burnsall 03
Earlier…
We’re watching television, sprawled across the couch with your feet in my lap. I’m rubbing your feet and you keep apologising and blushing because the youth from Burnsall is making himself known. The burps have stopped—he’s too far gone for that.
“Don’t apologise. I find it cute.”
You stare at me sceptically over a belly whose mound is lower, more diffuse. “You did not just say that.”
“It’s all— it’s all part of the process. And you know I’m a fan of your processes.”
The murmur of the television in the background, the feeling of my thumbs pressing firm lines on the arches of your feet… You are so relaxed that another fart breaks out.
“And you blush! You are so goddamn adorable when you blush!”
I’ve got that grin that says I’m being honest, and that I know just how cringeworthy you find what I’m saying. You bat me with a cushion. “You’re not serious, right?”
“About your processes? I think I am.” My turn to colour a little, look down at the foot I am rubbing. “And I know your body fascinates you too. So—”
A timer goes off in the kitchen. You see me freeze momentarily before I pat your foot, signalling an end.
“Do you want a surprise?”
“You mean dinner’s not the surprise?” you say, sitting up a little straighter. You shift your legs so on your calves sit at either side of my face. Clamping them together, you bend your knees to tug me forward. “Are you dinner?”
“Not today, dear Rey,” I say, turning my head to kiss one of the calves. You are small, but intimidatingly strong. They never stops being thrilling, your play-threats. “Do you trust me?”
You’re fully alert, now, looking searchingly into my eyes. I look back, not giving anything away.
“…Yes.”
“Then give me a second.”
I swing myself off the couch and bustle to the kitchen. Two joints of meat have been resting for forty minutes until they are succulent. You know I’ve cooked then longer than I would for myself. It is a constant source of amusement to me that you like your meat either well done or still breathing.
Beef and lamb are whisked to the bedroom with carving plate and knife, along with a duffel bag I brought with me, which actually looks empty. The scent of the meat makes your mouth water, though Burnsall is making his presence felt elsewhere. You stand from the couch and stretch.
“I’m just powdering my nose,” you say as you head to the bathroom.
I step out of the bedroom. “No, come here, Rey.”
You hesitate. Whatever is planned, being uncomfortably full seems to be part of it. You feel a tingle, of nervousness and excitement. That side of things isn’t something you thought you would share.
“Rey, it’s okay. Come here, please.”
Giving me a crooked smile, you saunter over. “Okay…”
My smile is broad and crinkles my eyes. You suspect I’m thinking obnoxiously affectionate thoughts about you again. I don’t give them voice, though. Just a hand gently taking your chin, angling your head up a degree. It’s a strangely possessive gesture. “Remember: green, yellow, red. You will never be wrong to use them. Green?”
You’re processing your feelings about my possessive grasp. You don’t belong to me. But you know I know that. So maybe you can play…
“Green.”
“Good. Come inside.”
You’re kneeling on the carpet, legs tucked under you, wearing only your black pants. A little embarrassed given you’d been wearing them all day, you’d offered to change into something sexier. I’d given you an almost hungry look in response, communicating that you already were exactly how I wanted you. Presently, your arms are tied, in the same fashion as last time: the TK box tie. Hands on opposite elbows behind you, you flex your shoulders occasionally to test the rope and settle your muscles.
It feels… Strangely freeing. We talked last time I tied you, and I said some people just space out as soon as rope comes anywhere near them. Can’t worry if you can do literally nothing; you know you’re exactly where you need to be.
I test the last knot before burying the loose ends in the elaborate rope structure on your back. Tension is maintained, has been maintained all along.
A tug overbalances you. You fall back against my chest, warm and hard. I place a kiss on your throat. The graze of teeth makes you shiver. From your abdomen come faint groaning noises like a strange digestive purr, but the accompanying discomfort is easy to set aside, for now.
I pass more rope through the knot at your back and begin to pass rope around your neck, anchored safely away from cinching closed. Bad, panicky feelings arise in your chest. It feels like a necklace, or a collar…
“Yellow,” you say, voice thick like you’re walking from sleep. I stop immediately, lean forward to make eye contact, listening. “I’m no one’s pet. No collar.”
A smile you might call proud. I nod. “No, you’re not.” I’m already removing the rope I just added. “Thank you for stopping things and speaking up. Are you happy to continue?”
You close your eyes and nod. Collar deconstructed, my hands are heavy on your shoulders, supporting you and showing my presence. It’s easy to relax back into the quiet of the rope.
The quiet makes it easy to just let things happen, even if they don’t make much sense. I spend some time binding your long, gorgeous hair into more rope, until when I pull, your head is cocked back. A flash of sadism reveals itself as I hold your head back, pleasant all-over sting across your whole scalp, revealing your pale throat again.
“You are so beautiful, Rey” I murmur, though whether meant for you or myself is unclear.
The hair rope released, you find your head lolling on your chest. Burnsall has been destroyed, melted, wicked away, and your body has benefitted: breasts, belly and bum fractionally larger than when we set out together.
I grasp the knot again and gently pull you to your knees. With the other hand I encourage your legs to part a little further. Your make a small noise as your lips part. Perhaps you were not aware of the diffuse heat that has been growing there.
Keeping you kneeling up with one hand, the other slips down from your belly, beneath the band of your pants, and smoothly cups your womanhood. You place your cheek on my shoulder and breathe in deep as I trace the hot cleft. Perhaps I’m going to fuck you now. God knows you can feel me become hard behind you, pressing into your hip the second I felt how wet you were.
But with a faint grunt I pull my hand away. You make a moue of protest. Then, rope. New rope, column-tied around one thigh, where it lines the soft, slightly fattened skin.
A loop around the waist, another rig on the other thigh, and then suddenly I’m drawing a rope right from front to back, slashing across your clit, nestling between your lips. Even pressing against your anus and its increasingly insistent freight. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m holding the tension in the rope carefully, pulsing it. The discomfort doesn’t grow too great but the stimulation, the strange biting scratch of the rope softened by fabric, builds a desire for more. You know I’m watching your reaction, controlling the pressure, listening when little gasps become grunts of pain, keeping you in that sweet spot…
The first time you growl I kiss your shoulder. “It’s time to start.”
I pull a small, curved, hot-pink toy from my pocket and briefly show it to you. Something like a remote control is set to one side. While you’re still breathing hard I guide it into your pants where it slips snugly into place, cozy between lips and mons, cupping your clit. The rope holds it in place, which is just as well because you are so wet it could easily slip away. I lick your taste from my fingers. You hear my faint exhale of approval, of desire.
You watch me take the remote and press a button. The device buzzes to life, forcing a gasp and an involuntary rocking motion as your body seeks to find pressure against something that is not there.
Faint beeps as I configure the toy. Your clit is now being pulsed on the lowest setting, rising and falling, a gathering wave distressingly far out to sea when you want nothing more than to go under now, now, now.
An unexpected tie. With a quick motion I pull your hair rope and tie it to the crotch rope. You are forced to look straight up, or tighten the rope against your pussy hard enough to hurt.
I walk around you to the front, regarding you. My expression is guarded, intense. You are kneeling, arms behind you, pale throat sword-swallower straight and your thighs shaking with the desire to fuck something.
“Good,” I say. “Time for dinner.”
The carving tray is already juicy, moreso when I carve you a morsel of beef. A roast of sirloin, normally suited for steak, ridiculously tender and running with rendered fat. I hold the sliver above your lips and indicate that you should part them. You open wide, tongue rolling out, treating me to a view of your tongue, throat, and teeth that is enough to make me physically rock back. I remain my balance and lower the mouthful.
You receive it with grace. The rush of flavour and salt combined with the insistent tease of the vibrator almost threaten to make you come right there and then. Instead you chew—more suck, really, the meat is so tender—and gulp. When you swallow you naturally bend your neck, increasing the bite of the crotch rope.
“More,” you say.
I visibly struggle to control myself. You receive another mouthful, bigger, with the same wide-open shamelessness as before. The sight thrills me to my core. I hasten to feed you.
A kilo of flesh disappears down your gullet before you come for the first time, rocking your hips and almost howling. The instant your eyes unclose I place another cut of meat across your tongue.
This time I don’t remove my hand. You instinctively close your mouth on my fingers and lean forward to take in more. The rope halts you. But the flavour of the beef mingles with the living flavour of me, and something inside you kindles.
You swallow and release my fingers only to say, “more. More of you.”
For now I am happy to grant it. A generous offering of sirloin comes between fingers I feed into your mouth. Your teeth close around my wrist. I feel the muscular pulse of your throat as you gulp down the meat.
“More, deeper.”
I turn up the vibrator. As I do you breach a awesome, tit-shaking burp. Neither of us miss our stride.
I am now standing, proffering whole chunks of fragrant beef clutched in my fist. With care and a singing joy in my heart I press it down your ramrod-straight throat, enclosing myself in your flesh, making of myself an offering as much as the meat.
I feel the opening to your stomach. The look on my face, were you in any state to see it, is that of a man who has come home after long wandering; or, who has realised his life’s work.
You feel in your gut the moment I release the meat, which slithers with a powerful constriction of your oesophagus into the mounting hellscape in your stomach. But the feeling of my arm and hand inside you remains.
I caress the wire-tight entrance to your stomach. It is a prison door slammed tightly shut. Nothing inside could ever hope to see the light of day again.
But it’s built to allow ingress. My finger penetrates the knot of muscle and you come again, eyes screwed tightly shut, rocking back and forth.
I dare to stroke the inner lining of your stomach, plump, and slick with fatal fluids. A part of me has now touched that most deadly and fascinating of places. I can actually feel the rumble of your guts working on your food.
I withdraw. You lick your lips and speak urgently, opening your eyes and staring at me like you’re trying to control me.
“Again. Deeper. All the way in. Fucking feed yourself to me. Be my food if you love me.”