unStrapped

by Nina G. Jones

  I decide I will confront him, but I will determine when the time is right. I don’t want to be reactionary. So much of what I have done has been so. I need to outline the various possibilities of who Céline could be, and then have an outcome based on each one. Only once I can come armed with information–-and ready to make decisions—will I be prepared to deal with Taylor’s reaction to my confrontation. He is too strong, too persuasive for me to confront him with just pure emotion in my holster. I need to use rationality, just like Taylor would. I need to be prepared to stick to my convictions.

  As usual, Taylor is already long awake by the time I rise. As the fog of sleep rolls away, my heart races, realizing the possible ways Taylor could have realized by now that I looked through his phone: Céline could have called back again, or he could have looked through his call history. Shit, he might have known last night when he came to the bathroom and was just testing my reaction.

  I frantically search for my phone to see if he has tried to reach me. I find it and see a text from him, letting me know he went to the gym, and also confirming our departure time in a couple of hours. I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe I did fly under the radar with this one.

  I head into the shower, unmotivated to do any last minute pampering. As much as I have convinced myself that I can handle the news of Céline with cogency, my heart aches. The ache is dull and constant, my head throbs, each pulse of pain like an alarm going off, urging me to say something to Taylor right away. The steamy water soothes and distracts, but it is not a cure. Until I find out what the fuck is going on, this painful nagging will persist.

  Taylor is removing his sweaty clothes as I emerge from the shower. The mild yet intoxicating scent takes me back to when he had me undress; when he completely dominated me and deprived me of satisfaction I was so primed to achieve. His essence immediately releases that primal urge in me; he has withheld from me any promise of release for days now, and it is making me hypersensitive to his touch, his pheromones, the sight of his tall and lean body glistening with perspiration.

  “Good morning,” I say, doing my best to pretend like he didn’t just shatter my world hours ago.

  “Good morning,” he says, heading to the restroom.

  Taylor’s mood used to practically flip one hour to the next; from the stoic and emotionally stunted man who mystified me, to the protective and tender man who consumed my heart. These days, the aloof Taylor frequents much less, but that only makes the air around him more frigid when he does appear.

  There is a chill in the air as he walks past me. I look down onto my arms and cannot believe he can do so little to ignite thousands of goosebumps. I am losing him.

  The drive to Reykjavik is quiet, and I don’t know if it’s because I am unnaturally distant or Taylor is distracted. I never fucking know with him. My instinct is to pry words out of him, but I promised myself a game plan and I won’t start something that I am not prepared to finish.

  We arrive back in our penthouse late afternoon.

  Taylor brusquely walks through the condo and into the bedroom, emerging with a garment bag and a paper shopping bag with a neat little bow affixed to its handles.

  “Wear this tonight,” He says, laying it on the couch. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Where are…” The front door closes before I can ask. Does he know? Surely he would have confronted me as soon as he found out. But maybe this is part of my training. Perhaps my disobedience will not elicit a verbal confrontation, but a physical one.

  Stunned, I unzip the garment bag and find a long-sleeved black velvet dress with a plunging neckline. Even if he would permit me to wear a bra, it would not even be possible in this dress. The hem, I estimate, would stop about mid thigh. Inside the shopping bag is a pack of sheer black silk stockings, with one opaque line running along the back of my heel to the top of the stocking, punctuated by a small satin bow. A thin red garter belt is provided to ensure the stockings stay in place. There is also box of fire-red stilettos inside the bag, the heel so sharp and steep that my eyes widen as I rotate the shoe to examine it. Holy hooker heels. With a confounded pout on my face, I slide on the dress, stockings and shoes. The stockings turn out to be exceptionally long, stopping just below the crook of my ass, framing each cheek like a gift. I pin only one side of my hair back, exposing one shoulder. I find a lipstick to match my shoes and apply a gunmetal eyeshadow and black mascara.

  Then I anxiously wait like a good girl.

  It isn’t long before Taylor returns, dressed in a perfectly tailored graphite suit, a crisp white shirt and navy tie to match the muted Icelandic vistas. He had left in street clothes, and I wonder if he just picked this up. Normally I would ask, but this Taylor is not one with whom I would engage in such insignificant trivialities. You don’t waste your words with Mr. Holden.

  I remain seated on the edge of the bed, instinctively waiting for him to find me and tell me what is to be done next. I fiddle with my red lacquered fingernails as my heart flutters. It is a feeling I have learned to love and hate: not knowing what Taylor will do or say, but relishing in the agony of anticipation.

  I sense I am in trouble, but I can’t know for sure until he decides to disclose. Asking is futile.

  His footsteps are quick and come to an abrupt stop when he finds me. Without uttering a word, he reaches for one of my hands and incites me to stand. I look up expectantly as his piercing jade eyes assess me. Am I pleasing to his frigid yet fiery glare? His poker face reveals nothing. He takes a half a step closer, so that his breath tickles my hairline. Then, he grazes the tips of his knuckles along the smoothness of the velvet, starting at my right shoulder, and trailing down the deep V-neckline of my dress, stopping just at the peak of my breast. My clit lights up with arousal, begging for his relief. And he fucking knows it. My hips involuntarily jut forward just a centimeter, but he reads those subtle cues like a sexual seismograph. His eyes sharply shift to my pelvis and then back up to my eyes. Despite all of the questions in my mind, they plead with him in silence, large and doe-like. I am willing to forget it all tonight if he’ll just relieve me of the desire for him that bleeds through my skin. It’s something I know he can sense from across a room and he uses it to lull me like a snake charmer would. He feeds off of my desperation for him, the way my pulse speeds when he blows on my neck, or stares at me like a wolf patiently stalking his prey. And so, he will make me wait, delighting in my angst.

  His eyes track down to my breastbone, and his knuckle grazes my already rigid nipple. A small puff escapes my barely parted red lips as my back arches towards him. I clench my fists at my sides, using whatever I have left of my willpower not to grab him and pull him closer.

  His fingertips slide across to the other breast and he pulls the fabric to the side, exposing the tautly aroused pillowy flesh. He rolls the pad of his thumb approvingly at the tip of my tight nipple, presumably because I followed the undergarments rule.

  My lips below tingle and bedew with each graze of his thumb on my nipple. Without warning, he pulls his hand away, leaving my breast abandoned and exposed to the cool air of the room. His knuckles resume their journey, gliding down the tense muscles of my abdomen, to the hem of my dress.

  I close my eyes and bite down on my lip as he patiently pushes the hem of my dress up while caressing my inner thigh on his way up to my pussy. The plump, dewy skin of my thighs contrasts starkly with the dark lace borders of my stockings.

  I know I can’t be alone in my arousal, my desire to rip my expensive dress off and feel Taylor’s mouth over ever inch of my body. I glance over to his hips and am pleased to see an angry bulge just below his belt line. But that short moment of relief is ripped away as soon as he runs his fingers over the glistening entrance of my arousal.

  He inspects me, carefully running his fingers along my entry, sometimes sliding his fingers just past my labia to taunt. But I know he’s priming me. He’s making me salivate by dangling the reward just out of touch. He won’t give me my relief so e
asily.

  He pulls his hand away, leaving the hem of my dress scrunched up past my groin and my breast eagerly awaiting for his pout to suckle. He takes his finger tips and slowly slides them in between his wet lips, barely closing them as he slides them back out, tasting me.

  “I think you’re ready for dinner tonight,” he says with no hint of sexual frustration in his voice. He turns on his heels, leaving me breathless and torn in his wake.

  ***

  We arrive at a Grillmarkadurinn, one of the finest restaurants in Reykjavik. If the food matches the attention to detail in the decor, then we are in for a treat. Illuminated by geometric orbs of soft gold light are aged wide-plank wooden floors, tree stumps used as table tops, tufted weathered leather sofas, stone walls, local raw wood used as dividers, and an eclectic mix of furnishings. The dimly lit earthiness of the contemporary decor lends to the ambiance of a cave; even though we are in a public building, there is sense of privacy. A bottle of champagne is already chilling in an ice basket when we arrive.

  We are seated at a curved booth, but Taylor keeps himself at arm’s length.

  “This place is nice,” I say, trying to claw through the viscosity of sexual desire in the air between us.

  Taylor simply nods once.

  The server opens our bottle, announces the specials and gives us a few minutes to decide what we would like.

  I tensely gaze at the bilingual menu, but my eyes cannot process the jumble of letters in front of me.

  From behind the tall menu that shields Taylor’s face emerges a command: “Don’t worry about your order. Touch your pussy under the table now.”

  It takes me another second to process his command. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  I gulp and place the menu back on the table quietly, feeling like the whole room just heard Taylor’s command. My eyes survey the panorama of the room, observing people blissfully consuming their meals and conversing. Taylor and I might as well be on another planet to them.

  “Okay,” I say at the lowest audible volume.

  I spread my thighs open and run my hand up the tender flesh of my inner thigh.

  “I want you to take yourself to the edge, but do not come.” I bite down on my lip, fighting my initial urge to protest, as that will only reduce my chances of getting a desirable outcome. “When the server comes, do not stop, keep playing with your pussy under the table.”

  I nod, already entranced by Taylor’s low husky voice.

  “Tell me how it feels.”

  “Wet,” I whisper. “It feels so good. I want you to touch me so badly,” I moan out.

  Seconds later the server arrives, Taylor shoots me a stern and knowing look before addressing him. Their exchange is nothing more than a low drone in the background as my fingers slip along my entry. I only notice the server is gone once Taylor’s voice addresses me directly again. “Your lips look so fucking tasty in that slutty red lipstick today. Imagine those red lips around my cock as you play with yourself. I am looking forward to some red lipstick marks on it later.”

  “Can we just go?” I ask, my appetite is furious, but not for food.

  “You know better than to ask. Slide your fingers in your pussy hole.” I let out a low mewl as I do. My other hand clenches the booth, fighting the desire to clench one of my breasts or Taylor’s thigh. “Finger fuck yourself, make your pussy creamy for me. Stretch out your hole.”

  “Taylor…” I whisper in a low vibrato.

  “Don’t you fucking come. If I decide that you will come tonight, it will be around my cock. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I moan quietly.

  My nipples are so hard, they feel like they could cut through my dress. Everything aches, every nerve begs for Taylor’s touch. I am desperate for him to take me, and I am so starved of the great relief that I find myself a tangle of desire and exasperation.

  Finally, Taylor surprises me with his touch, his large, powerful hand resting on my thigh as he slides in to whisper in my ear. “Those red stilettos make you look like the sexiest fucking little slut tonight. I am going to make you cry with my cock. I am going to stretch your pussy out, and make you soak your dress. You are going to regret ever coming because it is going to shake you to your core. I know you think you are good, but you are bad. You and I are the same. We fuck dirty. You’re fucking filthy and you live to have my cum inside of you.”

  I nervously fidget against the aggressiveness of his words. This is the Taylor that keeps me on my toes. I never know when he will make an appearance, but it’s like a shadowy mask covers his face and he becomes a stranger to me. Or maybe he lifts his mask and this is what lies underneath. Whatever it is, it allows me to do things I never would with someone who is too familiar. Rick was like a warm, worn sweatshirt: reliable, comfortable, but I could never feel sexy or primal with him. I knew him too well. I think Taylor is my soulmate, but at the same time, I don’t think anyone can ever really know all of him. That element of mystery, the way he can compartmentalize this side of himself, make himself a stranger to me, allows me to be perverse, allows me to submit and let Taylor use my body without feeling shameful outside of our sexual scenes.

  My hands tremble with pent up energy, so much it concerns me, like I might lose control in this very public space.

  “Stand up,” he says resolutely.

  I look at Taylor quizzically, my mind unable to fully process words under his spell. “Okay,” I say, standing tall, and smoothing out my dress, which has a damp spot from following his commands. Thankfully the inconsistent texture of the black velvet makes any spectator none the wiser.

  “Go to the bathrooms, but stand outside the men’s room, don’t enter.”

  I comply, passing and nodding at a few servers as I stealthily walk down the narrow and quiet corridor to the washrooms.

  Then I wait breathlessly, knowing that Taylor has something sinful in store for me. Minutes pass and my temperature rises with indignation. How much more of this taunting can I take? My nostrils flare and I fidget with my fingertips as I wait for his arrival. I make a declaration to myself: another minute and I will return to the table in defiance. Just then he turns onto the hallway, his hands in his pockets, taking smooth, assured steps in my direction. His dark, glossy hair reflects the dim overhead lighting; his eyes hungry and expectant. He seems somewhat pleased that I obeyed, as if he wanted me to so he could go through with his plans.

  We lock eyes, and then his pace hastens; I tense up as he crashes his body onto mine, grabbing my wrists and painfully pinning them overhead. He crosses them together and holds them with one hand, freeing up the other to pull up my dress again. This time, he slides to two fingers inside of me as I gasp. My eyes dart around, afraid at any moment someone could come around the corner and spot us.

  But I don’t care, this is what Taylor wants, this is all on him. I gyrate my hips on his hand, fucking it as hard as if it were his cock.

  “Stop,” he says firmly, pressing his massive body onto mine, all the while keeping his fingers massaging deep inside of me, his lips a paper-thickness away from mine. “You’ll come, but we’re not ready for that yet. You are going to earn it.”

  “Tonight?” I ask, doing a terrible job at masking my excitement.

  “Shhhh…” he whispers, rubbing his fingers in me with slow, deep strokes, curling their tips to my g-spot.

  My small frame is bound by the will of his firm grip. And I can do nothing but let him do what he pleases with my body. The sensation of nearly every part of him touching every part of me makes me feel wild and heady, like his touch is a drug and I am overdosing.

  Distant laughter closes in on us and Taylor yanks my hands down, slides his wet fingers out of me and places his lips close to my ear. The two staff members go quiet as they walk by, but at this point, we only appear to be flirtatiously chatting. They leave out of a service exit at the far end of the hall, and as soon as the door closes, Taylor slams my hands back up again. This time, he brings his availabl
e hand over my mound and rubs it with his palm.

  My whimpers sound as though I am suffering in pain, and it’s because his touch on my pussy is sweet agony.

  “You’ll never be safe from me. There will never be a day when I don’t want to ravage you. Sometimes I want to fuck you so hard that I’ll break you. I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to tear you apart.” I scrunch my eyes, this is all too much. He’s trying to hurt me with sex. He’s angry, I can feel it in his touch, see it in his gorgeous snarl. He wants to possess me. “I was going to wait until we got back to our condo, but I want you now and I will fucking have you now.”

  No arguments here!

  He pushes open the door to the men’s washroom, it is a single restroom, finely decorated and dim just like the rest of the restaurant. Taylor bends me over the sink, clenching my neck and pressing my face into the mirror. He angrily whips my dress up, exposing my ass. Then he glides his fingers over my slick pussy lips, teasing with false entries. His hand yanks away, and the withdrawal is immediately followed by sharp slap as tingling heat emanates from the spot where his firm hand spanked me. He does it again. The plump, firm flesh reverberates under the impact of each contact.

  “You will fucking learn Shyla. It seems this is the only way you do sometimes.” With the side of my face pressed against the mirror, I watch Taylor through his reflection. His eyes are ablaze, but he is distinctly aroused as evinced by the aggressive throbbing erection that presses against my ass. Please fuck me.

  He yanks me up by my hair, and I admire our heaving and hungry reflections in the mirror. The once pristine mirror is marred with smudges of my rouge, just as my cheeks are sullied with it.

  “Face me and squat down,” he says, still clenching my hair. “Keep your legs wide.” He releases my hair and I obey, turning to face him as I do so, and he feverishly rips out his swollen faintly purple cock. “Suck my cock and finger fuck yourself, but don’t come.”