Ibis - Leviathan Laroche (love letters to the dead .txt) 📗

head to toe with heat?

I draw him up by the shoulders, pin him back down underneath me onto the white covers. The tip of his cock bumps into me as I hover over him. His gaze never leaves my eyes; he's trying to tell whether I mean it this time, or whether I'm just playing with him.

He should know by now that I'm always playing with him.

Very slowly, I lower myself down on his shaft. Beneath me, he is holding his breath, his eyes boring into mine, wondering if this is going to be it. I have promised him one more day, and one night. He has a right to that, but I could end it now with one push of my hips and he's not second-guessing me. He is only waiting at my mercy. It is a beautiful look on him.

But I am not merciful. I am his Dominant, and I am strong enough for the both of us.

So, I only take in a little bit, just like before. I hold it for a moment, wanting to carve in stone the obedience on his face, and then I lift myself up and get off the bed.

"Dinner, then."

**

I remember how it all started. We were working together in the kitchen as we so often do, preparing dinner; we would have friends over later in the evening, and we were going to outdo ourselves.

I had made some infantile joke -- an insult to my jack-ass sexist colleague. Something about how he might learn to treat women better if someone finally got his dick in a cage.

Heath laughed and shook his head in disbelief, asking how in the world that would help. So, in the tone of easy dinner conversation, I explained to him the psychological benefits of enforced chastity that I had read about: That many people reportedly became much more manageable in well-administered chastity, for example. More respectful, more considerate, more willing to please ... Among other things.

While I was talking and happily chopping away at my broccoli, I became aware that some of this might not be common knowledge. None of it, in fact. I had my back to Heath, and so I could not see his face, but he had gone awfully quiet, and the quiet hung heavily in the small room after my little monologue ended.

Now, I wasn't too worried about this side of my inclinations coming to light; Heath knew that I was a girl of many tastes, and he had already proved to be quite versatile himself. He would not be scared off by a little more kink. But still, this was a bit out there even for me.

Chastity. I had fantasized about it, yes, and read everything I could find on the internet, but that was all. And that had been long before Heath ... before I'd ever had anyone crazy enough to even confess this to. I had never considered actually doing it in real life.

But now ... in the space, in the quiet between us, here it was: An idea manifesting, drawing its first cautious breath. In a flood, memories came streaming back to me of what I had read, and of what I had imagined; suddenly, my skin seemed alive with a hundred tingles.

Into the quiet, Heath said my name, lending weight to what he was about to say. He took a breath. Another one. And then: "Is that something you want to do?"

Sometimes, there is a moment that changes the game. When something that was previously out of the question becomes suddenly possible. This was such a moment, and I knew it when I turned around to find him already facing me.

There was no trace of a smile on his face, but his eyes and posture were sharply alert. And I knew it then, clear as day: This was his thing.

Here was a challenge. And I stepped right up to it.

"You mean," I said, staring him down and taking two steps towards him, which put me halfway across the kitchen, "Do I want to lock up your cock in a cage that only I can open? Do I want to be the only one in charge of when -- or if -- you can cum?"

Still holding the knife in one hand and his gaze with mine, I undid the button of my jeans and unzipped them, then slipped a hand inside. When I pulled it back out, my index and middle finger were glistening.

I meant to hold them out for him to see as I crossed the rest of the way towards him, but a sudden impulse made me bring them to his mouth instead, which opened without command. He already had one toe in subspace, and all it had taken was a few words.

While he sucked the wetness off my fingers, I leaned in and whispered in his ear:

"I think I do."

**

Dinner is a sticky affair, and it takes him forever to clear his plate because his bites are interrupted by moans and he finds it hard to eat with his stomach so tense with desire. I've placed a vibrator under his seat; I can hear it humming quietly. Under normal circumstances, it would tickle him more than anything, but tonight I can see him squirming and I know that he's grinding his arse into the soft fabric.

I smirk sympathetically; I have been there too. I know how it feels when even sitting down becomes a trial. When even your own weight on your buttocks becomes a pathetic substitute for real contact.

We make some conversation, speaking about the wine and the time, inconsequential things. Gradually, I recover my own composure while I watch his continued struggle. My timing pleases me; it was high time to re-establish the hierarchy between us. In order for this to work, he has to believe that my self-control is iron. He must feel small and undisciplined compared to me; be embarrassed by his weakness; but also trust that this weakness is well contained in my hands. I have everything under control -- that is the mantra of this game, the thread that ties it all together. That is the coin by which I obtain the finer subtleties of his surrender.

When he finally finishes, I offer him dessert like a cultured host, but he won't have any. So, I have him arrange some mousse au chocolat in a glass bowl for me and serve it. He lingers on his feet at my side, reluctant to sit back down, and I swear it isn't pity that makes me tell him to stay: He has given me an idea.

"Feed me," I tell him. "I need my hands."

I can see him tense as he obediently takes the little silver spoon and scoops up some mousse; he thinks I am going to touch him again, and is bracing himself. But he is quite mistaken.

I relax back into my chair and let my palms wander across my own skin. I have not done this since yesterday, which seems a world away, and my curiosity is engaged by all the little changes in the way my body feels. Even though they ache from too much touching, my nipples still harden instantly as I cup my breasts with my hands, and I sigh softly.

Feeding me is a new task for him, and he isn't quite at ease with it; unsure whether I am ready, the spoon often hovers in mid-air until I nod in encouragement. But he learns quickly, and before the bowl is half empty I can close my eyes and surrender a little myself. Relax from my duties as the entertainer, the caretaker, the mastermind. For a minute, I allow myself to be what outsiders believe being Dominant means: Being selfish and spoiled and commanding your personal slave to do your bidding. Never mind how carefully I have orchestrated this; for a minute, I can regress, and allow the multiple pleasures of touch and taste and smell to invade my senses and fill my mind, combining tentatively into a new kind of indulgence.

The truth is: I am no more at ease with this than he is. The incorporation of food into play still makes me deeply uneasy, stirs up fears and shames and guilts from dark and hidden places -- about my body, about dignity, even morals. But I am so aroused that I can permit it anyway. Admit to myself that I want this. That it moves me. And that I even like the tinge of revulsion it brings.

My slave is feeding me chocolate while I leisurely rub my throbbing clit, and if gluttony's a sin then I am going to hell for it. Simple as that.

I allow my mouth to fall open and the moans that bubble up my throat to fall out. Now it is me who has trouble coordinating swallowing and moaning.

On the last bite, he seals my mouth with a deep, hot kiss and my awareness latches onto it with all the intensity just cultivated. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, no doubt tasting chocolate, and I submit to it just like I did to the food ... for a moment. Before I catch him off guard, pull him down to me, and bend him over my lap.

I rest my hand very gently on his buttock for a while, teasing slightly, just so he knows it's there. Just so he has sufficient time to wonder whether I'm going to spank him for taking charge without orders. Perhaps I should ... but I do not feel like it, and I have no desire to teach him total passivity. So, I leave it at the wordless threat, and a light scratch with my nails, down the buttock and around the curve to his inner thigh ... and from there, it is only a tiny flip of the wrist before I hold his balls in my hand. They are heavy and hard.

"Look at that ..." I murmur, rubbing the pad of my thumb gently against his perineum. "You're getting brazen again. We know what that means." I let go of his balls and run my thumb upwards until it's pressing lightly against his anus. His abdominal muscles twitch against my thigh.

"Looks to me like you need it up your ass."

***

During the second week of being locked up, Heath started losing it.

I heard his familiar footsteps out in the hall when he came home that night, and got up to get the door for him. I opened it, smiling brightly at him, and it immediately became apparent that something was going on with him; instead of smiling back, he stared at me with scorching intensity and let out an audible breath.

"What's up, babe?" I asked, stepping back and leaning against the wall so he could come in.

Without answering, without taking off his jacket or his shoes or even closing the door, he walked right into me, pushing me into the wall, grabbing my head firmly in both of his hands and kissing me. I kissed him back enthusiastically, bringing my arms around his body and steadying myself on my feet; my hips brushed over the eerie hardness of the metal underneath his jeans.

Eventually, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against mine, mumbling against my lips: "I can't take it anymore. It's too much. Did you get my texts?"

'I can't stop thinking about sex today,' I recalled. 'This one colleague is wearing a low cut shirt today and I can't. Fucking. Handle it.' 'Please tell me we'll fuck when we get home.'

"I did." I ran my hands over the small of his back in a soothing manner. "I may have touched myself over them."

He made a small, lost sound, picked up my wrists in his hands and brought them up over my head, putting his weight against me as he kissed me again.

"Please," he whispered, "This is getting out of control. I have to have you today. I have to fuck something."

"No, you don't," I replied. "You could still work, right?"

I knew