The Dominant Male

run – a rough, shuddering, juddering orgasm that had her slamming her ass cheeks against the bench, setting Paul a challenge to keep his fingers inside of her. If she could have whinnied, she would have done.
    Manda relaxed into her bonds, using them for support as her muscles gave way as far as they could under the strain of her bondage. As her climax eddied away, the ache in her shoulders and chest became, simply, pain, but still she inclined her head gently, seeking Paul’s shoulder to rest it on as he slowed the motion of his fingers finally. He hugged her, with his right arm passing beneath her arms and drawing her trunk slightly, a little awkwardly, towards him.
    ‘Sir,’
    ‘Yes, Love?’ said Paul languidly.
    ‘Sir, you’re a bastard. An utter bastard, Sir ,’ and she laughed, drawing out the last word. He pulled his arm away and drew it back, bringing it down playfully on her bottom.
    ‘Oh, yes?’ he asked, unsurprised.
    ‘Yes, you bastard. You had me come while thinking of the cuffs.’
    ‘I aim to please.’
    ‘It was twisted. I loved it. Now can you…’ But his hand was already at the buckle of his belt, loosening the bond around her upper arms ‘…ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh.’ Manda exclaimed as her blood began to resume its full flow around her biceps. ‘Thank you, Sir!’
    ‘I’ll let you see this,’ said Paul, wisely refraining from rubbing her arms lest he break any of the smaller vessels, a fingertip tracing the lattice-work pattern left on her skin. He released her wrists from their imprisonment, the unbuckling of the institutional cuffs sounding dramatic in any context. Bringing her arms down with relief, Manda ran a finger around each upper arm. One hand felt her glistening cunt-folds before, slipping it out of the way, she slumped forward onto the bench, hands caressing the padded top as Paul knelt to unbuckle her ankles, first one, then the other.
    ‘I meant to say thank you, also,’ Manda murmured, reflective now, peaceful-sounding, ‘for not bringing up you-know-what. I don’t think I could have stood it if you’d tried to tease me into doing it, or something.’
    ‘Oh, that,’ said Paul implacably, looking up at her, ‘I don’t have to. I think you just lack confidence, when in fact you’d be excellent. You’ll do it!’
    Her heart sank. ‘Damn,’ she said, in quiet consternation.
    ‘We can make a start tomorrow morning!’
    The remainder of the previous day had passed beatifically in several ways, and Manda had felt able to push their still-divisive issue to one side. After their session on the vaulting horse, Paul had led her to the bed and fucked her sweat-slicked body copiously. The conventional missionary fucking had been reassuring, Manda suffering as she did from the sub’s occasional paranoia that she was merely an accepting, posable mannequin, her attractiveness stemming from her compliance as a plaything and little more. Paul had known better than to be impatient with this – despite the object of evident beauty from which it issued, he’d said – peppering her with affection as he softly listed all the unique, original ways in which she was all that, yes, but so much more.
    Someone with her own dark turn of mind, who, he said, reassured him, in her turn, that she wasn’t doing anything simply to be accepted, that she relished all that they did, even being made to do it. Without what they did she’d hardly need his acceptance anyway. She was nobody’s fool. He wouldn’t have been comfortable with it any other way. It had come as a shock to him in life, Paul had told her, that there were women who would go along with things out of insecurity – as a younger man, he’d always looked at women, near or far, as objects of desire. People had to have a certain level of understanding to be able to give meaningful consent. It struck her that men like Paul really worshipped women as much as any foot slave, for their ultimate goal, it often seemed, was to subject you to their gaze most of all – to have you there, pinned and mounted for their appreciation, immobilized to give them control not only of you but of the moment, too.
    ‘Like controlling time itself, you mean?’ Paul had asked.
    ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ Manda had wondered not for the first time if having such analytical conversations killed the thing they loved. But fuck it – if it was going to happen it was going to happen. It wasn’t like they could ever have preserved themselves as perfect