His To Have

by Devon Birchley

  “Your grandma?”

  “Yes,” he says, and light flickers into his eyes before disappearing again. There’s one photo of her, taken maybe twenty years earlier than the others, her hair much darker. She’s sitting on a stoop with a little blond boy on her lap, and they’re grinning at each other. It has to be Adler, but something stops me from asking him about it, a sense that it would be like intruding on a private moment.

  “Nice place,” I say instead.

  “I inherited it from my grandmother. I used to love spending time here as a kid. I’ve tried to preserve her style as much as possible while giving it a contemporary feel.”

  “You’ve done a great job.”

  “Thanks,” he says, seeming genuinely pleased.

  Upstairs there are three bedrooms—one master, a beautiful, luxurious room with carefully matched antiques and a king-size, cast-iron bed, a charming guest room, and what’s clearly a bondage room. There are hooks and bars on the walls, a huge black lacquered cupboard, and prints on the walls that remind me of the ones in the hotel.

  “I’ll give you a tour of this room later,” he says, “but we should eat now. I’m sure you’re hungry?”

  I smile, reminded of the time he ordered an antipasti platter for me in the hotel.

  Downstairs, I sit at an island in the kitchen, and he pours me a glass of red wine.

  “I was planning on making squash and sage ravioli. Is that okay?” he asks. He’s actually making it; he has a pasta machine.

  “Are you kidding? No-one has made me pasta before.” I watch in fascination as he gets to work, those big, strong hands moving deftly and skillfully. He makes a cream sauce to go with it, and it’s not long before it’s all ready and we sit down to eat. It’s delicious. Fancy-restaurant-quality delicious. I compliment it lavishly and again, there’s that flicker of pride. He likes doing things well and being appreciated for them.

  “I should’ve been better at communicating with you,” he begins, once we’ve finished eating. “When I met you at the Sexpo, I was very curious about you. And after we played the first time, I knew you were the one I’d been looking for a long time, and I wanted to have a long-term situation with you. Which is why I sent you some rules. I thought that was enough. And I’ve always hated to have prosaic conversations about sex. It seems to take the fun out of things. But I appreciate that you’re not used to this world.”

  “Not at all,” I reply. “I’m used to dating and having boyfriends. That’s my experience.”

  He reaches for my hand across the table. “The truth is, I don’t date. I travel a lot for work. I don’t have time for a twenty-four-seven relationship. And more than that, I don’t want one. It’s not my thing. But what I do want is to have a sub for an ongoing sexual adventure. And I want that sub to be you. You’re an incredible woman, Reagan. I’ve never met anyone so beautiful and strong, and yet capable of such genuine submission.”

  I’m quiet for a long time. “I just don’t think this is me. I’ve enjoyed what we’ve done so far. A lot. And it has woken me up in ways I never expected. But I want a boyfriend. I like doing all that couply stuff.”

  He jerks back a couple of inches, as if I’ve disappointed him. “I get that, I do. But, seriously, what’s the rush? You’re only at the beginning of your journey. Wouldn’t it be a shame to throw it away now?” Those caramel eyes are burning into mine, and I can’t tear my gaze away. It would be a shame if I never saw that beautiful face again, felt those muscular arms holding me so tight.

  “Why be conventional? There’s lots of time to settle down and get married,” he continues, his voice low and hypnotic. “I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want to do, but I know you want it. I can feel how much you need it every time I touch you.”

  I take a sip of my wine, try to break the tension. “So, how do you imagine this working out?”

  “I think we need to set some ground rules.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, we agree to have sex exclusively with each other.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you want?”

  “Absolutely. I need to have an intimate connection with my submissive.” Fleetingly, the expression in his eyes is so unguarded that I find myself believing him. I try to absorb his words. He won’t be mine, but he won’t be anybody else’s either. Which is almost like him being mine. I’ll have exclusive access to that delicious body, those lips. Every time he has sex, it’ll be with me.

  “What other ground rules?” I say.

  “We meet regularly. Say, three times a week.”

  “Okay.” That’s kind of like having a boyfriend.

  “We treat each other respectfully at all times.”

  I let off a little snort. “Yup. I’m down with that.”

  He squeezes my hand again. “I hate for this to seem like a business arrangement. Apart from our sexual connection, I like you a lot, Reagan. I couldn’t have sex with you if I didn’t. And I might want to hang out, cook for you from time to time. I’m just not a guy to hold hands in the street and go for long walks on the beach.”

  “I think I understand,” I say slowly. But I’m not sure I do.

  “And if you’re not happy at any point, then just tell me, okay? I’m not into mind games, and your happiness is important to me.”

  I nod, and he raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. “We’re just at the beginning of a long and exhilarating adventure, Reagan.”

  I draw a deep breath, surprised when it catches in my throat. In a way I like the formality. I like the idea that I don’t have to worry about whether he’s into me or not. All the worries that usually plague me when I start dating a guy seem inconsequential. But at the same time, there’ll be so much missing.

  “I’ll give it a try,” I say.

  He gives me one of his dazzling smiles, like the sun glimmering on the surface of a lake. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  11

  Adler scoops me up into his arms and carries me up the stairs. I’m expecting him to take me into the bondage room, but he brings me into the bedroom instead. He strips my clothes off and lays me down on his fluffy white sheets, and we have straightforward sex. He eats me out, I take him in my mouth, and then he ties my hands behind my back and has me ride him while he gazes at my body, eyes dark with desire, before laying me face down and taking me from behind. It feels almost tender, as if he’s trying his hardest to be gentle with me.

  When we finally lie down to sleep, we’re on opposite sides of the bed again, and I’m doing my best not to feel deflated.

  “Reagan?” he says abruptly.

  “What is it?”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I can’t snuggle in bed. I’ve just never been able to.”

  I blink in the darkness. “That’s okay. If you can’t, you can’t,” I reply.

  I want to be mad at Adler for not wanting to be my boyfriend, but I can’t fault him for anything. He explained himself clearly, and no-one’s making me do this. I can end it any time I want, I tell myself. Any time I feel myself getting in too deep.

  He’ll be away all week until Friday, but he messages me every day, asking me intimate questions about my fantasies and desires, whether I’ve been masturbating. I have, like crazy. I’m like a woman possessed. But when he asks me what I was thinking about, I’m evasive because the truth is I’m just fantasizing about him. His big, hard body, arching over me, pinning me down to the bed while his eyes burn into mine, making me wait, driving me crazy with frustration, before he plunges into me, making me his.

  On the Tuesday evening, he tells me to insert the butt plug. When I open the box, I see that he’s helpfully included a small tube of lube, so I grease it up and slide it in. Now that I know what to expect, it goes in easily, and the sensation is as electric as before, my arousal shooting from three to ten in seconds. It’s crazy. Another message comes, telling me to touch myself as I imagine him fucking me in the ass. I do. I wonder what it would be like to hav
e all of him in there, sliding in and out, intruding on my most private place. If anyone’s going to take me like that, I want it to be him. I come very hard, almost blacking out, colored lights exploding in front of my eyes.

  On Thursday, he asks me what I think about wearing a collar. I say I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m open to it. He tells me to insert the butt plug and leave it in while I’m doing chores in the apartment. But not to touch myself at all. I do as he says, but I feel like such a perv washing the dishes when Dom comes in to chat with me, the plug in my ass and my pussy soaking wet under my jeans.

  When I wake up the next day, I’m still turned on like crazy, the brush of my panties against my swollen clit a sweet torture.

  Friday evening can’t come soon enough, and I arrive at Adler’s place at nine p.m. “Dress casually,” he instructed me.

  This time he doesn’t greet me at the door, and I go through the enclosed porch and ring the doorbell. I hear him walking along the passageway toward me, and my stomach clenches. Desire, excitement, and fear, all rolled into one.

  “Reagan,” he calls through the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Take off all your clothes and fold them up. When you’ve done that, ring the doorbell again.”

  What? This is weird. As requested, I’m wearing black jeans and brogues with a vintage sweatshirt and blazer. I’m not keen on doing this, but I’m sure he’s timing how long it takes me to comply with his order. So I obey, stripping down to my underwear. All your clothes, he said. With a deep breath, I take off my bra, slip my panties down, and add them both to the pile. At least the porch is dark so I’m not exposing myself to the neighbors. Feeling incredibly vulnerable, I ring the doorbell again. He makes me wait. At least three minutes. By the time he opens the door, I’m seething with discomfort.

  “Good girl,” he purrs, opening the door wide, looking more gorgeous than ever. He’s wearing a fitted black shirt and black pants, and his hair is brushed back in a way that makes him look severe and uncompromising. He runs his eyes over my body very deliberately, and my nipples harden beneath his gaze.

  “Your clothes can stay out there. They’ll be safe.” He reaches for my hands, pulls me through the door, and kisses me on the lips. I have an overwhelming sense of need, and I resist the urge to cling to him. He backs me against the wall of the passageway, holding my head in his hands, keeping me very still. “Tonight, I want you to be naked at all times. No stealing my clothes or hiding yourself beneath a towel. I want to be able to see you whenever I want. How do you feel about that?”

  I open my mouth, close it again. “Hot,” I say at last. Being naked in public, or in a place where other people are clothed has always been one of my deepest, darkest fantasies.

  When he touches me between the legs, a slow smile spreads across his face. “I believe you.” Then he presses on my shoulders, pushing me down until I’m crouching at his feet. I watch as he unzips his pants, pulls out his already rock-hard cock, and brings it close to my lips. “Open.” I do as he tells me, and he slides it into my mouth.

  This time, he doesn’t give me much of a chance to get used to his size before he starts thrusting. It’s such a lot to take, and with my head pinned against the wall, I can’t escape his relentless assault. When I choke, he doesn’t show me any mercy, just keeps going. And eventually I get used to it, get used to him fucking my mouth. I’m so wet. It’s so hot and demeaning, and wrong. He comes fast, deep into my throat. Then he zips himself up again and saunters off to the living room. I stumble to my feet, wiping my mouth, feeling totally disheveled. I think my mascara has run, and I feel awkward at being so wet.

  He’s in the kitchen, so I go to join him, noticing that all the blinds are closed. He hands me a glass of wine and leans against the island.

  “Did you like that?” he asks.

  “Very much,” I say honestly.

  “Why?”

  I squirm a little. It’s embarrassing to be asked to account for my every reaction. But that makes it even hotter. “I liked being so vulnerable, so objectified.”

  He reaches out and caresses my right breast, gently pinching the nipple. “You liked me using your mouth like that.”

  “I did.”

  He rewards me with a harder pinch on both nipples at the same time.

  “Did you wear the butt plug just like I told you?”

  I nod.

  “Did it make you hot and frustrated today?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see that,” he growls. “Your pussy looks very…needy.” I fight an instinctive urge to cover it with my hand. He pulls one of the high bar stools out and slaps the seat. “Bend over this.”

  My pulse pounding, I obey, following his instructions to keep my feet wide apart. He spreads my ass cheeks with his hands, inspecting me. When he touches my asshole with a fingertip, I cry out. He moistens his finger in my wetness and begins to make little circles around my sensitive hole.

  “But what if I only feel like fucking you in the ass tonight?”

  I make a kind of squeak.

  “What was that?”

  I mumble, “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  Suddenly, he grabs my hair and yanks my head right back, making me gasp. “I can’t hear you.”

  “I said I don’t know if I’m ready!” I yell, the pain and shock making my voice loud.

  “I think you are. If you can take that plug, you can take my cock. All of it.” His finger goes in, sliding all the way into my ass. God, that feels good. “I want to make you mine, Reagan. But remember what I said earlier—I’m going to wait until you beg me.

  Like that’s going to ever happen.

  He slides his finger in and out, and then somehow it’s joined by another, or maybe another two, and my ass suddenly feels very full. But it doesn’t hurt. It feels amazing.

  “Did you bring the plug.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay right there.” He goes to my bag and retrieves the plug. When he returns, he pushes it in without any ceremony. “You can stand up now,” he says. The blood rushes to my head as I straighten.

  “You look so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So wanton and hungry. Your nipples so hard, and your clit so swollen. I hope you know how much it’s costing me not to fuck you right now.” I see that he’s hard again, and I long for him to bend me over the stool once more and plunge his cock into my burning cunt. But he has other ideas.

  “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve got some training to do.”

  He makes me take the stairs on all fours as he follows behind me. Then he directs me into the bondage room. This time, the cupboard doors are open, revealing a variety of straps, utensils, and gleaming chrome bars. On the floor is a black satin cushion about two-foot square and an A-frame bench about three-foot high with a leather cuff attached to each leg near the bottom. A thread of fear mixes in with the mingled arousal and shame already flooding my veins. I wait on the cushion, as he directs me, in the same position as before—knees apart, hands behind my back, breasts thrusting forward. This is the position, he tells me. He looks in the cupboard and returns with something in his hand.

  “I think you’ve got the potential to be a very good submissive, but you also have a wild streak that needs taming. I suspect this will help you get into the necessary headspace. He brings his hands from behind his back. He’s holding a black leather collar. Kind of like a dog collar, but maybe two inches wide and thickly padded. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I’ve been thinking about collars since he mentioned them yesterday. I had no idea what he had in mind, but this is way more than I’d imagined.

  He bends down and buckles it around my neck. “Beautiful,” he says.

  I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it, but it’s hot. Somehow the weight of it is reassuring, pulling me down into a space where my will is not my own. It kind of calms me in a way I hadn’t expected at all.

  “You had a taste of crawling in the hotel last week. You weren’t bad for a beginner. But now
I’m going to teach you to do it properly.” He returns to the cupboard and takes out a long, black crop. “Recognize this?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the one you were so interested in at the Sexpo, the one you were caressing so sexily when you first caught my eye.” He hands it to me, and I examine it, remembering the expensive leather handle and the mean-looking flap at the end. “I knew you were dying for someone to try it out on you. To find out what kind of stripes it would leave on your sensitive flesh.”

  He strides across the room and leans casually against the opposite wall where the hooks and straps are. He looks so powerful, so sexy, and I find myself wanting to please him.

  “I want you to bring it over here.”

  I look at the whip, at the floor. He means on my hands and knees, of course. I look up and meet his eyes.

  “Yes,” he says, nodding.

  Very slowly, I dip my head to the crop and pick it up with my teeth, halfway along its length. Then I hold it in my mouth and drop onto all fours. The floor covering is soft on my knees, and I try to arch my back like he told me before. The butt plug moves with every step I take, continually stimulating my ass. When I stop in front of him, he grins and takes the crop from me.

  “Very good,” he murmurs as he runs the leather flap over my body, lingering on my nipples and my aching cunt. I’m trembling a little, having no idea what he’s going to do with it.

  “Now, I want you to crawl around the room in a circle, and I’m going to make sure that your form is perfect.”

  I begin to crawl, and he follows behind me. I haven’t gone five steps before there’s a whoosh and a crack on my ass.

  “Ow!” I yell.

  “Shush. You don’t want me to gag you, do you?”