Page 22 of Bound and Branded

I’ve been imagining it like calf roping. Like he’d jump right in and bind me in seconds, then take me, but for some reason now I’m beginning to understand it isn’t going to go that way. It’s taken this long for him to get me on the bed. His every movement is methodical.

Panic flutters in my breast as part of me feels compelled to keep pushing, to make it go faster. So that I know everything will be okay. That I’m fine and I survived it. Liked it. Did it. Can check it off my list.

Suddenly I feel myself descending into a panic spiral.

“Stop thinking,” he says.

The words are short, sharp. Direct.

“I…”

“I said stop, Dove.” He puts his knee on the mattress and leans forward, over me, and I can feel his hard denim-covered cock pressing against my ass as he reaches forward and takes hold of my hand, drawing it tight against my back, and then my other hand, pulling both back so they’re resting against the dip in my spine just above my rear. “You can relax.” He curves his arm around my waist and guides me so I’m kneeling on the mattress now. “You’re not going to do anything. You aren’t going to move. You’re just going to let me do what I want, understand?”

“Yes,” I say. “Wolf.”

He leans in and I feel a sharp, hot sting when he bites me on the shoulder, just hard enough that I feel a graze of pain that echoes from where his teeth touched me down between my legs. “Holding the position might get uncomfortable. Even on the mattress, your legs are going to start falling asleep. Don’t focus on the discomfort, focus on me.”

He gets off the bed and I can feel he’s standing behind me now. He touches my shoulder with something. “This is the rope I’m going to use to tie you.” It’s softer than I expected it to be. Again I think my thoughts were informed by lassoes and cowboys, and this is something else entirely.

The rope slides over my skin and around my rib cage, just beneath my breasts. “I’m not going to check in with you the whole time, I prefer not to talk while I’m doing the rigging, so you need to tell me if something is out of your comfort zone, understand?”

I don’t tell him I’m too stubborn to use the safe word he gave me. That I’d rather be miserable the whole time than give in. It’s how I live my life. I’ll just do it, and eventually you get through it, no matter how bad it is. I’m not going to start complaining now.

He pulls on my braid. Hard. “I asked you a question.”

“Y-yes,” I say. “I understand.”

That satisfies him and he continues his methodical work with the rope. He loops it up over my shoulders, around my breasts, and I don’t know if it’s placebo or not but it feels like they get more sensitive from the tightness around them and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff.

Maybe even the cliff on the drive up here that looks down over my ranch. I’m above myself. Outside myself. Waiting to see what will happen next, with fear and anticipation, and also balancing on the knife’s edge of arousal. Every movement of his hands on my body, the rope on my skin, digs the blade in deeper. My clit feels swollen, and he hasn’t even touched me intimately.

He's fully dressed, his hands almost deliberately not touching my breasts, my pussy, my ass as he works. And yet I’m hotter than I’ve ever been, caught in this space of surreal discomfort and desire.

I want him to touch me. I’m getting wetter and wetter between my legs, anticipation building so intensely I can hardly breathe.

I squeeze my thighs together, as tight as I can, to try and get some relief—to feel something.

“Stop,” he says, his voice hard. “You don’t get to pleasure yourself.”

“I-I’m not.”

He reaches around and grips my face, turning my head to the side and leaning in so he can look me in the eye. “Don’t lie to me.”

“But I…”

“Sit. Still. This takes time. And I aim to take my time.” I whimper, the feeling between my legs almost painful now. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks.

I nod.

“Answer me,” he says.

I want to argue, and tell him he said he didn’t like talking while he did this, but my mouth and my stubbornness have already gotten me in trouble and I have a feeling I actually won’t like what he’ll do if I keep pushing him. Not because I think he’ll hurt me, because I think he’ll deny me what I really want. The more I push, the longer he’s going to take, I can already feel that.

It’s a terrible, wonderful, horrible thing for someone with my level of impatience.

But for some reason this was what I wanted. To see what it would be like to surrender to another person.

“Yes,” I say. “It hurts.”

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