by Jewel Geffen
Have I had a secret attraction to black men all this time and never let myself see it before? A part of me doesn't want to admit it, for fear that it might uncover some secret shameful aspect of my personality, but I can't entirely deny it.
I've been attracted to black men all my life, but never been with one before. It was like there was a part of myself that wasn't able to fully admit it, a subconscious block on my part. After what happened with Antoine, however, finding myself stumbling almost accidentally into this relationship – whatever it is – it's like I suddenly have permission to feel those suppressed sensations.
I slide my leggings and panties off all in one go and suddenly I'm naked, fully naked in the mirror. This is it, then. I reach for the doorknob and hesitate. I feel – and I know how stupid this sounds – naked. Not just in the sense of being undressed, but a deeper feeling than that. I wish I had something to hold, just so I wouldn't have to walk in there empty-handed, but I can't think of anything that I could reasonably carry with me that wouldn't seem stupid.
I open the door and step out into the hallway.
The door of his studio is right where he told me it would be, no more than a half-dozen paces from my room. I knock rather timidly on the hardwood surface of the door.
“Come,” he says, “it's open.”'
I step inside, and my mouth drops open. There's an easel set up in the center of the room. Antoine is standing behind it, an array of brushes fanned in his fingers and a palette still bare of paint beside him. Other than that, there's nothing here which might lead one to suspect it of being an art studio.
The dark red walls are hung with all manner of leather and chrome, straps and buckles neatly on display, the black material polished to a shine. I turn around, putting my hands instinctively over my breasts as I marvel as the display of sex toys. There are harnesses and paddles, ball-gags, dildos, devices the uses for which I can't even imagine. It's all bondage gear.
I turn to Antoine, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “This is... something,” I say, and it's rather an understatement. “Exactly what kind of studio is this, exactly?”
He laughs softly. “I thought that for this portrait we might do something a little different.”
“Did you now?”
He sets his brushes aside and steps up to the wall, hands clasped behind his back as he looks over the display. He reaches up and takes down a slender black band to hold it in his hands, his fingers caressing the soft leather. “There's something so beautiful about a woman in bondage, don't you think?”
“I... I'm not sure I ever thought about it...”
He slaps the leather gently against his palm and starts walking across the room, seeming to browse aimlessly. “I was thinking about our... conversation the other day. About control. There's something about you I find... intriguing.”
“Oh?” I put one hand on my hip and try to look like I'm not feeling intimidated by the gear on display.
“You have a sense about you,” he says, “of being... very controlled. Very tight inside yourself. It's been there the whole time. You've held back, restrained yourself. There's a tension in you, I think. A conflict between what you want and how you think you need to act. It was only when I fucked you that you seemed to surrender that guard, and allowed yourself to be true to your true nature.”
I can feel my cheeks warm as I stand there naked in front of him, biting my lip and covering my nipples with my hands.
“I want to capture that essence in your portrait, if possible... that conflict, that passion, that need in you. You're a special woman, Victoria, and I want this painting to be as unique as you are.”
My throat's unbearably dry. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I've never had any kind of experience with bondage or anything like that, it's always seemed far too exotic for me. Now that I'm here, though, looking at all these things, looking at him... I'm not sure. “What did you have in mind?” I ask.
He turns to look directly at me, and his gaze is alarmingly powerful. I feel like the ground is slipping out from under me. It's as if I'm being drawn towards him by some powerful primal magnetism. He lifts the little leather band, and I see now that it's a collar. He holds it out between his hands, pulled taut and open, and he beckons with two fingers for me to approach.
Uh uh, no way am I letting him put that on me. There's no chance! And yet I find myself walking towards him, as if I've lost power over my own body, like I'm hypnotized or something. Stay in control, Vicky!
I stand in front of him, looking up through my eyelashes at the powerful and beautiful black man towering over me. I feel tiny and helpless, horribly exposed before him and I want nothing more than to be gathered in his arms and taken by him. The sensation is intoxicating. Dangerously so.
He slips the collar around my throat, his touch delicate and gentle, yet firm somehow. He pulls it snug and slips the clasps together, then his hands slide up to hold my face, cupping my cheeks as he raises his eyes to mine.
“You have to let go, Victoria. Don't hold on so tight... give yourself to me...” his voice is a deep purr. My pussy immediately feels slippery between my thighs. Oh God, but I want him so bad. How does he do this to me?
He leans in, his mouth moving towards mine. I can feel myself rising on the tips of my toes, arching towards him, my lips parted and open, desperate for his kiss.
He pauses at just the last moment, a whisper of a grin flitting at the corner of his mouth. He gives me a gentle peck on the nose and steps back, leaving me flushed and trembling and desperate.
“That's the look I want to see,” he says, “that one right there.”
I press my thighs together. Why won't he touch me? Why won't he just fuck me? I want to ask him to, want to beg for his cock, but I won't let myself do it. I have to stay in control, can't give in to him. He smiles, and I glare back. I feel like he can see right inside my head, like he knows all my thoughts almost before they occur to me. It's infuriating.
He knows I want to get fucked, and he knows I'm restraining myself from throwing myself at his feet, and that's why he's holding back. He wants me to give in, but I'm not going to. I won't. He wants me too, I can feel it. It's got to be just as bad for him, isn't it? He must be hard. My eyes flick down to his pants, looking for the long erect shape of his cock, but he turns away again before I can see one way or the other.
God, his cock... now that I've thought of it it's hard to think of anything else. Remembering the way it felt inside makes me quiver and tremble where I stand. The way it opened me up, the way it filled me... The biggest I'd ever had, by far, and certainly the best. All I want is to feel it in me again.
He turns back, a long coil of silken black rope in his hands. “Well then,” he says, sounding quite calm, as if he's unaware of the torture he's inflicting on me, “shall we begin?”
Chapter Six
I roll over in the huge cushy bed with a groan. “Oh, God...”
My body is aching, a sweet singing ache in my arms and legs. I guess it's not that surprising, given that I spent most of the day yesterday tied up in a variety of compromising positions. I rise with a yawn and a groan and slither out of bed onto the sleek hardwood floor. Immediately, I start moving through my usual yoga postures.
I can feel my mind clearing as I follow the routine, moving from one form to the next, my muscles recalling the motions after years of repetition and practice. The day seems to come into focus as I stretch, searching for that centered place.
The light of a gorgeous sunrise spills through the huge windows, painting the room which had previously seemed a touch plain and even drab with a cascading brilliance of light and color. The tops of the trees outside weave their green fingers in intricate patterns, holding aloft the golden glow of the morning, and I realize that this room – far from being plain – is ornamented with nothing less than the splendor of the natural world in all its glory.
I shut my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I fell as
leep naked the previous night, and woke up just the same. I've never been a nudist, or anything like that, but the feeling of the light on my body and the polished wood beneath my bare toes is suffusing me with an invigorating sensuality.
And yet the feeling of contentment which I'm searching for eludes me. It feels just out of reach, as if slipping off the tips of my fingers even as I reach for it. I know why, even if I don't like to admit it.
I'm feeling off because I wanted to get fucked, and didn't get it.
Antoine seemed to take some kind of quiet delight in torturing me, denying me the sexual release which my body craved. Being tied by him had awakened in me a fierce and unquenchable lust. Feeling my body manipulated by his strong and powerful hands, submitting it to him, being arranged and posed like that... it had been an experience unlike any I've ever had before.
We'd experimented for some while before he found a pose that he liked, and it was in that position that I remained for much of the evening. Down on my knees, a collar around my neck, my hands tied together in front of me, my ankles bound to my thighs, my breasts constrained so that they were pushed tight together and upwards. He'd done it all with clever and intricate rope-work, winding it again and again around my skin until it formed dizzying shapes crisscrossing over my body like some perverse Celtic knot.
The worst part – or best, depending on how you looked at it – was the final knot, which tied the silken rope between my thighs, nestled in fact along the slit of my labia and resting against my clitoris. The knots were constructed so that any attempt to move on my part made the smooth cord shift and press upon the little bead, sending shivers of pleasure through me. At first, it felt incredible. As the hours went on, however, and my desperation grew, it turned into sheer torture. The constant stimulation without release reduced me as the evening went on to a point of utter and complete desperation.
I resisted, however, kept control of myself despite everything. I never begged him to fuck me. At least, not out loud. In my head I never stopped. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, were the words playing over and over again on a constant loop in my brain. I held them in, and looking back on it now I have no idea how I managed it. It became a kind of challenge to me, to see how long I could hold out.
Just make it five more minute without begging for his cock, I'd tell myself, just make it one more minute. You can do this.
And I did do it. There was a slick silver puddle of my aroused fluids on the floor beneath me at the end of the session, but I did it. When he finally untied me I collapsed in a heap at his feet, and only partially because of the slight cramping I'd begun to experience.
He unwound the cord, and my skin was marked by a complex array of thin pink lines, like I'd been painted with his brush even as he'd worked on the canvas. He'd helped me to my feet and held me while I trembled in his arms.
I remember staring up at him, my whole body shaking, and I'd wanted nothing in the world so much as to beg him – beg him! – desperately if need be, to please fuck me. But I had made it that far without giving in, I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.
He'd been smiling his little smile at me, looking amused by my resistance. Just you wait, Mister, you'll be the one on your knees before this is over. I'd risen with a sniff, rubbing my wrists as I reached up to undo the collar around my neck, though secretly I wanted nothing more than to leave it on. He could hold it tight while he fucked me from behind, I thought, and shivered with pleasure at the thought.
Instead, I undid the clasps and held the leather band out to him. “I hope the painting is coming along well?”
“Oh, very well,” he said, still with that infuriating expression of suppressed amusement on his face.
“Good,” I said, and shook out my hair. “Well, if we're done for the evening, I think I'll turn in.” And then I'd stalked right out of the room, as dignified as a woman can be when they're so wet that they can hardly walk without moaning in orgasmic pleasure at the sensation of their thighs rubbing together.
I'd flung myself into bed and masturbated furiously, rubbing myself until I cried out and bit the pillow, all the while desperately wishing it was his cock pushing into me instead of just my own hand. And then I'd fallen promptly asleep.
I'd done it, that was the important thing. He had probably been just as horny as I was, even if he was slightly better had concealing it. He couldn't hold out forever, though, eventually he'd break. No doubt he had spent the night tossing and turning and feverishly masturbating over the mental image of me all tied up for him.
I grin a satisfied little grin. It had been a hard struggle, but I'd fought him to a draw the other day. Today will be better, I'll be ready. I'll walk into that room with my head held high and I'll reduce him to a whimpering little boy, desperate for sex. Men couldn't control their desires like women could, that was just a fact. I'll come out on top, I know it.
There's a gentle knocking at the door, a faintly timid rapping. The smile spreads across my lips. Right on cue. He probably woke up with the mother of all morning boners. He's probably given in already, and he's come to ask me to fuck him.
Should I do it? Let him fuck me? I want to, of course, God I want to... but maybe I'll let him suffer a little longer, just to cement my victory, show him his place. I'm not his toy, and it's time he learned that. I might have given in before, but that had been different. Now I had the upper hand, and I show him who was the dominant one in this relationship of ours.
“Come in,” I say lightly, striking an especially provocative yoga pose, my body stretched out seductively on the floor, all my charms on full display.
The door opens just a little, and a young woman's face peeks hesitantly in. “Hello?” she says.
I yelp and almost fall on my butt, completely losing my balance. I yank the coverlet off my bed and wrap it around myself. My cheeks are bright red, probably, I feel like my face is burning. “Uh, yes? What is it?” I say, clearing my throat and lifting my chin in an attempt to salvage my dignity.
“Pardon me, Miss, terribly sorry, but Mr. Moreau asked me to bring you breakfast...”
“Ah, of course, right... thank you very much.” Did he plan this? Just to keep me off balance?
The young woman – she looks like she's in her early twenties maybe, college age – opens the door and wheels in a fancy little cart upon which are a whole arrangement of fancy platters, rivulets of steam rising from beneath the covers. She looks at least as embarrassed as I feel, if not more so.
My stomach growls, and I suddenly realize just how hungry I am. “I, um, I thought that the, uh, house staff didn't come into this wing?” I ask.
“Not usually, Miss. Mr. Moreau asked me to come special.”
I frown. “Of course he did. Ugh, the nerve of him... He's just trying to embarrass me...”
The girl's eyebrows rise. “Oh no, Miss, not at all! He asked in particular that we make everything special for you. Our very best, he said. He doesn't say that sort of thing usually, not for any of the, uh... never mind,” she trails off, blushing again.
“The others?” I say, a bit sarcastically. Always a good feeling for a girl, knowing she's one in a long line of discarded lovers. Of course, this is a sort of special situation. I slip the hand with my wedding ring on it beneath the covers a little and hope she hasn't already noticed it.
“Well, er, yes. I've never see him be like this,” she says, with the authoritative voice of one who has been long observing a person from the sidelines and come to a firm understanding of their nature and their foibles. “You're something special.”
Special, eh? Maybe I going to win this little conflict of wills after all...
I lift one of the trays. There's a neat arrangement of fruit and crapes artfully on display, so prettily put together that it almost seems a shame to disturb it. Then my stomach rumbles again and I dig right in. “What's your name?” I ask around a little bite of cantaloupe.
“Melody,” she says, “Melody Johnson.”
“I'm
Vicky,” I say, and hold out my hand – the one without the ring, I have to remind herself. “Listen, if you have a minute... would you mind maybe sitting with me for a while? I mean, this is way too much food for me anyway and I could use some company.”
She hesitates, eyeing the arrangement of platters with obvious interest. “Well, I mean... I shouldn't...”
“Look, Antoine asked you to give me whatever I needed, right?”
“Well... yes.”
“What I need right now is company, okay? So it's not taking you away from your job or anything. Please?”
Melody grins. “Oh, okay.” She settles down next to me and immediately starts digging in.
“Now,” I say, shifting the blanket to keep myself covered and wishing that I'd gotten dressed first, “what can you tell me about your Mr. Moreau?”
She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Uh... what do you want to know?”
“I'm just curious... Has he always been this way? With women, I mean?”
“Oh, I wouldn't know about that. Mr. Moreau is very private about that sort of thing. Anyway, this is only my second year working here. I live in town, this is just a summer job between semesters at college, really. I don't know all that much, but...”
I lean forward. “But what?”
She glances around a little nervously, “Well, there's this rumor... I mean, I really shouldn't say, but... They say he used to be married.”
“Married? Antoine? I can't even imagine. He seems like such a loner.”
“I guess he didn't used to be. Apparently she was the one who designed most of this house, he built the whole thing for her, they say.”
“God, really? What happened to her?”
