restraint 02

“Undress yourself,” I say, immediately. It’s clearly been on my mind. “And undress her. Leave the ropes.”

You do both simultaneously. Your clothes peel off your gorgeous round form while impossible tendrils of darkness lash out. They raise squeaks of pain and terror from your dinner. Her clothes peel away, red-edged where you didn’t preserve her skin.

“Lick her clean,” I say, stern in the face of your smirk, “put your lips on her throat, and then open your legs.”

“Yes, sir,” you say with no small degree of irony. Other tops might not like the sass but you know exactly how far to push your attitude and still have me adore it.

The bed creaks. I’m just waiting for the crack of a broken lat, but the hotel bed frame holds after all. Your knees, pin-points supporting very great weight, are death to all but the sturdiest beds. You lower your head to her thigh and snag a perfect rectangle of skirt between your teeth, throwing it aside, then back down. Though she kicks to get away the headboard limits her and anyway you don’t give her quarter: your chest pins her calves and that’s enough to hold this waif in place.

Your cuts are mercifully shallow but long. A centimetre deeper and you would have been able to peel off a sheet of her skin. As it stands you follow the line upwards, the glide of your tongue gathering copper and salt. Poor girl squirms for five of these, one for every slice on her legs, but she’ll learn to endure worse by the end.

Arms behind her, she is a red-run canvas for your questing mouth. It becomes a game: anticipate how she will struggle and rock and flinch, and ensure your mouth is there to catch the next bloody score mark. Her skin is young, supple and clean. You practically purr as you make her feed you her blood.

Your focus means you didn’t track where I was till I touch you. My hand, heavy and firm, places itself on your coccyx and traces up your spine as you bestride your frightened prey. You are chasing a cut you rather dangerously made above her collarbone when I grab your hair in a fist and force your lips to her throat. You both freeze: she because there is nothing in this world as vulnerable as feeling the teeth of a blood-hungry stranger on your defenceless neck, and you because now her pulse is literally throbbing against your tongue and you’re not allowed to bite.

If you just closed your jaws a little she would pop and flood your mouth. Saliva wets your mouth so instantly you feel your salivary glands ache. You literally know her taste.

Why are you not biting?

“Good girl.”

Oh yeah. Other prey.

“Shh shh shh, relax your shoulders for me.” It takes a while—you’re poised ready to tear out her pretty white throat—but by degrees you manage to release some of the thrumming tension. “Good, good. And your hips. Let your belly rest on her.” This is easier because you’ve started already. Kilos upon kilos of soft fat mould around her body like she’s already inside. Some of that weight is not just fat but the structures inside, like the viscera she might slick her way through later.

“There, that looks good. Safewords are the usual green, yellow and red, by the way.” The fist in your hair relaxes and begins to stroke along your ebony waves. Being petted is a strange counterpoint to having a living being in your literal jaws.