.  He was bringing himself out of it. 

I smiled back at him with a slight chuckle then returned to his funeral-wear.  “I’ll make sure these are steamed before morning.”  I gathered everything on the hanger and put them on the rack for the servants to pick up in the morning.  I sent a text to our butler Simms as a heads up.

“I’m sorry, I wish you could go with me.”  Angus sounded contrite and genuine.

“I’m sure you are.  Besides the Queen, let’s face it, everyone else is either stupid or crazy.”  I thought for a moment.  “On the other hand, if I was there, at least you’d have a sensible conversation!”  We both laughed heartedly at that.  “No, but really, I’ve got a sermon to finish; Aney kel kek mahevr (I am so behind), I said in Hebrew, ”God waits for no man.  Plus, it’s my turn to read the bedtime story.”

“Ah,” he said, sounding a bit disappointed.  I turned my back to him to finish my valet duties.  I didn’t see him pull off his trousers and get in the bed.  “Well, this spot is still warm,” he said lusciously.  By the time I turned around to him, he had his tee-shirt off and he was rubbing his cock through his boxers.  Angus watched his hand massage the base.  He slowly raised his eyes, long lashes fluttering in his best sexy cover model pose.  I stopped for a moment to wonder how the fuck I got so lucky when it came to husbands – rich and delicious.

“Wanna help?” he teased.

My Dom is usually sterner, but tonight was cute and playful.  “You look like you have things handled.”  I crawled onto the bed and positioned myself next to him as if we were playing at the beach.  “I told you.  I’ve got a sermon to finish, you temptress, you!”

He squeezed and pulled on his dick extra hard, “You’re wasting precious time thinking.”  He unclothed Danny (Don’t judge!  Most people name their junk.  Mine is Matilda – it’s complicated) and waved him at me like a horny soldier on a 24-hour leave in Paris.  “Come give him a kiss.”

The first caveman who got a blowjob must have been like, “Wow!”  The first person who gave a blowjob must have been like, “What a power rush!”  And shifting power is what this family is all about, but that too is complicated.  As I repositioned myself and set up to bend over his torso, I said, “You are the only man I know who goes from sobbing to rubbing his cock faster than his car reaches Autobahn speed.  You’re not well.”

“Unhappiness and regret go against my world view.  Both are bad for the complexion – makes worry lines.”  Angus was nothing if not vain. 

Putting my hand atop his created a quiet moan.  His eyes were alight and twinkling.  Angus licked his lips and dropped his eyes briefly before looking back at me, blushing.  “I suppose I can finish the sermon tomorrow during that morning Zoom meeting,” I stated.  As I continued to reposition myself, he laid back prone, arm over eyes like the best 1920s femme fatale.  I love when he pretends to be some helpless creature at the mercy of the manipulative servant – another theme in this complicated, hexagon of a marriage.  I pulled off my shirt to give my brand some air, as my arousal set off tiny blue spirals that left sparkles on my skin.  I have the image of an oak tree, designed to mimic the Kabbalist vision of the life essence branded on my back – another complicated situation.  Arousal heightens my magical senses. I could hear his anticipation in the sheen of sweat above his pubic hair.  Finally, I focused.  His cock is thick, with large, gnarled veins where sometimes you could actually see the blood flowing.  I tugged at it and got a louder moan for my pleasure.  “Deetz,” Angus said plainly, more like a command than a plea.   

I smiled at him before I bent over to put his dick in my mouth.  The skin was smooth and taunt which accented the pulsing blood.  I took it only halfway in, pulled up, and cupped his balls in my left hand.  The small hairs on the bottom were ridged too like the ones on the back of your neck do during a good horror movie.  I caressed them, rolling the sac in my fingers.  He mumbled in German though, signalling that nothing would due except a knob-slob.  I shifted gears and went up and halfway down the shaft few more times, wide mouth and brushing my tongue lightly against the dick’s underside.

After this prep-work and a deep breath, I swallowed it all and held my lips massaged the base.  Angus hips and butt cheeks began to quiver.  I held him there only for moments then I popped up and gasped for air.  I took a deeper breath and swallowed again.  This time I got murmurs in French, “Deetz!  Deetz!  Mon âme est à toi. Venez chercher votre prix! (My soul is yours.  Come get your prize!)” – a signal that he was about to blow.

Suddenly, there was a tap at the door before it opened.  The sweet smell of jasmine came in before Christy Love said, “Hey guys, do you think . . . “  She looked up from her mobile just as we did.  “Oh my!  Is this a private party or can a baby momma join too?”

Luckily this is a big bed.

From the Desk of Rabbi Desmond Mac Innes-Reese, First Viscount of Glamorgan

 

 Faith and Science are Not Enemies – a d’rash on Bere’shit 

(for AI audio, with hot pictures, see below).

 

Have you ever looked at the Cosmic Calendar?  The Cosmic Calendar is a method to visualize the chronology of the universe, scaling its current age of 13.8 billion years to a single year in order to help intuit it for pedagogical purposes in science education or popular science. In this visualization, the Big Bang took place at the beginning of January 1 at midnight, and the current moment maps onto the end of December 31 just before midnight. At this scale, there are 437.5 years per second, 1.575 million years per hour, and 37.8 million years per day. The concept was popularized by Carl Sagan in his book The Dragons of Eden (1977) and on his television series Cosmos - who says Wikipedia is useless! In other words, the Cosmic Calendar is a visual reminder that we are but a blip in time, and that we weren’t the creation, we were just a part of it.  

And after reading Bere’shit this morning, I am struck by how similar the Biblical story of creation is to the outline by our scientists. Genesis first through the fourth day correspond perfectly with Sagon’s September through early December of Year One. As for the time element, remember there was no way to “tell time” (time as a reference point – the average person’s conception of it) until Day Four when other animals were created and no one noting the “passage of time” until Day Six when humans were created. So who knows what a “day” or “year” meant back then – potato/potato – and if we follow time by the Earth’s fundamental elements, 13.8 billion years sounds about right to me.    

What’s the real difference between the two versions?  Bere’shit sounds better. Think about it . . . Neil deGrasse Tyson wasn’t alive yet, so how else were the rabbis going to make it interesting, eh? By putting it in a story with divine beings, magic forces, and strange creatures -instead atoms colliding, nuclear fusion, and chance occurrences the story becomes a fascinating tale easily passed down, particularly to children as part of religious education.

Here’s another point of confusion. On the sixth day (Genesis 1:29-30),

“כָל־הָאָ֔רֶץ וְאֶת־כָּל־הָעֵ֛ץ אֲשֶׁר־בּ֥וֹ פְרִי־עֵ֖ץ זֹרֵ֣עַ זָ֑רַע לָכֶ֥ם יִֽהְיֶ֖ה לְאָכְלָֽה׃ 

G-d said, “See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon all the earth, and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit; they shall be yours for food. 

וּֽלְכָל־חַיַּ֣ת הָ֠אָרֶץ וּלְכָל־ע֨וֹף הַשָּׁמַ֜יִם וּלְכֹ֣ל ׀ רוֹמֵ֣שׂ עַל־הָאָ֗רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־בּוֹ֙ נֶ֣פֶשׁ חַיָּ֔ה אֶת־כָּל־יֶ֥רֶק עֵ֖שֶׂב לְאָכְלָ֑ה וַֽיְהִי־כֵֽן׃ 

And to all the animals on land, to all the birds of the sky, and to everything that creeps on earth, in which there is the breath of life, [I give] all the green plants for food.” And it was so.

Hashem directs us to eat all the vegetation we want and gives the same directions to the animals in a previous verse. 

We all know many animals species, no matter where they are on the spectrum of earthly creatures, that eat meat, oftentimes each other. Is Hashem implying a certain equity across as well as amongst species, i.e., we eat what they eat? We have free will so our bad habits make sense – thus we are greedy carnivores. 

But why aren’t all animals vegetarian? 

If it was declared in the beginning why isn’t vegetarianism Jewish law number 613? And where’s the enforcement? Where is the wrath should you that should come after you eat that Whopper with Cheese? 

At least at Sinai, you got some decent smiting.

And I have other concerns. On Day 7+ (Genesis 2:3-7), after already declaring mission accomplished and still full of divine pomposity, Hashem must have realized that something was amiss when the shrubs wouldn’t grow and the animals collapsed due to severe dehydration.  Hashem had forgotten to create rain and the Great Lakes. And initially, YHVH said man and woman were in charge of everything else (Genesis 1:28):

וַיְבָ֣רֶךְ אֹתָם֮ אֱלֹהִים֒ וַיֹּ֨אמֶר לָהֶ֜ם אֱלֹהִ֗ים פְּר֥וּ וּרְב֛וּ וּמִלְא֥וּ אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁ֑הָ וּרְד֞וּ בִּדְגַ֤ת הַיָּם֙ וּבְע֣וֹף הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וּבְכָל־חַיָּ֖ה הָֽרֹמֶ֥שֶׂת עַל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

G-d blessed them and G-d said to them, “Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it; and rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and all the living things that creep on earth.” 

But Adoni forgot to offer any specific instructions on what that meant. And when G-d realized the need for a project manager (Genesis 2:7-9):

וַיִּיצֶר֩ יְהוָ֨ה אֱלֹהִ֜ים אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֗ם עָפָר֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה וַיִּפַּ֥ח בְּאַפָּ֖יו נִשְׁמַ֣ת חַיִּ֑ים וַֽיְהִ֥י הָֽאָדָ֖ם לְנֶ֥פֶשׁ חַיָּֽה׃ 

the LORD G-d formed man from the dust of the earth. He blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being. 

וַיִּטַּ֞ע יְהוָ֧ה אֱלֹהִ֛ים גַּן־בְעֵ֖דֶן מִקֶּ֑דֶם וַיָּ֣שֶׂם שָׁ֔ם אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצָֽר׃ 

The LORD G-d planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the man whom He had formed. 

וַיַּצְמַ֞ח יְהוָ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה כָּל־עֵ֛ץ נֶחְמָ֥ד לְמַרְאֶ֖ה וְט֣וֹב לְמַאֲכָ֑ל וְעֵ֤ץ הַֽחַיִּים֙ בְּת֣וֹךְ הַגָּ֔ן וְעֵ֕ץ הַדַּ֖עַת ט֥וֹב וָרָֽע׃ 

And from the ground the LORD G-d caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and good for food, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and bad.

“Holy Project Failure, Batman!” Make you wonder if Hashem had other oversights? For example, what’s with the second male. Did Eve kick him out or did he leave her?  Or did G-d fire the original man for laziness and environmental malfeasance?  The second half of this story is equally as confusing. I mean if YHVH knew Adam and Eve would be up to mischief, why didn’t he keep a better eye on them? Considering that they couldn’t be more than a few days old, shouldn’t someone call child protective services and make a neglect complaint?  

Well, I guess that explains Cain and Abel.

Then there is the social justice angle to all of this. I could understand how even the divine can be overwhelmed. I mean, let’s face it, Hashem only had 7 days to get it all done. Have you ever had to make such a deadline? Someone had his foot on G-d proverbial neck and was pressing hard. G-d could have had three other galaxies to take care of on $10/hour job. Oy! 

Does this mean that Hashem was abused by “the Man” too?

Or did G-d “forget” these things on purpose? For if he’d made the world perfect, there would there be no room for t'shuva (repentance) and no opportunities to secure our bonds with nature, self and the rest of Beit Yisroel (the House of Israel). The world is perfect in its imperfections and all are in their place. And if Adoni knew all along that this world would be bequeathed to us, YHVH also knew we didn’t like being idle and would need something for which to define ourselves. So Hashem made us the COOs, chief operations officers of Planet Earth and in charge for now until . . . until . . . 

 

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 - an irreverent Angus and Deetz story

HIGHER SOCIETY

a fanfiction based on 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.

Here's a link to Spotify playlist of music matching the story: songs for the Higher Society

∞∞∞∞

Chapter One

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday

And the manager gives me a smile

'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see

To forget about life for a while

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival

And the microphone smells like a beer

And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar

And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

-    “Piano Man”, as sung by Billy Joel

Present Day – New York, U.S.A.

Jack Spencer, reluctant up and coming celebrity reporter for TMI Online, dashed to a table at Nathan’s for a meeting with the tabloid’s editor-in-chief, Mars Lancroft, and Jack’s photographer/camera operator, LaTonya “Toni” Hoffman.  Jack was flustered and irritated he had to come in the first place.  He hated the whole celebrity gossip thing – was disgusted by computer-enhanced, second rate talents who complained about reporters hiding in the bushes all the while having assistants plant slander about their fellows in social media.  But he couldn’t avoid this assignment nor this job, at least for now.  Jack needed money to free himself of the constraints that came with living with the wrong body parts.   Female-to-male transitions weren’t cheap either, even with medical coverage.  Therapy, psychiatry, medications – Jack was in the hole with the constant costs.  His friends in the FTM trans support group said the hormones were “working” and he “passed” for a man as he developed a fairly full beard and moustache.  Jack accepted that there wasn’t much to be done by his Hobbit body frame.  Toni said he was cute, but he wanted more.  Jack wanted a functional cock.  Once things were right, he promised himself, all would be perfect.  Since he was a teen, Jack dreamed of being that man in a tailored, double-breasted Savile Row suit confidently walking to his office at the New York Times..   So, he shook off his disgust with a mental reminder.  “I’m playing for something more”, he whispered to himself as he put on his gratitude face and sat at the table.

“I was about to give up on you, Spencer!” bellowed Lancroft, who Jack’s mom used to say looked like B. T. Bauman’s at a 90s gay pride event.  “Now Toni, you'll take your camera stuff, of course. And Spencer well . . .  eh . . . you'll take your own special talents,” the latter oozing from the older man’s mouth like the remnants of explosive vomit.

Again, composing himself, Jack deescalated the initial tone of his question, “What’s the deal?”

“Lancroft wants us to cover the Reese wedding,” Toni replied.  She was a mashup between Lisa Bonet’s complexion with a Jewfroo and 1970s Pam Grier’s, smiled slightly at Jack as he sat down.  Although she had the well-deserved moniker of “Ice Princess”, anyone who was really paying attention would notice how her voice and gestures were just a little bit brighter when Jack was around. 

“In Wales?” Jack exclaimed.

“Ah don’t complain, Spencer!” waved off Lancroft as he inhaled a bit of cheesecake.  “After all, you’re Scots-Irish?  So, it’s all England, isn’t it?  What’s the difference?”

His mom was quite proud of their Westside Chicago, upper white trash heritage and taught him the same.  But this wasn’t the time to argue with a man so ignorant as to believe Donald Trump should have a statue and library next to the Lincoln Memorial.  “The family agreed?  Royal types are notoriously camera-shy.”

“It seems our leadership has convinced them of the error of their ways,” Toni responded. 

“Well if you can’t handle the scandal, don’t do the scandalous, I always say.” Lancroft showed that he could do two things at once – roll his eyes and gobble another slice of cheesecake.  “Is it our fault that some horny, titled 16-year old with a well-heeled and slightly older gentleman boyfriend got . . .  banged up, I think those English say?  Can I help it that granny’s a strumpet? Try explaining that pregnancy during Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace?  And it’s not our fault said such information happened to arrive by snail mail to the office of this editor-n-chief.  I am simply helping our brethren out, giving the oft-maligned upper classes a chance to give the world their side of the story – show everyone that they are just like us.”  Altruism never smelled so bad.  “Listen, the bottom line is those folks want to keep things quiet and we need the money this story will bring in.  Ad sales are down with all this podcast shit.  Don’t make me order you two over there!”

Toni shrugged and gave Jack a what-else-can-we-do grin.  “When do we leave?” Jack asked.

Lancroft took out his phone and started tapping before his staff changed their minds.  “You fly out in 3 hours.  I’ll text you your tickets”.  After a few clicks, he added, “Your seats are already confirmed, and your equipment will be pre-boarded.  You just have to get yourselves to the airport.”

Jack picked up his phone to examine the e-ticket.  “You know Mars, your psychic powers always amaze me.  It’s like you can smell our acquiesce before we have even formulated an objection,” Jack replied.

Lancroft savoured his last piece of cake, letting it melt in his mouth before chewing.  His eyes closed and his face looked like an addict’s after the first hit of the morning.  When it was gone, Lancroft’s eyes locked with Jack.  Older man growled, “Don’t you know what it is the have a secret no one should hear?”  It wasn’t so much that Lancroft was transphobic.  He hated everyone just for existing.  But he offered quiet, casual torture with a splash of nosy to his underlings.  It was a shame the company’s human resource executive was sleeping with him.

“Yes,” said Jack, as he nearly tripped over his own bile.

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. 

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.

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