Honey 12

Kath squirms. He has tied her to her own bedpost, hands plugged helplessly to the cheap metal rod. The room's coolness shivers her skin. Budding goosebumps on bare creamy legs.

She senses he is still fully clothed but cannot see. Rich almond eyes blindfolded with black cloth. Eyes that darted downward as he crossed the threshold of her home, still slightly ashamed by the welcome intrusion.

Suddenly lines drag down her. Start at the edge of pink shorts and head to the object. The objects - size 8, bound at the ankles, keyed with excitement and ready for love.

He pauses to squeeze under her kneecaps. Kath giggles around more black cloth. Loose enough so as not to silence her completely. Still you can't have the neighbors know.

Sometimes she wonders what he sees. A tall, handsome girl alone in his grasp. What he thinks when he leaves her sore, aching, as much from their animal lovemaking as from the coming time apart.

He covers her, in that final act, when legs are unbound and hands are retied and strikes leave prints with every thrust. Her orders her down, broken and willing, and she feeds on his essence and savors his groans. He never fills her, never fulfills the ancestral ache, no matter how much she begs or cries. He does not love her.

Now he is kneading them, melting them, Kath's head back and silence. Picturing that strong rod straining to know her. Calm hands, unlike the first time when he had only his belt to tie her. Stole the ring off a toe as a clever excuse back.

Kath breathing heavy now, her toes feeding his mouth. Worship too weak a word, he deifies the objects, bound as they are and tight on the floor. Every digit a siren wired straight up her legs. Kath playing coy. Wiggles and scrunch.

She has always wanted to remain like this, pass on that next phase just one time. Watch through the blindfold him tugging his skin, burning a hole through the objects, size 8. Groaning and powerless. Toes splattered with love.

Tongue drags across soles now. Lifting her legs as the blood rivers down to her crest. Cloth traps moan. Heels smother face.

She is panting. He is gone.

The room as empty as a cloud. For she may as well not be here, this shining woman all muffled and bound. What is she without him? Feet wrinkled and reeling, near numb in the air-conditioned breeze.

The panic is momentary. The silence - punctured - thud and squeeze, air escaping, then -

Sticky.

Trapped feet recoiling, or daring to try. Slow stream, slowly, trickles down the objects. Cloth muffles nothing. No sound to block.

Strong hands returning. Pushing this substance into her skin. Sweet sick smell radiates to Kath. Cloth muffles smile. She relaxes and coos.

He kneels at her altar and feeds.

Slight smacking sounds and Kath feels unholy. Grinning. Imagine her roommates' reaction. But she knows their secrets, has walked in on scenes surely no one would seek out. But they did. As does she.

Something in the nectar tickles her skin. She giggles around the gag and feels him stop, sees him smile. Back to work, then.

When he is fed, she is crazy. Wants him, won't tell him, knows that he knows. Her feet once again left alone at the altar.

Movement, closeness. Zip, unzip. Yank, tug, smell.

Yes, she can smell. His urge and desire stretched to her cloth. Small piece of fabric keeping her - keeping them - from bliss. To serve is to rule and Kath lives to rule him. Silent, now. He doesn't want you to beg.

Loud breathing above and the friction of skin. Kath flushes. He will cover her like this, tied and degraded, and leave her, she hopes. Let them find their good roommate alone. Meet Kath for the first time.

One finger pulls the mouth gag away. She opens for him, will always open. A handful of hair and he pushes right in.

Slavery.

Kath's eyes roll back and she lets him exploit her. She can't help herself, she is humming around him, picturing the sight. In-out, in-out. He tilts her chin back to open her throat.

Moving faster now. That unmistakable sound: meat meeting mouth over and over. Spit flying loosely, drenching them both.

Tug upward on the blindfold. This time she is not shy. Not ashamed. Kath shoots almond eyes up at him, the picture of domesticity. His eyes screw shut and he grunts once, feral, and hurtles in.

Now it is her turn to feed.