that came with liberation, I just noticed his hands and his feet. They pressed into me, rubbing my calves and my back, holding me tight, so tightly that I felt like he'd never let go.
And I wanted that.
I wanted him to keep me.
I wanted him to be there. Always. To hold me when I fell. Uncaring that I was a mess, uncaring that I wasn't perfect and pretty.
Wanting me raw and open.
A soothing hum escaped him as he touched me, and though I could feel his boner, and I knew I was wet, this wasn't sexual.
It went deeper.
So deep that I didn't understand it, but found a curious freedom in realizing that I didn't need to.
It just was.
Earlier, I’d watched him head for the door, certain he'd leave me like this, only to watch him untie his boots. It was then I realized how wrong it was for me to trust him so little. He’d never leave me like this.
Ever.
Then, I’d seen him in my kitchen, preparing dinner, and after, I'd listened to his experiences in the lifestyle when he was younger. In the white space he'd left me in from when he cooked, my mind had been curiously adrift. My one focus him.
It wasn't buzzing with thoughts of today or last night. It wasn't buzzing with worries or fears.
Just him.
That was all I saw.
All I heard.
All I breathed.
All I needed.
With my lips pressed against his throat, in my favorite position of them all, he grunted when the timer went off on the stove.
I clung to him harder in response, knowing he'd be getting up soon, and he didn't chide me. Didn't slap my ass like I'd thought. Instead, his embrace turned fiercer, and he asked, "Who do you belong to, Indy?"
My mouth trembled, my eyes darted from side to side behind my closed lids, my breasts heaved with shaky breaths, and my body ached from the enforced position he'd put me in.
And while, emotionally, I was more tied up than I'd been with the rope restraining me, I felt curiously free as I whispered, "You."
"Me."
I heard the vow there, knew it represented so much that neither of us had agreed to. He said he didn't want to brand me yet, that we might never be ready for that, and he could be right, but brands weren't always visible.
Brands could be made on a person's soul, and I knew I wore his name etched on mine.
Now, I just needed to make sure mine was etched on his.
He kissed my temple again, then when he started to make a move to let go of me, I didn't struggle. I stopped clinging and watched as he went to the kitchen, peered into the stove, pulled off the foil, then shut the oven door again.
When he set the timer, I thought he'd come back to me, but he didn't. He set the string beans on to boil, before he finally returned to my side.
Then, he surprised me again. He ran his hand over my legs, testing here and there, his touch firm as he looked at me, trying to see if I was uncomfortable. His fingers trailed over my thighs, up my belly, and to my arms, where he did the same thing, squeezing each finger, making sure I was okay.
Just when I thought he'd tell me to get dressed for dinner, his hand snapped between my legs, and he yanked my panties off me.
I yelped in surprise, then groaned when his fingers delved between the lips of my sex, unerringly finding my clit.
Even as he stroked me there, he thrust three into my cunt as he started to fuck me, hard and fast. He scissored those fingers, wide and wider, before raking them up against the front wall of my pussy.
It took me no time at all to scream out my orgasm, no time at all to be rolling on the bed again, falling onto my side as he carried on, not stopping fucking me with his hand even as I reduced his access, as he played with my clit and drove me wild as he gave me what I hadn't known I needed.
Release.
I howled when the second orgasm hit, but the third had me shuddering on the bed like I'd been tazered.
When the slight break inside me happened, I didn't feel it. Just knew something was different. Strange.
Then he moved his hand off my clit, pushed down on my belly, and I yelped as he fucked me harder, harder, harder still,