Free Bound to Accept by Nenia Campbell Page B

he's
not wearing anything beneath them. They look way too tight.
    His bedroom has undergone a bit of a
transformation since last time. There are candles burning, giving
off a smoky, herbal smell. The TV is gone, probably in the closet,
and sitting in its place is a serving tray. There's a bottle of
white wine—a Moscato, my favorite—two glasses, a length of scarlet
cord, an unopened package of vibrators, and what looks like a giant
glass penis.
    Just like the one in the
porn .
    I stare at him in horror, but he's putting
his watch on his desk and flexing his hand as he massages his
wrist.
    “ On the bed.”
    I climb onto the mattress, though trying to
do so in a skirt without being indecent is a task in and of itself.
I'm not quite sure how to arrange my legs, and start to angle them
sideways in a semi-demure position.
    “ No,” Tristan barks.
“Finish unbuttoning your shirt. Then lie down with your arms over
your head and your legs spread.”
    “ Are you going to tie me
up?” I barely remember to add “Sir.”
    “ Yes.”
    “ What are you going to do
to me?”
    “ Whatever I want,” he
says, with a gentle smile.
    I wring the hem of my shirt in my hands,
which are starting to sweat. Part of me wants this, and another
part of me is beginning to quail in terror. I'm past the point of
no return, a hairsbreadth from tilting in either direction, and
have no idea which side will prevail.
    “ Is it going to
hurt?”
    “ That depends,” he says.
“What do you consider pain?”
    “ What happened on the
video…I didn't like that.”
    “ What, specifically,
didn't you like? I know you don't like the idea of the clamps. Was
there something else?”
    “ I…I'm not
sure.”
    “ The rope
bondage?”
    “ Not so much
anymore.”
    “ Good. The
whip?”
    I bite my lip. “Yes.”
    “ I'm not going to whip
you.” He nods at my idle hands. “Finish with your shirt—and
remember to refer to me as 'Master' or 'Sir.'”
    I undo the last snap and then lie down.
Tristan affixes my left wrist to the left bed post and my right
wrist to the right post. He does the same to my legs, knotting the
cord to these leather loops that are on the side of his mattress. I
tug and pull experimentally. My wrists are pretty much stuck, but I
have about six inches of movement with my legs.
    Tristan kneels between my spread legs, and
runs his hands up my body, squeezing my breasts, before closing
them lightly around my throat.
    “ Have you ever
masturbated?”
    I shift my eyes away.
    “ Look at me. Have you ever
brought yourself to climax?”
    “ A few times.”
    “ How many?”
    “ I don't know. Ten or
twenty.” It's a guess.
    “ So few?” He sounds
incredulous.
    “ It felt wrong—Sir.” I
close my eyes. “Like I was dirty. I was so embarrassed. I
felt…slutty.”
    “ A woman isn't a whore for
wanting pleasure. If it were unnatural, we would not be born with
such drives.”
    I don't say anything.
    “ Do you
disagree?”
    “ No, Sir.”
    “ So you have some
experience getting yourself off.” He opens the package of vibrators
and selects an orange one. “What were you thinking about when you
did?”
    I look from the vibrator to him in horror.
“I'm not going to tell you that!”
    “ Why are you embarrassed?
Was it something really kinky? Like tentacle porn? A whole bunch of
glistening tentacles, invading your every orifice…. Is that what
gets you off, moonshine?”
    “ No!”
    “ Gang bangs? Vore?” He
bites down on my lower lip briefly. “That's a fetish for being
eaten alive, by the way.”
    “ That's disgusting. I
don't like that! I would never—”
    “ Scat? Necrophilia? Or
perhaps what you like is seeing all those sweet little ponies of
yours fuck each other raw.”
    I flinch. It's like he's
slapped me. “Stop! Please. That's enough. You . It's you.”
    My outburst doesn't shake him at all. “Me,
what?”
    I'm breathing hard. “I was thinking about
you, okay?”
    “ Okay, Sir,” he corrects
me. “Why did