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
