Kashmir. The rhythm of the song, slow, steady, is all I hear. I see nothing. I feel the ties that are holding my arms above my head, my legs to the corners of the mattress. I smell the the liquor on my breath, the joint in the ashtray. I smell him, the mix of whiskey and cigarettes I have come to know is him, and something else. A sharp, almost metallic taste that is always there. Is it bitterness, seeping out his pores? Is it desire? Demand?
He does demand this. Of course, the power, he tells me, is in the submission. In allowing him to tie me to his bed. To blindfold me, play music so loud it drowns everything else out but that beat, the rhythm, low, marching forward.
I know the lights are on, I know he is watching me, looking for signs of weakness, of submission. I know if I tell him, he will stop. But I don’t want him to stop, even as I pull against the ties that bind my arms to the headboard
He leaves me, I hear nothing, see nothing, I don’t know where he is or what he is doing.
Then I hear ice clinking in a glass, and I realize he has paused. He is pouring a drink. Stopping to have a smoke perhaps. Yes, I smell a match, the acrid smoke of his cigarette. He is sitting, from the sounds he makes, on the chair in the corner of the room, looking. Biding his time. Planning perhaps? Does he have a plan?
He always has a plan. He is always in control. He orchestrated this entire evening, from the drinks to the music to the choice of material with which to tie me to the bed.
Tinkle of ice, drag, exhale smoke. He is watching me, I think through the haze of my buzz and the almost electric charges that are arcing over and through my body. I want more, I want his mouth on me, more than the kisses on my mouth, the biting of my breasts, the almost casual licks and sucks he has made all along my arms and legs and pussy.
I realize I am twisting in the bed.
I feel the mattress sink between my feet, he is on the bed. Robert sings for someone to let the sun beat down upon his face. I feel his hands on my knees, I want to wrap my legs around his hips and pull him to me, but my legs are tied, the leather straps giving just enough to allow me pull my thighs up ever so slightly, fuck I want to lift my legs!
He climbs up my body, straddling me, I realize he has taken his clothes off, I feel his legs, on each side of me. I want his cock, goddam it’s right there, I can feel him, smell him, fuck.
He brushes my lips with his cock. I try to reach toward it, guide it into my mouth, I can feel the straps as my hands try to grab him, fuck I have never been so fucking frustrated.
Why don’t I have him untie me, I know he would if I ask. He made sure I knew that before led me in here, before he poured the drinks, took my clothes off, kissing me after every article came off. I knew before he put the Zepplin on.
So why don’t I tell him to let me go? Why do I pull against the soft yet so strong leather that keeps me from reaching down and grabbing his ass, pushing his dick into my mouth? I don’t know, I only know that I want to grab his cock, shove it into my mouth, feel the shape of it push past my lips and onto the back of my throat, swallowing him as I reach behind him, making him fuck my mouth.
But I also know I that I love the fact that I can’t.
He makes an “uh-uh” noise, as if I am a cat greedy for a treat. He waits, as Robert sings of the songs that have caressed his ears, and then I feel the head of his dick on my face, and I suck him into my mouth, and feel grateful that he has done what I could not, shoved his cock into my mouth.
He pushes in, I feel the restraints on my ankles and wrists as I strain against them, I feel my pelvis lift off the bed, oh my god him in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat. He stays there, giving me, finally, what I want, I can feel my pussy dripping down on the the bed. Fuck yes, oh my god yes.
Then, he is gone.
Fuck! Please, my mind screams, maybe I say it outloud, I can’t really hear myself over the sound of Kashmir, but he is gone, off the bed, not touching me anywhere. I want him back, I can feel myself reaching for him, but he is gone.
Then I feel him, again, on the bed, between my legs.
“Please,” I say.
“Fuck me, please fuck me.”
I ask this, but I don’t ask that he untie me. I could make him fuck me, I could be free to pull his body to mine, but I don’t ask him to untie me, instead I plead for him to fuck me.
He stops moving, as if he is considering whether he will give me what he wants. He has the power, who is he kidding, even if I have him untie me. The he will have made me choose to stop, and fuck that. I’m not a pussy.
I feel him crawling closer between my legs, his hands are on each side of my head on the bed, he is on top of me, but not inside of me. What the actual fuck. I pull and pull against the leather holding my arms and legs, I cannot think beyond how close he is, his dick touching my pussy.
Robert is singing about what he feeeee-eeeels as he plunges into me, I lift myself to him, pull at the leather, fuck yes, and I am coming, riding an orgasm so hard I think I may actually die. I feel myself clenching onto him, down a spiral, my hands grasping at nothing, screaming along with as Robert Plant begs for me to let him take me there … and the beat back, on and on ….
The next day, they are still there, the restraints, I see them when I walk into the bedroom. I realize I can hear echoes of what the fuck ever happened here last night. The sight of the leather, peeping out from under the mattress, sends a bolt to my pussy as my face gets red.
He says I had the power to make him stop. But I didn’t. So, who is in control?
And I hear the opening chords of Kashmir, demanding that I return.