Page 135 of Deep Cover

Cole taped my ankles to the baseboard posts, so hard and tight that my body was mostly suspended above the bed, a stress position of sorts and the most vulnerable I could imagine feeling.

I waited for the cane. Or the cock. I didn't know if he would take me as brutally as any assault or cane me until I was the vile bruised red of the worst and hopefully faked porn movies.

What I never expected was the gentle touch that began at the nape of my neck and continued in soft, fingertip touches, small circles, delicate caresses, from neck to tailbone. The feathery brushes of touch, that gradually grew more intense, dragging pleasure out of me. I began to writhe under him, long before the touch grew more intimate, his fingers curling around to brush under my breasts, to run inside the curve of my hips along the edges of my belly. He reached down under me to touch between my legs, to stroke there as I arched in my bondage, my head moving, my thoughts all inward, all safe behind the anonymous mask, my expressions hidden, my responses secret.

I felt him swing one leg over my hips, straddling me but keeping his weight from my nearly floating body. It had to take muscle control to not put weight on me that way and I experienced a moment of almost panic at the laugh that had no space to bubble out: His almost dull adherence to yoga no doubt allowed him this control.

Then he slid into me, filling me the way he did, his size and rock hardness always just this side of too much. He moved slow, stroking in and out of me until a rolling, unstoppable orgasm swept through me, leaving my muscles shaking and my skin sweating inside the hood.

Only then, after he'd felt my pleasure pulsing through and around his length did he begin anything close to what I had anticipated. It began nearly as slowly but built, the intensity insane, the pain beginning to grow with it because he was fucking me so hard my body jounced and fought on its own against the tape holding me, the strain on my joints, the force with which he plunged into me. He felt huge and so hard if I hadn't known he'd never come, never pulled out, I'd have thought he was using some implement, some monstrous dildo, something too big.

But it was him, and he pounded into me, speed and power and no finesse, pulling and pounding me against my bonds, thrusting into me as hard as he could, over and over and over until the pain and need and fury and want rose up in me and I screamed into the hood, wordless and full of emotions I had no words for anyway.

I came so hard I screamed, feeling the sound rip out of my throat, and distantly, past the hood, I heard Cole's answering roar.

It might have been half an hour or half a day later that he came back to cut the tape loose and tell me to count to two hundred before removing the hood.

Even then I had no doubt I hadn't been alone for even a second in the room. Not with that hood over my head. Not while taped to a bed, defenseless. Not without someone who could hear my labored breath and make sure the next breath came.

And the next breath, and the next breath, and the next breath.

But when I finally stopped trembling enough to unzip the mask and peel my hair from the zipper and the hood from my head, I was alone in the room.

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