The Box had been absent from their lives for a time.
Nevertheless they had delighted in each other. Recently, he had placed her on a very strict no-touch regime, going deeply into teasing and denying her, excruciatingly so. Night after night he himself would edge her, demand she report how close she was to orgasm, take her close, closer, again and again, whispering such wicked and depraved things into her ear that he barely needed to touch her to take her there.
Each night, after at least a half dozen edges, he would promise her at least one ruin, and then instead edge her again and yet again, without even that satisfaction, until she was nearly weeping, begging him, promising him anything for even the deeply dissatisfying ruin she knew it would end up being.
And he in turn would assure her that he would satisfy that urge this time, as long as she adhered to some bargain he concocted in the moment. Either by counting down a little too quickly, or asking her some riddle that confused her, the answer to which failed some arcane test and meant she hadn't won satisfaction, or using two fingers deep inside her and no stimulation of her clit whatsoever, and when she wailed: "I can't come like this" merely to whisper that he was sure she could, and that she should either relax more or try harder, and then he would start counting again, always too quickly.
He would stop touching her, leaving her short, and she would moan and shake in frustration and murmur: "I hate you", and with genuine sounding sorrow in his tone, he would hug her tightly and kiss her softly and assure her he knew what she really meant, and that tomorrow would be different.
Of course, it wasn't.
She could barely think straight in the day, during this time, her mind straying back between her legs constantly, her thoughts filled with dozens of alternatives to that forbidden stimulation, just as he intended. Filling her mouth, filling her arse, reddening her buttocks with crops, paddles, bare hands, anything to take away that throbbing itch for a time.
*
Now, though, a national holiday approached and they had planned to disconnect from the world. They had raced to complete all their work by a certain date and agreed to turn off their phones, close up their laptops, set their email to auto-respond, and travel out into the countryside.
They had planned in the days to wander the local area, enjoying the sunshine, the parklands, the natural hikes, the historical sites. By night they would dedicate themselves to each other.
The place they had chosen was a small rural cottage, whitewashed walls, thatched roof, an authentic kitchen served by a log fire. It was quite removed from the local towns and warm and snug inside. It felt like stepping back into a bygone era with its oil lamps, its open grate, its own well for fresh water.
She had unpacked and hung her clothes in the oak wardrobe and returned to the main room, flooded with spring sunshine and uncluttered as only a holiday residence could be, when she saw The Box resting on the coffee table.
She became aroused immediately. So long without seeing it, she had wondered if its effects upon her would still work. Yet they did. Knowing how deeply their game had woven itself into her consciousness was itself also arousing. She felt a thrill somewhere between expectation, fear and delight deep in her belly that sang though her nerves and her hips twitched all on their own.
As usual he was watching her. He took such pleasure in the effects of its surprise appearance upon her, looking for the change in her expression, the quickening of her breath, the flush of her cheeks, the parting of her lips and the way she flicked her gaze back to him as he sat there smiling quietly.
He loved how conditioned to their game she had become.
Further, he loved heightening those effects. They had arranged to spend their first day touring the local area so when he suggested she remove her panties before they left the house, he did so knowing full well what effect it would have upon her throughout the day. She eased them off right there before him, slipping them out from under her light skirt, and handed them to him. He tucked them into his pocket.
And tour they did, in the open top car they had hired, the better to feel part of the landscape through which they drove. They stopped off here and there to park and look at the sights.
Throughout the day, every so often, he would lean in to place a gentle kiss upon her neck and murmur something wicked in her ear.
"I wonder if you'll get to see inside the box tonight," he'd say. Or:
"How does it feel, being naked under your skirt?"
Once or twice as they strolled the parapets of a local castle, with a few other tourists nearby, the warm breeze caught her skirt and she had to smooth it down with her hand. He came behind her, took her hand in his and pressed it to the hardness between his legs, whispering how excited it made him to think of her like that, slick between her legs and with the thinnest of material hiding this from the other people.
"Do you think we will allow you will come tonight?" he asked her. "Seeing as we are on holiday?"
She moaned in anticipation.
They took a light supper in the open air at a local village. Candles flickered on the tables. The warm breeze felt like silk against her skin and a lover's breath between her thighs. He stroked her cheek with his fingers. Every so often he flicked a glance over at nearby diners. A silent look back to her, a slightly grin, suggested he was enjoying her frustration, her exposure to the elements, the proximity of the unwitting diners.
*
Back in the cottage, with a pretty fire dancing in the grate and the oil lamps dotted around the main room giving off a warm, orange glow, he eased the necklace that bore the key off from her neck, inserted it into The Box and turned it.
The metallic click as the lid sprung up was music to her ears.
She peered inside to see what lay there.
It was a paintbrush, for fine art, expensive, made of soft sable, about the diameter of his thumb.
She peered up at him curiously.
"Are we going to paint something?" she asked.
"We are," he said. "We are going to paint you, my beautiful artwork."
"Body painting?" she said. "But where are the paints?"
He simply smiled and led her over to a space he had cleared that morning, in front of the fireplace. He had laid carpet and several soft rugs there.
"Undress," he said, in that certain tone he sometimes used with her that spoke to some deep, obedient part of her mind. She felt her hands jerk to obey him almost before she consciously moved to do so herself.
"Kneel," he said, in that same tone, and she found herself dropping to her knees instantly, to gaze up at him. He stroked her hair, admired her beauty, praised her obedience and then eased her back until she lay, face up, on the carpet, warmed by the heat of the open fire.
He bound her there, arms stretched taut above her head, legs parted and ankles secure, another loop around her thighs to prevent her hips lifting and one more around her neck, partly to prevent her lifting her body but also because he knew she enjoyed that sensation. As he fastened this last loop about her throat, he whispered: "Just like a collar, to remind you that you are mine."
Then he fetched the brush from The Box.
He began at her scalp, drawing the brush from the very crown of her head down through her hair, a curious sensation, and down her forehead, across her temples, along the upper parts of her neck. Slow, steady, gentle strokes in an almost meditative rhythm.
