“So, I can take the pair of you or accept that you will be sleeping with my husband for the rest of my life?”
“Pretty much,” Iris declares with a poise like I’ve never seen. I’m so fucking getting off in that tonight. “The choice is yours.”
“How did you know she was sleeping with Maka?”
“Sally,” Iris whispers, riding on my cock. “I’m the motherfucking Lotus Queen.”
Deacon laughs, playing with the strings on her corset. “Do you think she’ll stay quiet until the wedding that isn’t happening?”
“I don’t know,” Iris comments, pressing her lips to my heart. “If she doesn’t, we’ll have her taken care of, but we only have to make it thirty-three days. Are the kids okay?”
“Ya, they’re coming home soon.” I grab her hips and buck in deep. “I’ve got a meeting with Massimiliano Vidal tomorrow to discuss the plans to eliminate my father.”
“And Jaid?”
“We’ll find her soon,” I assure, falling into the pulsing rhythm of pink. God, how I love pink. “I have no doubt.”
“She’s going to be a mess,” Iris ponders, lacing her fingers with Deacon’s as he lifts to kiss her lips. “A really bad mess.”
“Don’t worry about any of this,” I declare, choreographing the rest of my very long day. “Everything will work out, but how did you two plan this?”
“We talk every day,” Deacon admits, passionately kissing me. “We talk nonstop about our shared love of one.”
“And sometimes he talks to me while I masturbate.”
“That sounds like fun,” I laugh, cherishing the moment. “I just want to forget and celebrate the things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving.” Iris matches my rhythm as Deacon takes his spot behind her. “But I must say, you both have some punishment coming your way when this is all over. Rocking those thigh highs. Making me kneel. Handcuffing me. Kicking me in the ass. Giving me this boner.”
They laugh.
And noise has never sounded so good.
I am trained for this.
But fuck if it ain’t hard some days.
VIII
The Last Bird in a Corner
The days leading up to Thursday, December 6, 2018.
The day that… changed everything.
68
Box of Dreams
DEACON CRUZ
Keep your hand low when you play the game.
After three hours, a light sweat forms on my bare chest as I become the architect. I flip my long dirty blonde bangs back and catch her smiling at me. Staring at the clock through the bars of the jail cell, Iris asks, “Are you sure about this?”
Rocking in my desk chair and chewing on a pen, Sal attests, “I am certain they will hold you. Keep going, Cruz.”
“You know this is warped, right?” Iris whines, enjoying every minute of the attention. That doesn’t mean she won’t protest and be a brat just for the sake of being one. And she has her moments.
“I have no intention of stopping,” I reply, nodding to Sal.
“What kind of crazy son of a bitch does this?” Iris rhetorically asks Sal. “You do realize I have your twine through my ass crack with your insane version of a butterfly harness. Fucking rope fetishists belong on a boat! Shibari! Kinbaku! It’s Jap Rope Bondage! And I should be insulted!”
“Would it help if your Italian were naked?” Goading her on, Sal snarls as he plays with a foot-long piece of the rope. He is so proud of himself. And a happy Dominant means I am a happy little submissive. I learned the skills of the strand thrower years ago while traveling around the world. The sensual art of the rope took patience, persistence, and an eye for detail. “Besides, we aren’t debating the vernacular—shibari or kinbaku or even the origins—this is the art of Iris.”
“Technically, it is the art of Cruz,” she says, sticking her tongue out. “And yes, you naked is never a bad idea.”
“Will you two hush?” I snap, concentrating on the bond between the rope, her skin, and me. This is making erotic love. “Iris, stop wiggling,” I scold, funneling the red hemp rope round the metal of the cage. “Your wings are going to be crooked and I’ve spent weeks thinking about this.”
“Weeks!” she squeals, jostling at the large hook from the top of the cage bars. “This shit is the act of arachnids.”
I grin wide and flick a brow. “Don’t act like you’re not loving it!”
I started designing the pattern as soon as Sal mentioned wanting to do this, but we had to do the live art soon because I would be moving to the new Sugargrove city hall and jail by the end of the year. This old office with two jail cages from the fifties would be demolished before we were together again.
“I want one of these cages in our house,” Sal smolders as Iris’ curled eyelashes bat wildly. “In our living room.”
“You cannot be serious!”
“They’re already sold,” I inform, knotting the rope off to the side. I’ve finished the wings of the butterfly when I step out to have a smoke.
The flame glows in my hands as he frowns. “Who the hell bought them?”
“Serene.”
“Fuck,” he groans, staring like he is famished. “Swing, baby.”
“Twisted motherfucker!”
She rocks from the loose wings connected to the harness. Aside from the ropes displaying her breasts and running around the tops of her thighs, she shouldn’t be in any discomfort.
Enthralled by my work, Sal commands, “Tie her legs up.”
“You cannot be serious,” Iris grumbles with an evil eye. “My arms are bound behind my back, my boobs are jetting out to the middle of the room, and you want me to spread my legs!”
“I am.” Sal deviously grins. “The butterfly should always be spread.”
“What color?” I ask, standing over the large box of hemp rope. “I have more red, black, or white.”
“Pretty?”
Her sensuous red lips curl with mischief. “White won’t show your cum stain, Sir.”
Though not accurate, I snort because she is such a pushy bottom, and as a bottom, I have to appreciate the challenges she brings. I hope to possess one as glorious as she is one day.
“Black.”
“How far do you want her splayed?”
Iris coughs. “Splayed…”
“Dear one, you are built for this,” I counter, admiring how incredible she looks dangling helplessly in the cage as I pass off the smoke to Sal. “If you weren’t, we wouldn’t still be going,” I reply, assessing the work and moving my arms to judge how far I want them. “I think we should tie them back.”
“See if she can handle the pain,” he suggests, stroking his beard. “She’s had a broken leg before. Be considerate.”
Her protesting wail echoes through the cage.
The darkened room mirrors the blackness in my mind as I wind and wind like a spider on a mission. I have no available resources for anything other than stitching as I fall prey to the intricacy and details of the netting.
The dim lights overhead wash a dull, gray hue over everything. As I look upside down at the balance of the rope, the brightness of the owl nightlight catches my attention. The fax machine rattles to life and deposits several sheets of paper. Shortly thereafter, the office phone lights up. I’m half tempted to answer it.
“Sugargrove PD, Chief can’t answer the phone right now; I’m busy tying up my lover’s girl.”
The invitation for his wedding sits nearby. In a few short weeks, Sal will commence the five-day process of his upcoming nuptials. They’ll begin with a quiet dinner on Friday. The bachelor and bachelorette parties will be Saturday. A large multi-family luncheon will happen Sunday. The engagement dinner everyone in Boston is talking about will be on Monday, followed by the I don’ts on Tuesday, Christmas Day. The whole grand affair has been planned down to the last minute.
And there is something very wrong with all of that.
Which is why I’m spinning filaments around pounds of flesh.
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Completing one leg, I carefully cut the rope and tie it off. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” she whispers, settling down in the bindings. “Have you ever been tied up?”
“Yes,” I reply, studying where I have been and caressing the ropes with an obsessive loving tenderness. The quibbling pair are correct about it being art, but the important part is the journey—not the end. The end is depressing. I prefer the spiritual aspect of the flow between stalker and prey.
“Not like that,” Sal admits as we both look at him. I give a nod to the other cage. “No.”
“Why not?” Iris taunts. “Show me up, big bad masochist.”
“There is a difference between masochism and shibari,” Sal points out, shifting direction by bouncing one foot then another so he moves side to side. “Masochism is more compulsory and addictive in nature, almost dangerously so because it tends to intensify as time goes on. Iris’ rope bondage searches for enlightenment through grotesque amounts of planning and time. It requires a more concentrated, focused discipline by both parties. Kinbaku Masters are all Dominants; not every Dominant is a Kinbaku Master. I don’t know if I have the patience to do something as intricate as the lacework Deacon is spinning.”
“Then why the fuck did you make me do this?”
Twirling the rope around her thigh and calf, I interject, “Because you spent almost three years away from your Dominant, and if that doesn’t show patience, I’m not sure what does. Hush now, please.”
She waits for maybe a minute—if I’m being generous—and asks, “Are you hard, Deacon?” In my peripheral vision, I see Sal stop moving as he waits for the answer. I stand up, grab her leg, and press it to my erection tucked in the loose khaki cargo pants. “Oh, God!”
“I have had my hands on you for hours, Iris,” I divulge, adjusting her wing ropes. “Basically, restraining myself from getting at you, I must actively practice discipline until consummation,” I confide in a low rumble, brushing my fingers over her cheek. “I’ve touched all of your skin and I can smell your arousal. In answer to your question, I am remarkably turned on.”
“It’s not much different from Nico,” Sal adds, chewing on the pen cap, as we both gawk in his direction.
“First of all, I would never hurt Iris that way,” I rebuke, slightly put off by his remark. “This is tight, beautiful binding, not gouging her eyeballs out while slamming a salami sandwich down your throat.”
“No shit!” Sal tosses the pen at me. “That is not what I meant. I mean this is your version of fetish art. His is a bit altered with a side of a grocery store and every fast food restaurant on the corner.”
“… What is yours?” Iris asks as I give Sal glance. “Certainly, you have an art.”
“I don’t know what it is,” he somberly says. “I haven’t had the opportunity to play long-term with anyone worthy of learning my quirks.”
I’m so proud of his honesty, I clap several times. “Bravo!”
“Hmm…” After biting her lip, Iris asks, “What happens now?”
“That is up to the boss.” I smile and wink. “If you were mine, I’d take about a thousand pictures. Thank you for allowing my binding of you.” I pick up my loose ropes off the floor, along with the scissors, knife, and busted zip-ties (from holding the ropes, you perv), and then I respectfully bow.
“Thank you for your diligence, Cruz,” she whispers. “I know, I can be a handful.”
“You’re quite welcome, beautiful butterfly.” Smiling, I close the cage door and move to place my gear back in the canvas bag. “It’s one of my greatest joys that I rarely do.”
“So you’ll have fap mats for weeks?”
Sorting through my stuff, I snicker, “I suppose you could say that.”
“Get back in there,” Sal orders, blowing smoke rings and tapping my baton on his leg. I blink, uncertain. “You heard me.”
“Are you coming to lock me in?”
“Yes,” he declares, striding over. “You get one item from the toy bag. Name it. Now.”
I scan over the seriousness in his expression as he holds his unused titular of Dominant close to his heart and buried deep within his soul. We aren’t playing with the strings for witch’s broomsticks and Jacob’s Ladder’s anymore.
“Bamboo cane, Master.”
Iris lightly gasps behind me. “Salvatore…”
“Silence,” he warns, placing the cane in my palm. “Do no harm. No rules. Show me a good time.”
I do not show my fear or he’ll never let it go. I must match his skills and hold my own. There can be no copycats as I must be an all original act capable of handling his trained submissive. His yielding her in my hands like this signifies the greatest respect and he builds the intimacy between us in an instant. I loathe his ability to provoke such emotions so rapidly. He is far superior to me in this regard, and he knows it.
“Thank you, Sir.”
He quietly closes the cell door, dims the lights, and takes a seat. He strips off his shirt and turns his ball cap around. “Don’t let me down, now.”
I pace around the butterfly trapped in my web. Her eyes drift down as I pass by. “I want your eyes on me.”
The chair Sal is in creaks as I imagine he is getting comfortable and waiting for the performance of a lifetime. We may never be this close again.
One Master keeping his two submissive in a cage.
The game is foremost psychological, but for me to attain true bonding, I must go through the physical recesses until exhaustion.
Her lips barely part as she breathes and I whisper, “Stick it out.”
I glance at Sal intently staring as he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasps his fingers together.
Taking the cane, I swipe the length over the dampness of her tongue. Her innocent blue eyes never deter from mine. “This is going to hurt.”
Her plump bottom lip fills with the drool from her mouth as I consider the native language. We are fluent by design and practiced by execution, inflected with accents and marred by our experience. She will speak my tongue at the end of our pilgrimage.
“Yes, Master Deacon.”
Game. On.
With one dedicated strike to the firm, ripe flesh of her ass, I proclaim her mine. It will be my oxygen she seeks and my giving hand she will praise because we have been here before—she and I—and I refused to sin against my Master.
I swing again, delicately landing between her thighs to tease the nest, but she won’t catch me, not yet. I shift the cane in and out from behind, taunting her insatiable lips and making my intent known. I want to fuck her, but that comes later.
Master won’t stop me or he never would’ve bothered to say no rules to a dangerous crawler like myself. My bite is severe and this much he does know, but he cannot practice his skills yet—or he won’t be able to put her on a plane in the morning.
He’ll want to keep her hidden away and tortured until they both consume one another. Her hunger is as fierce as his, I’ve seen it in her eyes and felt it on my dick.
Iris is not easy. She is a struggle, a demanding, high-maintenance geisha doll and I aim to be her spiritual advisor, her seeker, her truth-teller coming at the end of the cane and the tip of my cock.
We climb—slowly—intensifying each breezing brush of the bamboo to a blustery bombardment of reckoning.
Welcome to my darkness, princess.
Thrash after thrash, I unhinge the lashes of my demon over her flesh as she welts with ease and every red mark signifies another claiming of my territory—Another victory.—Another knowing.—Another desecration. We feast to intoxication and rejoice, like a mechanical scale balanced with seize and surrender.
I move around in a sacred swagger—my breath heaving, my skin sultry, my hair heavy…drizzling with want like the moisture on the mushroom enslaved—as tears drip over her cheeks. I lift the cane to her lips and she runs her seductive tongue over the wood again.
“You like to play with me, girl?�
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“Yes,” she whispers, longingly. “So much.”
I confidently inch closer to her lips, taking the air from her lungs into my own, and I dive towards her breasts, satisfying every delusional fantasy I’ve ever had about the ravishment of a flower left alone in the garden. I’ll succumb to the fool’s paradise for a brief time…but a few thrusts, just long enough to shift her crashing tides with my furious storms.
Sending the cane into revolutions, I pull the switchblade from my pocket to destroy what I built, to blow my creation down.
After I snip the rope, Master insisted ride in the folds of her peach, I sever the wings from the bars and rapidly tighten her round and round against the clip.
“Close your eyes,” I warn, ducking and falling to the corner. She flies, pirouetting like a ballerina with the ropes swaying through the air. In the magnificent splendor, I snarl and see Sal with his hand, resting lazily on his pronounced cock.
Oh, yes—Sir. Your disciple did good.
She comes to a halt, facing me, as he growls, “Fuck her...anywhere…bare.”
My nostrils flare as I stand and march with purpose to my wingless wonder. I place my hands on her cheeks and kiss her lips with the passion of a thousand men.
Our tongues clash until I conquer the lead with two fingers sinking deep in the flowing nectar. We are frozen in time, but we will not forget as I rip my zipper open and steer my dick to her sweetness.
“Deacon…”
“Don’t say it,” I mutter, thrusting inside of her with a forceful buck of my hips. “Don’t say it because it won’t matter anyway.”
“And tomorrow?”
“The ladder falls…”
Her weakened sigh shows retreat as I rebuild the squalls and drive in with lucidity over and over again. She sobs, understanding this is a rite of passage we will never cross again. When I am on the edge of exploding, I pull from her slit, spin her around, and pull the ribbon to open my prize package.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 59
