The strap was black, nylon strong, yet soft like a seat-belt. Half as wide and only a few inches long. Lined with Velcro and housing a d-shaped ring of chrome at one end.
I'd found it in the second bedroom. A milk crate with assorted exercise accessories had been left out on the floor.
I knew he'd been rehabilitating his shoulder. Dislocated and torn, it no longer sat where it should. He'd been patiently regaining range and strength, but it would never be the same.
He said it didn't bother him, but I knew it did. Like me he was now past halfway, our sun was no longer rising, it was setting. His face carried lines that could look like scars, they cut so deep into his skin. A furrowed brow, baring the ploughed marks of a mind seldom fallow, constantly harvesting questions, else imagining, beyond the tree line and the horizon, finding new ways to escape.
As I handled the thin strap my own imagination began to seed, blossom and bloom, remembering how, in the center of his open kitchen and living area, there was a load baring pillar.
With the strap in my hand, I quietly wandered through to take a closer look and to reassure myself of this column's existence, and I felt the corners of my mouth rising, as a cunning smile slowly began to curl, revealing a quietly hidden confidence.
Unusually I was awake, and he was asleep. He'd met me at the airport last night and I'd fallen asleep on his bed while he was still bringing my bags up from downstairs.
I'd slept until noon. He'd been up since 5:00am, not knowing what to do with himself and knowing better than to wake me.
He'd slept uncomfortably in the den, as he calls it, the snug little box room with pocket doors, set at the front of the house. He'd kept himself to himself, while I stretched out and dreamt of long woodland walks and swimming in lazy warm oceans.
When finally, I did wake, I showered and slipped into something I knew he'd like. One of the many beautiful silk chemises he's lavished on me over the years, and the pair of tan leather Ralph Lauren Sandals he gave me in Cocoa Beach.
I stepped out of the bedroom and walked through to the open living area, with its high white walls and ceiling, and the gorgeous luster of those original, Victorian hardwood floors.
He smiled and nodded, his eyes bright with the sight of my choice of outfit, it wasn't hard for him to read the invitation and with an air of mischief he disappeared into the bedroom from where I'd just come.
I waited at the window, imagining how prettily the sun would look setting through the branches of the lonely tree outside.
I was remembering his writing and all the wicked things he'd want to do with me.
The sex that followed was every bit as epic. We'd been so long apart since sharing our last little love nest, secluded and tucked away, sat over the open water, in Magnolia, a sleepy Seattle suburb, just when this cursed pandemic was beginning to break.
I thought we'd need more time to rediscover each other, but we didn't, we were fearless and so thankful to be together, it was as if we'd just woken the very next day and never been apart.
And God knows, 2020 had been nothing like we'd hoped. I was meant to be in Europe for the summer, enjoying a trip of a lifetime, while he was planning to work remotely from various American cities, hoping to get a feel for one that might help him feel at home.
Finally, after so many months of self-isolation and social distancing the world was finding its way again. We were free to travel. Although travel was by no means free. It was as if time had gone backwards where once again only the wealthiest could hope to afford such luxury. To travel.
And thanks to time zones and jet lag and too much excitement, now it was me that was awake and he that was worn out. Roles were reversing, it seemed, and with that thought came a rush of new ideas; ideas that could likely make a working girl blush.
I returned to the second bedroom and lightly rummaged in the milk crate, knowing this strap must be one of a pair. I was bright with mischievous delight when I found the other one.
Stealthily, I crept into his room, careful to tiptoe on the creaking aged pine floorboards, making my way to his walk-in closet.
I tried not to hum too happily as I picked out a dress-shirt I liked. And I looked at the spaces in between the many hangers and smiled with the thought of leaving some of my lingerie hanging here, a little daily reminder for him that I belong here too.
Pushing some of the shirts aside I inadvertently uncovered a wooden box. It was set back and sat on top of the built-in cabinet drawers. I immediately remembered it, from Cocoa Beach. He'd left it on the side in the third bedroom, the one where he'd shamelessly shredded my clothes and ravaged me with wild hunger, then held the tip of his raging hard cock against the edge of me until I was begging.
I was more certain than curious when I unclipped the clasp and lifted the hinged lid. That naughty boy. A small but intimate collection of wicked things. Black rope and bandages. A padlock and a key. A small pair of screw-threaded cylinders, perfect for gorging nipples. A lifelike phallus, full and firm, sculpted from soft flesh latex, wrapped in a black silk pillowcase. And a plug of polished chrome, as large as a small egg, and staggeringly heavy.
His jeans were laying on the chaise in his room. I closed the box and clipped home the clasp. I lifted down a shirt and stepped back into the bedroom.
He was peaceful, dozing easily, oblivious to my creeping nearer. I pushed my fingertips into the palm of his hand and felt his warmth as he responded to my tender touch.
"Shhh" I soothed as he stirred. His eyes trying to peel open and find me. And then they blinked open, puzzled by the sound of my ripping the Velcro open.
I placed the first strap around his wrist and fastened the Velcro. "Shhh, my love" I soothed again, watching his brow crinkle with playful confusion.
I tore the second strap open and gently closed it around his other wrist. And sure, he could reach across with either hand and unfasten these simple bindings if he chose to, but like me, curiosity is often his undoing and curiosity had him choosing not to try undoing my handiwork, at least not for now.
"Get showered and get dressed" I told him, and the tone of my impatience surprised even me. I was not to be bargained with.
His eyes asked me for reassurance, and I gave him none. "Come on, get up!" I insisted, taking a step back to emphasize the space I expected him to fill, to sit up and climb out of bed.
