The Dominant Male

much you like to be manacled.’
    ‘What?’ She hadn’t been expecting a question.
    He twisted a nipple in response. ‘Address me properly!’
    ‘What, Sir?’ she winced and giggled.
    ‘Tell… me… how much you like to be manacled.’ He repeated. She could hear him savouring the words for the second time as his meaning from the first sunk in. He was only asking her to repeat what she had told him, what he knew from experience, but it made her focus her attention on her wrists, cuffed behind her, feeling them chafe anew. ‘You know I like you at a disadvantage, restrained. I know you like it… Tell me why. Go on.’ As he spoke, Paul massaged her engorged clit with his thumb as he slid his finger-ends over the stippled patch of flesh not far behind her pubic bone. With his other hand he massaged her pert tits, tweaked her proud nipples, and ran up and down her flank. When she wriggled, it only exerted pressure on her cunt-lips, taughtened lengthways as they were against the padded top of the horse, and her constrained clit. She relished how, like some martial art, she could find her petulance turned back on herself like this.
    Evidently she’d been silent a moment too long. ‘I want to know what you’re thinking about. And if I stipulate what that is…’ Paul emphasised his words with another cursory slap to her behind ‘…and encourage you to repeat it back to me, then I know exactly what you’re thinking.’
    Her shins sore from kicking about, the few inches the ankle-straps allowed, heels bruised from bashing the sides of the horse in her excitement, Manda told him haltingly how she loved to be held fast around her wrists, helpless, to feel that her body was at anyone’s mercy. He made her admit that it allowed her to relax – that restraint relieved her of the need to please others – unless they had ordered her to, to the best of her ability, with her mouth, say – the lazy little trollop. All the while his hand slicked in and out of her cunt, his thumb held against the sliver of flesh above, goading her generously towards a climax which seemed to be on the way despite her repeated, frustrated attempts to gain purchase on the wooden slats of the horse with her heels in the vain hope of thrusting her hips forward and allowing his fingers some deeper penetration.
    What she didn’t mention right then was how having her wrists held also made her feel cuddled and cosseted in some curious way. They reinforced the fact that someone else was taking the decisions. It reminded her of how much she trusted him, how fond she had become, too, of his kooky mind, the mad imagination she had relaxed him into revealing to her.
    She was relieved Paul didn’t seem inclined to pause. To tease her right then, she knew, would have been to conflate her pleasure with the real-life, practical situation they’d yet to resolve, to base her receipt of joy cruelly on her concession to undertake what he wanted her to do, without relent it had seemed. It would have crossed boundaries, mixed fantasy with reality too readily. She couldn’t let herself put up with that, yet she so wasn’t inclined to have a proper row with him.
    She was also relieved that he hadn’t paused to torture her further, passing behind her, say, to pick up the fiendish pair of finger-cuffs they’d played with – she wasn’t sure her poor, aching shoulders, held cruelly closer together with his belt, would have taken much more delay. Likewise had he paused to play with wax and their multicoloured collection of candles, as she had so often enjoyed. Though her tits sat proudly and pertly like a ship’s figurehead, ready for drips of wax to crust and run down their slopes, she was determined not to succumb to his real-world wishes, and not giving in would be much easier if he didn’t bring them up anytime now.
    Sometimes, when he paused with her in bondage, taking time over his next elaboration, the pleasure that glowed in response to the denial and discomfort inflicted on her made her so confused, she could only ask him outright to satisfy her. Often he’d act obtusely until she begged and pleaded, turned on further by her own cravenness. This wasn’t one of those times. She wriggled her wrists in the cuffs as she felt her climax build hotly, thrusting herself up and down the small distance her thighs could travel, mashing her hips against the top of the bench again and again, as fast as she could. It spread through her, grabbed on the