Andreas
Her order is my command.
With a wooden chair at my side, I tramp up the stairs and fall into silent steps through the corridor, like if I'm quiet enough, I might be able to hear what she's conspiring. The strain from last night's endless work at the gym is tormenting my muscles, every advance towards the room its own painful burden. It doesn't help that I'd hurled myself at a bar not too long ago, my tongue suffused with the remnants of alcohol.
But I need her body sliding over me, slowly, speedily―however she wants. Then I need her to fuck me until I forget my own name.
I throw open the door and laze into the chair, its armrests cramming me in. A moment later, she emerges from the bathroom, wavy hair curtained around her, flowing down over her chest. She struts towards me, and it's only until she jerks my chin upwards that I realise there are shackles folded into her hand. She'll enact whatever she desires to spite me for my foolishness, and the darkness in her eyes, accentuated by the closed drapes hindering light from shining in, confirms that.
I gulp and remind myself I'm not confined in a space with a hyena.
She glares at my exhausted body lounged into the chair and points to the corner of the room where the long mirror is stationed. "Over there," she orders.
Her feline eyes sharpen on me as I tentatively retreat from the chair and relocate it by the mirror. Then I register what she's seeking: a show of me getting fucked that I have no choice but to watch.
Not exactly sure why, my self-consciousness on my lack of hygiene spikes. "Shit. Oh, no. When did I last shower? Not yesterday. Fuck, definitely not yesterday. The stench of alcohol must spread from me―"
I suck in a breath. A hand lands on each of my shoulders, sliding over my biceps as a seductive voice whispers behind my ear, "I'll shower you."
Once she finishes touching down my arms, my wrists are seized, guided to my back. A sharp click and the frigid contact with metal confirms they've been shackled. With a contemplative look at me, she returns to the bathroom, reappearing a daunting minute later with a thick rope and more restraints. It seems she's discovered my toy box.
The items tumble to the floor, and beside them, she begins to take her own route down by kneeling between my legs provocatively. Her lashes bat, and I get a direct view of the top of her chest. My ankles lock in place with the legs of the chair.
Her fingers travel up my bare thighs, past my abdomen, over to my chest where she uses my shoulders to lift herself up. It doesn't end―the bounding, the temptation, the intimidation. She revolves around the chair, circling me with the rope. It's a snake of polyester fabric slithering around my abdomen, attaching me to the chair before I'm coiled tight like her helpless prey to conquer.
"Such big muscles," she drawls from behind me. Her acrylics scratch lightly at my biceps, my head tilted to the side as she plasters on a mocking pout through the mirror and examines my body. "So big and strong and useless. A powerful boy, aren't you? But you're still going to stay right here and listen to me. To everything I say, even if you know, deep down, these gorgeous arms can tear through the restraints they're in."
She isn't exactly wrong; if circumstances call for it, I can put enough effort into freeing myself. But the uncommon feeling of vulnerability, I must admit, is sniping enthusiasm at my cock.
I'm left in the room alone, her footsteps echoing from the bathroom. My lower body silently implores, yearning for her body on mine. I'd say she's stalling on purpose, to make me suffer and writhe, if not for the sound of items knocking against each other, and then of water running out a tap.
What is she up to?
Fear, anticipation, desire―it all surges through me when I'm forced to stare back at my reflection. The eye tattoo is concealed by the rope. I look as expected―struck with an alcoholic episode, crazed by foul circumstances. My hair is a tousle of brown waves intertwining, and dark moons circle beneath my eye.
I look nasty, but she wouldn't agree with that. Bella wouldn't think that. She can spot me draggled and sweaty after I've been hauled through a sewer and still snuggle into me. She'd brush my hair out the way, knead my strained muscles, cleanse my torn-up body with gentle words.
Just like she's going to cleanse me in the present.
"Oh, fuck," I mumble. On her next return, there's a plastic bucket at her hip. It thumps onto the floor beside me, filled with water and bubbles, a sponge floating on the top.
My heart pounds as she plants a hand on the side of my neck and rounds to my back where, through the mirror, I watch her lean down and peck across my shoulder, up my throat, to my jaw. I twist my head to her, but as I look into those shaded eyes and reach for her lips, she pulls back with a disdainful smirk.
I don't need to suppress an impending fuss because she slides onto my lap, her knees dipping into my thighs. Stimulation is relayed to my cock. She peels off her shirt, throwing it to the floor, and I lose my breath.
Her breasts are a copy of my chest, vibrant with tattoos that look from the plants of an ethereal forest.
"Oh, gosh. Oh, wow. They're so pretty, baby." If my choice to act on desire weren't restrained, I might've already brought my lips over the tapering peaks and sucked them into my mouth. I take advantage of the sliver of freedom I've been given and ogle at the view, at the 3D illustration of stems striking across her skin, at the cut of forest curving around each breast.
"Look at you," she teases, tapping at my upright tip. "All hard and happy for my pretty tits. Tell me, my sweet boy, what do you need from me?"
"You," I breathe, no hesitation. "I need you."
Her fingers clamp around the nape of my neck as she presses her chest against me. My lungs shake with anticipation. She's close, so goddamn close with her head angled downwards and lips a whisper away from my own. But her gaze, no matter how much the familiar brush of her fingertips along my jaw denies it, is alien.
"No, you don't," she whispers. "You need my body. You had my body. And now," she climbs down to the floor, hands settling over my thighs, "I have yours."
A soft kiss to my tip, then a tormenting lick at the slit.
"Do you remember giving me my tattoos?" she asks tauntingly. "While I was your pretty possession?" Her hand dips into the bucket as I trail the ink from her fingers, up her arm, across her shoulder, down to her chest. All mine―she was all mine.
The loss is so rooted into the lecherous state of my mind that when the sponge smacks against my chest, the water cold and vindictive, I gasp, my body quaking.
She passes the drenched sponge all over me, swirling it around my torso, the liquid cascading down to my thighs. It sinks back into the bucket, water sloshing against the plastic surface. She scrubs my bound arms, then goes down from there, to my abdomen, just above my swelling cock. My head charges upwards as I groan, my skin shivering, trembling as she cleanses me.
Next drop into the bucket and then we're in the centre of a pond―an ocean that I'm descending into, deeper and deeper as her touches drag me to the seabed. The water that's engulfed me is invigorating, has plunged me into ecstasy, purified me for how I've tormented her.
My breaths become shallow, because I'm drowning.
More chills flick across me with every stroke. My body is her gift to accept, and with it, she'll do as she pleases. Blurriness inhibits my vision. I hear loud splashes, see only darkness, feel her purge the power from me. It's all her. She's power. Drowning...I'm drowning. I'm drowning, drowning, drowning―
Liquid rains over me. My body convulses.
In this moment, as the bucket of soapy liquid floods me, rocks me in my chair, tears a sharp gasp from my throat, understanding hits me. Understanding that this is for her. My pathetic chokes on water and wild shudders are a part of her redemption. Are a part of her longing to liberate herself from her sin: letting me have her.
The desire may shape me into this pathetic, helpless man letting his agonised lover with a thirst for revenge operate on him, but it's undeniably refreshing.
And so I demand, with rough breaths, "More."
Paying heed to my shivering and tortured body, I cough out the remainders of water, swallowing what's left. I cough again, this time with more pain; soap parches my throat, clinging to the inner surfaces.
She stands over me, all the more frightening, before I can secure an observation of my wet skin. Her shorts had been taken off, and I hadn't realised. But now my attention is snagged on her, adhered to her as she sits on my lap, back to me.
The iciness of my skin startles her; she sucks in a breath, the only falter in her dominating demeanour. She hangs each of her legs over the armrests, her back pressing against my chest and thighs spread open. My lungs betray me, failing to work at their usual rhythm.
All I can do is gaze at her through the mirror. For a mere moment, there's a faint smile from her, a brief exposure of vulnerability that passes as soon as it arrived. And I'd grin back at the ounce of happiness had circumstances been different. Had this not been the outcome of my incapability to express warmth a heart yearns to share. My sweet lady. She'll always be my sweet lady.
Her head drops back onto my shoulder, a long breath the only spray of warmth I've received thus far.
Cold. Everything is so cold.
The icy temperature never heats. Her next exhale, a deadly whisper, worsens that cold.
"What was that petal, Andreas?"
The accusation rings in my ears. Stumbles through to my brain. Plummets down my body. Rumbles around the left side of my chest where it gnaws at the eroded tissue.
"Answer me, baby. Why was there a single petal on the floor?"
The petal―the mass of roses it came from. That single scrap of beauty is a proclamation that I'm too feeble, too weak to reveal what the hollow beneath a dresser is dedicated to. Forever will I continue to tuck away that love, keep it where I know she wont find it. A treasure that precious I cannot hand over to another woman.
"Isabella, my heart..."
"What," she presses. "Fucking tell me. I need you to tell me. My heart is hurting. What of yours?"
Her hips sway on me, a hand reaching back and hooking around my neck.
"A cage."
"Give me something proper," she snaps. Another quick display of vulnerability: a flash of disappointment in my unwillingness to obey. So she plays her fingers around her clit, sighs softly into my ear.
"Help me, Isabella. I am suffering. Please, be my key. Free me from this. My heart is in a cage. I cannot...I cannot handle it."
So much said, too little explained.
Two fingers dip into her.
"It loved Dalia," she whispers. "It could've loved me, Andreas."
Torture. It's all torture. A distant impulse to cry pokes at me. Her moans are a familiar chorus that I return; the sight of her thrusting into herself is a privilege I must treasure. I've brought this suffering upon myself. It's my own self-constructed nemesis to face head-on. It's winning, it's trumping me, it's lodged into the ropes that are tightened around me, the shackles binding my wrists and ankles to the chair. Into the feminine fingers that slip into my mouth.
Like it's habitual, my tongue swirls around them, swallowing the pleasure from her fingers as I groan and watch myself serve her.
But she tells me vindictively, "You'll never get this again."
Her fingers leave my mouth with a pop. She repositions herself, kneeling between my legs.
The concept of my loss really strikes me now. This will be the last time we share our bodies in a rush of intimacy, the last time we unite before I lose her.
"No," I tell her, grasping onto that last bit of hope.
"You don't get to decide that, my love."
I choke on defeat, memorise the face below me. Stupid heart. Stupid, stupid heart.
"No," I whisper to myself. "This is foolish. Please, no."
There's a compulsive touch around my erection, and when I look down to acknowledge what painful scheme she's acting upon, I have to wrench some air down my throat to remain conscious.
"I remember," she starts, adjusting my length between her breasts, "you were so excited to fuck my tits. It would be condescending to operate on that desire of yours, and I'm meant to wait a few more days before I can play around with the tattoos on, but you've made these look so pretty." She presses them together, tightly enfolding my cock, and entwines her fingers at the front, covering her nipples. "I'd have to repay you for the gift. Isn't that right? I remember, long ago, you taught me to eliminate imbalances. And from that lesson, I know if I don't compensate, there will be an imbalance."
I hold my breath as a long line of spit oozes from her mouth and onto my tip. She repeats, my thighs tensing, and slides her breasts upwards.
"Oh..." I moan. "Oh, shit."
"Does that feel good, handsome?" She brings herself back down, gathers her hair to one side with a head flick, and slips up to my tip again. Incapable of burying them, my groans come out raggedly.
"Yeah...fuck yeah." This is fucking incredible.
She laughs. "You're a big man whore. This must be fun for your needy cock."
"Yes," I exhale, her chest bobbing faster. Soft little grunts drift out of her mouth every time her tits plummet, and loud irrepressible groans blast out of mine. She's wrapped so securely around me; the pressure is gripping my cock.
I muster the nerve to look at myself through the reflection. Gosh, I look pathetic trying to combat the urge to release. Bella notices my breaths rushing and thighs twitching, so she detaches from me.
"You don't deserve to get it that easily," she says.
"Please. I'll―"
"You'll what? Break out of the restraints and fuck me? No, baby. No, no, no. You'll stay here like a good boy while I decide when you get to cum."
Her knees return to my thighs, and she holds onto my tip, massaging it with her thumb before I'm surrounded by wet skin. We simultaneously suck in air. My solution to her slowly lowering herself is jerking my hips upward.
She whacks me on the cheek immediately.
"Don't try that with me," she growls. Her glower is deadly―and my cue to stick my ass to the chair. Unmoving, I groan at the feel of her pushing me all the way in. Using the back of my neck, she lifts and drops herself, slamming onto me. Her elbows fall to my chest, head angling downwards, giving me a complete view of our bodies through the mirror.
"Fuck," she moans. That excitement in my length intensifies as she constricts around me, her lips pressing into the side of my neck, biting the heated flesh. She kisses up to my mouth, then pulls away, holding my jaw in her tender hands. "You're a beautiful man. I'll miss you."
I drop my eyes to her hips, to how they rock on me, instead of gazing at her.
Then that hold on my face strengthens, and we're both surrendering to our ends.
Ecstasy streaks up my cock, into her, and we both moan aloud. My limbs tauten, shaking behind the restraints. She slows down on me, and I sink into the moment of bliss, of last treasurable connections between us.
When we recover, panting and breathless, her arms come around me. Hugging me. She quivers at the shoulders and below. I hear soft, frail sobs.
Ablaze―my heart is ablaze. And aching so badly.
"Don't come to work," she cries. "I don't want to see you. I can't see you again. It'll be better for the both of us."
After a hellish minute, she pushes off me, wiping tears away from her face. We observe the watery mess in silence.
It isn't uttered, isn't so much as transferred as a wordless message between us, but we both silently accept that this is the last of us.