Your Laehouse

I've dreamt again of Manderley, I would think sometimes upon waking alone in bed, sweat soaking through my clothes. I'd breathe deeply, reminding myself I'm not at that vacation house overlooking that dark lake.

Your vacation house. Your hideout when cursed with writer's block. Your sanctuary.

The house you told me not to call Sara Laughs. You never appreciated my dark humor. Your wife left you though - she didn't die. She deserved to. She deserved to be on her beloved boat as the black water swallowed it up.

Although she was dreadful, you should've finalized the divorce before fucking me. Maybe that's why you're haunted.

But we did fuck so many times before those papers were signed. Oh how we explored it all - every fetish and desire. You were the best and worst thing to ever happen to me.

"We never cease wanting what we want, whether it's good for us or not."

I read that somewhere. It embodies us.

You unlocked a monster inside of me. That monster won when I decided to visit you there - at that place where you wanted to be alone with your ghosts and write in peace. I didn't listen, didn't obey, but I had no fear of punishments. Part of me ached for them.

Perhaps I traveled there as a sweet surprise for my... whatever you were then, whatever you are too scared to be now. But perhaps we both know that's a lie. My desire for your strong, aged hands on my pale, slim frame was just too much.

I craved you, even that dark side of you, especially that dark, uninhibited side of you. Your Tyler Durden, your John Shooter.

I craved your fist in my hair, flat palm on my ass, the burn of rope, the whoosh-snap of a flogger. I was addicted to that intense, overwhelming pleasure that floods in and consumes pain.

So I went. Selfishly I went. Ignorantly I was surprised when you didn't appear happy to see me.

"I told you not to come."

"I wanted..." but I didn't know what I wanted. Crickets and frogs filled the silence between us as evening arrived. Fireflies floated in the damp lake air. The horizon shone pink.

You claimed it was too late for me to drive home and stepped aside. You said you'll have to punish me.

Your usual mischievous, playful tone wasn't mingled with the sternness in your voice. You always took some delight in punishing me and I took some delight in being punished. I'd often tease and goad you into it. Fun. Freeing.

This wasn't that.

That evening you sounded gravely serious as if neither of us was going to find pleasure in what was about to happen. Or hindsight has dramatized the memory. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe there weren't even fireflies outside or a vibrant pink sunset. Maybe the crickets and frogs hadn't sung.

I do know though that that night was different. Maybe it was the house. The house that wasn't Sara Laughs, and not Manderley either, but sometimes I dream of burning it down.

Your vacation house. Your hideout when cursed with writer's block. Your sanctuary that I invaded. An uninvited ghost.

I considered apologizing when you removed multiple bundles of neatly-bound rope from a closet. It wasn't playful, pretty colors. It wasn't sleek, sexy black. It was brown. Brown rugged rope. Functional. Appropriate for a rural lakeside cabin.

Rural. The word bounced around in my head and made my chest feel tight. But I trusted you and I only feared you a little.

I trust you.

I wasn't sorry that I showed up unbidden, but I did feel sorry for that flicker of doubt, of fear - apprehension about being alone with you so far from anyone to hear me scream.

I was hardly more than a few steps inside the front door when you commanded me to kneel. You shut the door behind me as I dropped down, knees spread wide.

I took a calming breath, rolling back my shoulders, straightening my back, as you stood behind me. The approving pat on my head relaxed me. I settled into nadu pose, submissiveness sweeping through me.

You knelt beside me, organizing and loosening the rope, utterly unhurried. Without saying anything, you coaxed my arms behind me and started binding my wrists. Gently, expertly you continued up my arms, bringing my elbows together, forcing my chest out. Braless and aroused, my nipples were fully visible beneath my shirt, poking proudly at the fabric.

You noticed. The rope glided over them, teasing, as you created a harness. When you stepped back to admire your work, I could see the erection inside your pants.

You noticed. You saw where my eyes darted. You saw me subconsciously wet my lips. You lowered your sweatpants just enough for your dick to spring free then buried it in my mouth. I gagged, but you held my head still. You fucked my face as if you couldn't cum fast enough. I drooled and whimpered around your cock, squirming as my own arousal built.

It was over so quickly, so shockingly fast I nearly choked on your cum when it hit the back of my throat. You caressed my cheek as you pulled out, but didn't say a word.

Your fingers combed my hair and I sighed. Calm. Content. But there was more rope. You weren't finished yet.

You intertwined it in my hair, your strong hands working delicately, gently until you tugged hard to test it. My back arched, giving you full access to my breasts, one of which you grabbed roughly, possessively with your free hand.

You let go - of my chest and the rope - to lay me on my side. The rope ponytail appeared in front of my face, forcing my chin down as you looped the rope around my knees, pulling them towards my chest. You patted my vulnerable bum after securing me in a tight ball, completely immobile.

"Now you have no choice but to stay put."

"But..."

"Do you need a gag?"

"No."

"No what?"

"No I don't need a gag, Sir."

You chuckled at that, at the way I bristled at being corrected, at my stubbornness and sass despite being completely at your mercy. I tested the knots, but I was barely able to squirm. You probed a finger between my thighs, taunting me.

After it was slick with my arousal, you pressed it against my other hole and a moan escaped my lips despite trying not to react. I whispered a breathless apology.

"You will be sorry."

I bit my lip as you stood up. My body was ablaze with anger as I listened to your footsteps retreat, but I knew not to argue.

I heard you settle into your desk chair and begin typing rapidly, your writer's block miraculously cured.