Bound to Accept

by Nenia Campbell

  He slows down when I want him to speed up, and I make a sound of frustration.

  “I've been thinking about what I'm going to do to you all day. When I was at work I even took a five minute break to beat myself off in the restroom.”

  “Thinking about what, Sir?” I pant. “What were you doing to me, Sir?”

  “Fucking your tits. Clamping your nipples, then coming on them and making you lick it off.”

  He picks up the pace again as he talks as though trying to make me feel the same level of excitement he felt at work, the same level that drove him to a public restroom for solace. I'm gasping by the time he finishes his sentence, eyes squeezed shut, focused on the throbbing between my legs. I can almost see him in my mind, packed into a cramped stall, fisting his hard cock.

  “Oh, God, that feels so good, Sir.”

  “I'm sure it does,” he says, and he pulls his hand away, leaving me staring after him, open-mouthed.

  I shift around impatiently, and then cry out again as my pants rub against my clitoris, flooding my lower belly with a pressure that feels liquid. But rather than scratching the itch, it intensifies it.

  “Sir,” I wail. “Please, I need you!”

  He ties a blindfold around my eyes. “If you're a very good girl, I'll let you come afterward.”

  My breathing hitches. “But I'm so close.”

  He cups my breasts through the thin fabric of my tank top, testing their weight, then slides his hands up to toy with the straps.

  “When did you get so greedy, pony girl?”

  “I—I don't know, Sir.”

  He closes his hands around the material, giving it an experimental tug. Then he rips it straight down the middle with a loud crack that makes me jump.

  “I knew I could do it,” he says, as my skin stings from both the fabric whipping against me, and from the sudden chill. “Cheap cotton tears so easily.”

  I lean my head back. “S-S-Sir.”

  “I want you nice and aroused for this.” He pinches my nipples and strokes them with his thumbs to make them stand out in hard little points.

  Each pass of his thumb sends heat shooting straight to my sensitive core, and pretty soon I'm letting my head loll back and moaning softly under his masterful touch.

  “Do you remember our safeword?”

  When I don't answer right away, he drags the knuckle of his index finger down my slit, but through my clothes, and my hips jerk towards him reflexively.

  “Twilight,” I stammer. “Our safeword is…” shuddering breath “Twilight.”

  He's back to rolling my nipples between his fingers. “And when will you use it?”

  “When I want you to stop.”

  “Yes.” Tristan kisses my mouth. Then he kisses each of my breasts. “Even when I'm hurting you, I want you to feel good.” He licks the nipple and I arch my back. “The pain is supposed to intensify the pleasure. Not overwhelm it.” He sucks the other nipple into his mouth, then releases it with a smack. “I wish you could see yourself right now, pony girl. You look like a teen boy's wet dream.”

  I open my eyes, and whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”

  “So you agree. You're the cheap slut boys think about when they jerk off to even cheaper porn.”

  “N-no, Sir. I didn't mean that, Sir. I want to be in your head when you come, and your head alone.”

  “You aren't worthy to be in my head when I come.” His voice is harder now, and I tense a little—a mistake, because it causes my shorts to rub against me.

  “But Sir, why?”

  “Just look at you, writhing around like a whore.”

  I stop squirming, but it's hard when he left me half-finished. A crease in the shorts is pressing against my clit. I shift, just a little, and let out another low groan. “I'm sorry, Sir.” I let a few tears fall. “I can't help it.”

  He picks up something that jangles together and sounds a bit like keys. The clamps. The ones he's going to use on my nipples. My breathing quickens, and I can feel a damp patch forming on my shorts.

  A rough fingertip passes over my nipple, rolling it in slow, circular motions. “I think these tits of yours need to be leashed. You can't seem to be able to control them.”

  “No, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir.” There's a pause. I swallow hard. “Won't you help me, Sir?”

  “As it happens, I've been looking for a nice pair of tits to fuck.” He tweaks me—hard. “These ought to do very nicely. And of course a whore like you won't mind.”

  “Oh, no, Sir. I don't mind at all.”

  Tristan attaches the first clamp. It doesn't hurt—at least, not at first. The pain gets worse as the seconds go by, the initial sharp pain ceding to a slow, dull throb. He fastens the second clamp, and flicks the chain that hangs between them, letting it tap against my ribcage.

  And then, suddenly, the chain pulls taut.

  Tristan's hard cock slides in between my breasts, slipping underneath the chain affixed to my nipples. He cups my breasts in his hands, lightly flicks the clamps, and then squeezes my breasts together tightly around himself, sandwiching his cock between them.

  His low growl of satisfaction makes all the hairs on my body stand up. He starts thrusting in quick, upward jerks, and each thrust is accompanied by a tug on the clamps. My eyes are watering. How is he doing that?

  “I like the way you feel around me.” His words are garbled; he must have the chain that connects the clamps in his mouth. “It's like fucking a feather bed.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I love the way you fuck my tits, Sir.” He tugs on the chain again, and I gasp, “Oh, and I love the way you punish me most of all.”

  He makes a sound of approval, and starts thrusting faster, like my words have given him the urging on that he needed. I did that, I think, feeling a surge of pleasure.

  As he picks up the pace, the chain pulls more and more tightly, causing the clamps to dig in more deeply. My nipples are throbbing, and every time I shuffle in discomfort, my shorts chafe intimately against me.

  I need to come.

  “Sir,” I pant. “I'm so wet, I need you, Sir.”

  Tristan grunts. “I haven't forgotten about you, pony girl.” Hot liquid spatters over my breasts, my throat, my chin and mouth. He spits out the chain, like a racehorse refusing the bit, and it bounces several times, making me sob out another plea.

  He holds up my breast to my mouth. “Stretch out your tongue and lick me off you.”

  I poke out my tongue blindly, and the tip just comes into contact with my nipple. It's a two-way connection that makes me shudder with the unexpected sensuality of the act. I imagine him watching me, getting more and more turned on, and lick more enthusiastically.

  “That's enough.” Tristan holds up my other breast. “Now the other one.” I start lapping. “That's right, pony girl. Lick yourself. We taste good together, don't we?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I nod furiously, and the gesture pulls the fabric of my shorts over my clit. My breathing staggers, and I want to weep. “But please, I need to come now.”

  “Oh?” He strokes me between my legs, and I can't stand it. “Did getting tittyfucked turn you on, pony girl?” He pauses, drinking in the agony on my face. “You're all wet, so it must have. Even your shorts are damp. It looks like you've fucking pissed yourself.”

  “Please, Sir.”

  “You beg so well, pony girl. I almost forgot how good you are at that. Do it again, and maybe—” another seasoned stroke “—I'll consider it.”

  “Oh, please, Sir. I can't stand it anymore, I need you to make me come, Sir. Only you know how to make me come the way I like, Sir, and if you don't, I'll explode.”

  “That does sound rather urgent.” I give a full-body shudder when he strokes me again, more heavily. “And you did ask me so nicely.”

  He unclips one of the clamps and his mouth covers my swelling flesh as he slides his hand back into my pants. Yes, oh, God, yes. With each suck, it's like he's drawing the blood back into my nipple, causing a painful but not
unpleasant warmth. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Tristan slides his hand out of my pants and unfastens the second clamp, blowing a jet of cool air on my nipple. He takes it into his mouth, sealing his lips around the base, and I come almost immediately when his fingers find my clit, grinding myself against his hand to increase the intensity of contact.

  “Harder, Sir,” I gasp. “Faster. Please.”

  Tristan speeds up his hand obligingly, and a second orgasm follows the first. The cords around my wrists tighten as I lean forward. Desire blocks my throat, making it hard to breathe. All I can do is scream.

  He slows down his hand, and when I stop thrusting myself against his palm, stills his fingers entirely. He leaves his hand there, though, cupping me so that his middle finger is lying flush against my perineum.

  “Jesus,” he says, with a little laugh. “After watching that, I'm almost ready to go again.”

  I'm shuddering, still tingling all over from that last orgasm. My nipples throb in time to my beating heart. “Oh,” I say in a small voice. “Oh wow.” In the absence of sensation, the darkness of the blindfold feels absolute.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls his hand out of my shorts. “You got pretty messy. There's come all over you.” Slyly: “I had no idea you were such a dirty girl.”

  Suddenly, I feel very tired. “May I be untied now?”

  “Let me clean you off first.” His soft towel rubs against my breasts, and I mewl a little at the contact. He blots more gently, taking extra care around my nipples, and then removes what's on my neck and face.

  I wrinkle my nose as I catch a whiff of the come-covered towel. “Do you know what I just realized semen smells like? It smells like that artificial butter they put on popcorn at the movies.”

  “Fuck. You just ruined movie popcorn for me forever. Now I'll be thinking the grease spots look like come stains.” He unties my blindfold, and I see that he is smiling, regardless. “Hello, popcorn-ruiner.”

  “Hi,” I say shyly.

  “What did you think of my clamps?” He lightly touches one of my nipples. A dull throb of pain shoots through my breast, an echo of the pleasure I just experienced. “Were they worth trying?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about when I fucked your breasts with my cock? Did you like having me come all over you?”

  I'm not exactly sure how to respond to that. When he puts it in those words, it sounds gross, but that's not how it felt at all. “I liked knowing you wanted me so badly,” I say at length. “It made me feel sexy.”

  “You are,” he assures me, kissing me on the mouth. “So much so that I can hardly stand it.”

  “Did you really sneak away from work to masturbate?” My lips brush against his with every word.

  “Maybe.”

  His penis is still poking through his fly. I watch it jerk a little. A human lie detector.

  Tristan sees where I am looking and shakes his head. “Stop staring at my cock, you insatiable hussy.” He carefully tucks himself back into his pants, biting down on his lower lip as he does. The bulge remains quite visible, causing the zipper track to swell outwards.

  He reaches around me to unbind my wrists. “Make sure you massage your arms a little,” he says. “It helps get the feeling back in.” He goes to work on my legs. “I tried not to tie them too tightly. That's bad form—it damages the nerves.”

  I collapse back on the bed when I'm free. After being confined, it feels good to stretch out. My nerves feel fine, though. Tingly, and smoldering, but unharmed.

  Tristan lies beside me, propping himself up on one arm. His eyes rove over my body. “Just look at you,” he says softly. “What a picture.”

  “Huh?” I glance at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Lounging around, with your pants unbuttoned and your top off, letting me ogle you like a dirty old man. That's what I mean.” He pushes a lock of hair off my face. “You were so shy at first. Now you look so relaxed. I like seeing you look so at ease in your own skin. It's very sexy. It means that you trust me.”

  “I do trust you.”

  He studies for me a moment. “Do you?”

  “I let you tie me up, don't I?”

  “You certainly do that.” He frowns for a moment. “I think we're ready to have sex now. I've managed to stretch you a little. You don't cringe as much when I finger you anymore. That first time, you were thinking about using your safeword. I could tell. But you didn't, and I thought that was brave. Now you seem to like it.”

  He's right. When we sixty-nined, he slid two fingers inside of me and it hardly hurt at all. Granted, I had other things on my mind—and in my mouth.

  “Why are you blushing?” he asks curiously.

  “I was thinking about how your cock felt in my mouth when we had oral sex at your place.”

  Tristan gets that expression I am quickly learning means that he is both horny and amused. The one he gets when he's torn between teasing me and going into Dom mode. He struggles with that for several seconds, and it's pretty entertaining, seeing that fleeting loss of control. “Well, the good news is, I no longer have a semi. The bad news—it's a fully loaded automatic.”

  “Just make sure it doesn't go off in your pants.”

  “You are an evil creature.” He slings a leg over me, and uses it to pull me closer, letting an arm fall over my waist when I'm in reach. “Diabolical. You deserve all the punishments I give you, and then some.”

  There's a beat of silence. I can feel his heart tapping out a frantic rhythm against the back of my head. Is he nervous? Do I make him nervous? I snuggle against him, and his heart rate increases. “So,” I say. “Sex.”

  “Yes, sex.” His fingers drag along my hips, dipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Now?” he asks, skittering his fingers back up my waist to tickle me.

  I slap his hand away. “No, not now.” My laughing subsides, and so does my breathing. Feeling his slow breaths puff against my ear is very relaxing. Before I know it, my eyes start to slip closed. “How about Saturday? You don't work this Saturday, right?”

  I feel him shake his head. “No.”

  “Then let's have sex on Saturday.”

  “Sex on Saturday,” he murmurs. “Sounds like the name of an emo band.” He nuzzles my ear. “I'll clear my schedule, then. The whole day will be just for you.”

  My newest book is done.

  I don't think I've ever written a book this quickly before. Of course, I've never had this much raw material to work with for my erotic scenes, either.

  I'm calling it Black Masque.

  It's a little cheesy, but basically I went with the woman-who-dances-at-a-strip club idea and mixed it up a bit. Now it's about a woman who works at a strip club to pay for her little sister's medical bills. She's in love with her best friend, but since he's rich and she's not, she pretty much assumes that he'll never look twice at her—at least not in That Way—because of her dire straits.

  Obviously, when said best friend comes into the strip club and pays her manager a million dollars to have sex with her, she is horrified and disgusted…but also very aroused. Especially when she discovers all the weird kinks he's interested in, and that he calls her name out when they have sex, even when he doesn't know it's really her.

  I think that's a bit icky, thinking about someone other than the person you're sleeping with (even though in this case they are one and the same), but I'm sure my readers will eat that up. They love the drama. Several of them have already messaged me, telling me they've pre-ordered the book.

  I'm still in the process of the final editing, transcribing some of the stuff I wrote down in the notebook from those times when I was out with Tristan, but it's going well. My cover looks beautiful—a midnight blue mask studded with rhinestones that look like beads of dew, surrounded by thick, soft feathers—and the sex is, well, hot. And kinky.

  Th
inking about hot and kinky sex reminds me of what Tristan and I talked about earlier today, though, and my mind goes blank. I can still feel the taut pull of the clamps as he yanked the chain with his teeth, rubbing me between the legs until I was raw and needy for him.

  After everything we've done together, it is still difficult to believe that we haven't already done it. I know what he tastes like. I know what he smells like. When I close my eyes, I can picture his face when he's about to come. And yet, we haven't had sex.

  I wonder how he's going to fuck me, whether it'll be rough, gentle, or some combination of the two.

  I wonder if he's going to tie me up, or if he's going to leave my arms free for once so I'll be able to explore his body, touch him with my hands the way I've been dying to. I wonder how much it's going to hurt.

  Chapter Ten

  I spend Friday evening getting ready—shaving, tweezing, washing. Laying out an outfit. Changing my mind. Repeating the process about twenty more times.

  This is like high school all over again. Except I was far more immature in high school, and the word “penis” was likely to send me giggling from the room. I can't imagine what I would have done if I'd actually seen one. Probably giggled even harder, or said something totally cringe-worthy, like, “But it looks like a Goomba.”

  (Lydia told me that's what she said when she had sex for the first time. She was thirteen, and was convinced that her boyfriend's penis was a trick, and that he was hiding the real one somewhere else.)

  I buy a bottle of Cabernet since I know that he has always preferred the reds, and has been buying the sweet whites for my sake. I also buy a box of condoms (in case he forgets, not that he will), and a little something extra for Tristan. That little something stays folded up in the bottom of my purse, and just thinking about it, and what he'll do when he sees it, makes me feel fluttery.

  By this time tomorrow, I will no longer be a virgin.

  It probably goes without saying that I don't get much rest. My thoughts writhe and undulate like the naked bodies in my imagination as everything I've learned from sex ed. and romance novels floods my head in a tantalizing rush. Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I must have gotten some, though, because at some point I close my eyes, and when I open them again it is daybreak, and quavery gray light floods my window.