Author's website: http://www.trickster.org/kass/

Disclaimer: Boys are theirs, words are mine.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Sihaya Black for beta, and to Kalena for letting me write about her sexy icon.

Story Notes: Written in response to the "icon" challenge at livejournal community ds_flashfiction.

Ray asks if I trust him.

I answer in the affirmative: with my life. By now he must know that, though I understand why he wants the verbal reminder.

Energy coils in his gestures. He is agitated, like a hare unsure whether or not a fox is near.

Me? I feel serene. Excited, to be sure, but my emotions are contained. My body holds the anticipation in check, tamps it down, tinder waiting for a spark.

The lights are dim. Low music plays. I am in uniform, as requested, including even the leather falconry gloves I have often polished but rarely use.

Ray had hesitated before sharing the fantasy, afraid, I think, that I might regard his imaginings as desecration of the uniform and the rank it represents. He could not have been further from the truth. Something in me started shivering when he described it, and has not stilled in the weeks since.

Until now. I stand at parade rest in our bedroom, hands loosely clasped behind my back. I bend my head slightly, wanting to show acquiescence in every way. It is a gesture Diefenbaker would recognize.

Thankfully, so does Ray. He takes a deep breath, runs a finger along the back of my neck (leaving me burning already), and crosses in front of me with the coil of rope.

When I am trussed, unable to move my arms more than half a centimeter, he licks his lips, unfastens my trousers, and drops to his knees.

I have imagined him like this. Wanted his eager, talented mouth providing precisely this pleasure. Serving this animal need. And yet it is I who am subservient: standing, but bound; blazing against his tongue, but unable to move my hands to touch his neck, his spiked hair. I have yielded control and it is too good to believe.

I am shaking, every tremor causing the cord to tighten across my chest. Ray pulls away, kneels back on his heels, surveys his handiwork. Abruptly he reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, pulls his erection free, begins to stroke. The sight of him clothed but for his penis makes me gasp. I imagine what he sees -- how much more wanton I must look attired as I am -- and, overwhelmed, I close my eyes.

My other senses heighten to compensate. Familiar uniform on my skin; scent of sweat; unfamiliar leather gloves creaking against my wrists; white-hot pleasure of my wet penis aching; sound of Ray working himself, flesh on flesh and his breathy gasps. And above all, the ropes, keeping me from flying apart.

His mouth returns and I groan, spilling over, shamed by my lack of control. The orgasm is exquisite, but tinged with regret that our adventure has ended so soon.

I am still breathing hard when Ray rises and stands behind me. I expect the ropes to loosen. Instead his hands reach around me, pull my opened trousers down. A frisson starts at the base of my spine.

He removes my boots, then tugs my trousers free. Leaving me clothed from the waist up, Ray maneuvers me to the bed and pushes me down onto my belly, positioning a pillow beneath my chest. He strips his clothes away and climbs behind me. He bites the back of my neck, not gently, and I moan. My half-nudity feels more exposed than I could have imagined, and the distribution of weight in this position is strange to me.

The lubricant is cold and slippery and I allow myself to moan almost continuously from the onslaught of sensation. Ordinarily I make an effort to quiet myself, conscious of the proximity of neighbors, but tonight I do not, I can not. All I can do is gasp, and whimper, and then beg when his erection finally slides into me. Words disappear, and all I can do is repeat "please" and "yes," and try, helplessly, to squirm back to meet his thrusts.

Ray is muttering a low litany of obscene endearments, words which would appall me in the light of day but which enflame me now. How beautiful and tight my ass is, how much he loves to fuck me, how hot I am half-dressed and bound like this. How he may never release me.

I am not hard -- I could not sustain an erection again so soon -- but even so I feel a kind of climax when Ray's rhythm speeds, then falters. When he presses so deep inside me, seeming to hover there, that his orgasm makes my entire body shake. I bite the bedspread to muffle my wail.

Eventually Ray pulls away, leaving my body spasming with delicious aftershock. He picks at the rope until it comes free. The tingling of blood returning to my hands is an almost sexual pleasure. I shudder as he works the remainder of my uniform off; I am too delirious to object when he tosses it to the floor. I would not be able to wear it without drycleaning now in any event.

We curl together, my chest against Ray's back. He hums with contentment and I am again stunned to find my language returning. I whisper into his neck how unbelievable that was, how incandescent, how I knew I would enjoy it but never expected such gratification from what was, after all, his fantasy, how I feel the circuits of my brain fused now and melted. I confess I am not certain I will ever be able to look at a length of rope again without blushing.

In return he turns in my arms, quiets me with a long kiss, murmurs that he might enjoy a reversal if I were willing, and assures me too that he would do this again for me in an eyeblink.

My last conscious thought before sleep is this: I don't know where we are bound, but wherever it is, I will go there with him and be glad.

(990 words)
(written about Kalena's icon, here: http://userpic.livejournal.com/8216529/1088338)

End Bound by Kass: kass@trickster.org

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