The key was not letting on how he felt. Let the rope take over. Let the familiar routine play out like a dance number he had memorized. Disappear into his dominance.
That would keep him from letting on the crush he had on her. That would hide the fact that he had been pining for her for weeks.
You couldn’t be shy when you were in control. You couldn’t blush from the top.
Still, as he pushed and pulled her, as he watched her eyes close and her beautiful face become placid as she went off into subspace, he realized he was subconsciously stopping himself from touching her skin directly. He was holding his breath so as not to smell her hair when she was near.
She had been made sacred in his daydreams, and he couldn’t seem to break that spell.
He finally looked at her. Really looked at her. She was in nothing but panties, the rope wound round her in the tie he knew best, the gote, the box tie. It bound her arms behind her back and framed her breasts tightly in triangles of rope.
Her face was turned up. Her eyes still closed. Her neck exposed, smooth and vulnerable. Her lips- he couldn’t look at her lips. The want would make him stumble.
He reached for her, taking the rope in one hand and her mass of curly hair in the other.
“Now that I have you trussed up pretty for me, I want to hurt a little. Would you like that?” He whispered in her ear.
He gave in and breathed in her scent, her shampoo, her perfume, her. He felt like a creep, but it made him shiver. It got him hard.
“Yes, please. I would very much like you to hurt me,” she whispered.
His fists tightened. His jaw clenched. He wanted to be nothing but cruel, but when his hand connected with her body, it was like communion.