Breaking in Waves Pt. 05

Note: The last update as well as this one feel like such strange glimpses into the past. This one is still a little achy, a little low on explicit all-the-way intensity, but we're building towards it in the next update. Thank you so much for sticking with this story!

IV

There were days when it felt like Paul and I were living in different time zones, different universes, maybe, like time simply passed differently for each of us. His time went slower, or faster--I don't know which one, but it didn't pass like mine.

Once, he sent me a text: My sweet pet, I'm thinking of you. Tell me how you're wearing your hair today.

I'd been in and out of meetings all day, had never even looked at the phone until it was almost time to go home. That was still early in this strange construct of our distance D/s dating experiment, and I knew him even less, couldn't gauge his reaction or the gravity of my screw-up.

The shock ran through my entire body; he had addressed me as pet, not Iris, which might have indicated a normal, casual conversation. But pet was one of those words that had already taken root in my body as a precursor to the deeper, somehow more resonant voice, the calmly commanding nature he could weave so effortlessly. And I had made him wait--not just a little bit, but almost all day.

I immediately texted back an apology along with my answer, then hovered over the phone for the last hour of my working day. I didn't get anything done after that, just drummed my fingers on the desk, carried my phone along everywhere, even just to the kitchen to get some tea.

On the tube, I drafted a second text. Another, more serious apology. Still no answer. Then I spent the rest of the evening waiting, nervous and feeling indescribably and disproportionately guilty.

Nothing came. I finally fell asleep around two o'clock, and spent the next day tired and frustrated, exploding at the intern at least twice. That night, I called him, but he didn't answer.

Finally, I sent a quick email. I had to force myself to stay neutral and nice. At this point, I no longer felt guilty. He was the one making me feel bad for no good reason; I had apologized. It had been an honest oversight.

He emailed back a few hours later; said he'd forgotten about that text he had sent me and wasn't even sure where he'd left the phone. He'd spent the day walking by the beach and then working on a particularly beautiful piece of driftwood he'd picked up.

We didn't phone every night, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred; he was happy--ranting about the sea and his work. I never told him about my panicked state. It made me feel stupid, like a teenager, and the last thing I wanted was for him to see me that way, too.

Maybe it was the sea that did it, or the city. Maybe it was working nine to five, and tube carriages so crammed with people, their thoughts and odors permeated every part of me. Maybe it was walks by the beach, along the steady, soothing rhythm of the waves.

The next time it happened, I tried to stay calm, but when it stretched for days, I finally called his landline and let it ring and ring until he picked up, out of breath and a big smile in his voice. He'd been working. Had it really been three days? He hadn't realized.

This time he apologized, and we spent the evening together on the phone. A few days later, I had a huge package delivered. My neighbor accepted it for me, and I had trouble getting it into my flat. Turned out he'd spent the last few days working on an intricate driftwood table for the side of my bed. It had sea glass worked into the wood, little glimmering mirror pieces and fisherman's rope.

The note said: You mentioned not having a place to keep a book and a lamp by the bed.

Later, he told me how this wasn't anything like his usual work, that he'd thought of me lying in my bed and different ideas and inspiration had sprung into his head. He described how he hadn't been able to stop working at it for days. He'd cackled when he told me how hard it had been to keep it a secret when I called.

That time, I did tell him. He made me, because he saw tears well up in my eyes over the webcam. That time, he'd thought of me as much as I had of him--but he'd spent it lovingly creating something for me, while I had hovered over the phone.

His time had passed in a flash of wood shavings and sea glass, while mine had lasted an eternity between meetings and trying to force my mind back onto the article I was researching, the project that had somehow, over the course of a few weeks, grown from 'a few meetings' into 'leading a team'--nobody had ever asked me if I wanted to lead anything.

I tried to take these instances as lessons, but that was harder than I thought. I still don't know how to handle it well; I still wonder every time whether he's finally gotten bored with this--the lack of touch, or the disproportionate amount of time he has to spend making me feel better.

It's hard. I didn't expect that; it's hard to be where he is not, to hold back feelings I'm not supposed to have yet. To try to sort of real feelings from lust and desire and wanting to return to the dreamy place outside of time that was his cottage. And the warmth of his arms around me.

***

The blinds were half-closed. Late afternoon light sat flat on the table. Across from me the three men had stopped writing. I clicked once more and the final slide came up.

"So, in conclusion," I said, drawing a circle around my last slide with the red laser dot, "if we want to attract a younger target market to our magazine, we need to pursue these three lines of action. We have to establish a bold, visually pleasing and interactive web presence; we have to take risks, feature more young, independent cinema so that it actually stays informative and doesn't rehash the same old things everybody can find with two clicks on their phone; and finally pursue a more inventive marketing strategy that actually gets the magazine into new hands."

I swallowed, watching the three old men at the table across from me. They did not look happy. "That's... the result of our research."

George Lyle was tapping his finger against his lips; he'd narrowed his eyes some two minutes into my presentation and hadn't relaxed since. The other two were clearly waiting for him to speak, and I played with the laser-pointer, sending a Morse code message against the grey carpet. My dad taught me when I was a child; all I remember now is my name.

...-......

Iris. Iris. Iris.

I got through five repetitions before Lyle cleared his throat.

"One and three sound expensive."

I clicked back to the slide with the rough numbers. They were the intern's numbers more than mine, but I had checked the arithmetic twice.

"And the second like it will take time to show effect," the senior staff member to his left cut in, studying the graphs.

"Of course," I said with a one-shoulder shrug, hiding a hint of annoyance at the futility of the task I was set. "All of them will take time and money to implement. I don't think there is a quick and cheap solution to this." The market had been going through a fundamental shift for over a decade, and the magazine hadn't changed all that much.

I could tell that Lyle was trying hard not to scowl, and I stepped back, lowering my head. I had been sending out resumes for a while, unsure of my future with the magazine, or the magazine's future itself, but it wasn't a hiring market, and I was stuck. I tried to take my head back to the day I started here, the excitement of working adjacent to cinema like this. The incredibly interesting articles I had worked on from time to time. The day I met Paul.

"What I meant to say is," I started again, my voice noticeably softened, "that the team hasn't unearthed any less time- or resource-consuming options that we deemed effective enough to bring to your attention. Or that seem to have worked for any other outlet in our position,"

"Which one would you recommend?"

I took a deep breath. "A combination of them all, really, with staggered priority. A strong, interactive web presence is the first thing we should work on, and at the same time start researching new markets. TV shows, even web shows, have started to catch up to movies in terms of quality and creativity--they are also the ones with a passionate following. We could start making room for that."

I pulled my vest down and stuck my hands into the pockets of my trousers. "After those two are showing first results, we can walk new paths in advertising. But..." I looked around the three wrinkled faces, then pulled up my shoulders. "You know I'm not an expert in any of this, this is just what the team came up with. I'm a writer."

They nodded; Lyle scratched his head, while the other two got up from their chairs. They squeaked and sighed under the release of weight.

"Thank you Ms. Ellis."

"Mr. Lyle, um, could I have a word, please?"

He nodded and waited until the others had left the room. My hand instinctively found the phone in my pocket and I held it tightly like a talisman.

"I was wondering if I might take a few days off, next week maybe or the one after? I know it's spontaneous, I just..." My voice trailed off and I shrugged. There had been an explanation in my head. I'd come up with it on the tube ride to work, but it had long vanished in a puff of nervous breath. Somehow the presentation hadn't made me sweat like this did.

"Ordinarily," he started, his forehead a knotted landscape of hills and valleys, "I'd make an exception, but I'd really like you to stay on top of this. I'm taking your suggestions to the board, but they'll want to see results as soon as possible. They'll want a plan. You brought up some good ideas for a new website, but that's all it is. We need a firm concept, someone to liaise with a web designer, a budget calculation, the works."

I swallowed and as a vague sense of lightheadedness came over me, I steadied myself against the table.

"But I'm a writer..."

"Or you could be a project manager. Comes with a pay raise."

When I left the conference room, I had only the vaguest memory of agreeing to his offer. As if the surprise of it had temporarily toppled most of me out of my body and whatever was left had taken over. He mentioned contracts having to be drawn up and HR needing to be consulted, but he wanted to give me a shot. And now was the time to show him I could put my job first and bring results.

Then I thought of Paul. I wanted to call him, tell him the news. I was a little too numb to figure out how I felt about it all. He had a way of really listening, though, listening in a way that led to new insights without him having to say a word. I would figure it out with him on the phone, but I would cry, too. And I'd have to tell him that I didn't have the faintest clue when I'd be able to take some time off. That I wasn't going to make it back to the sea, and instead would spend my weekends much like the last few: advancing a most likely futile project to an arbitrarily tight deadline.

I slumped into my chair and moved the mouse haphazardly across the pad to get rid of the screen saver. My email inbox was full to the brim, and I leaned back, rubbing my temples. This was being a grown-up, right?

V

I was back by the sea, walking past tiny cottages bracing themselves against the steady wind. They all had a tinge of grey to them; I think the salt just got to everything in time: houses, trees, people. Maybe that's why everybody I'd seen in the village had the same white hair, and the same deep lines, full of dust or tiny salt crystals.

I walked along Paul's driftwood fence, slowly, so that I could run my fingers over the structures, feel the soft sheen of the ancient trees, ground down by sand and salt. I took my time; waiting to let the excitement, the anticipation rise and grow in my chest. Paul was inside, waiting for me.

"Iris?"

I looked up, felt the lump in my throat and blinked the conference room back into existence. There was a cup of tea in front of me, still full, but no longer steaming. The team sat around me, all of them looking at me instead of the presentation projected on the wall. I felt a blush coming on and steeled my jaw against it, as though that would help.

"Are you back with us?"

"Sorry. Sorry, I had a bad night's sleep." I rubbed my chin, tried a smile and tapped my pen onto the empty notepad in front of me. "Can you back up just two minutes? Sorry."

As though to prove my dedication to maintaining focus, I picked up the cup of tea. There was a pause around the table, but then we turned our attention back to Dan, the guy from the web design company who was speaking to us about current website trends.

He was a young man, about my age and from the new generation of computer nerds, handsome and gregarious, who made their talents and their slender frame work for them. He was excited--much like I should have been about getting to be part of a team that was trying to push our magazine into the twenty-first century.

Two weeks after I'd tentatively accepted a position as project manager, I hadn't grown into the role much. I was telling myself that I just had to get used to it, that my lack of motivation stemmed from sexual frustration and, possibly, an overblown sense of self-importance, nothing more. Truth was, the former alone loomed large enough to account for any lapse in judgment or mood.

I'd spent the previous evening on the phone with Paul and it was almost midnight by the time I was done bitching at him about my job, the team and, most ferociously, the board of directors and the obstacles they put in our way. I'd apologized, told Paul to interrupt me next time, but he seemed as calm and content as ever. I envied that a lot. We'd tried to turn the mood around. He was great, understanding, sweet, gently demanding... but I couldn't concentrate, couldn't get my mind into the right place and we finally gave up at around two o'clock.

I'd cried for a bit out of sheer exhaustion, and all day I had been thinking about the flash of helplessness that had crossed his face on the screen.

I ached for Paul.

And worse, I was starting to think we might have made a huge mistake trying to turn a one-night-stand into something else, something more. Neither of us seemed to know what we were doing.

I tried to focus on the image projected on the wall again. A projector fed everything Dan was doing on his computer into a beam of light and it hurt my eyes to follow his account this way. It was too bright in the darkened room. He was also talking too much. He wasn't the only one who had used a computer before. Sometimes, maybe unfairly, I wondered if I'd be happier in a company that employed more women.

"So, basically we're talking about interactivity, connectivity-that kind of stuff?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"Exactly. Today's net user wants to show off, compete and have fun. Here, I made you guys a list of ways other companies in the field accomplish this." He looked through his files until he found a few paper copies and handed them around the table. I skimmed my sheet and set it aside; most of these were ideas we had come up with in our initial brainstorming sessions as well.

"How about we break for lunch?" I asked, nodding at the clock mounted over the door. "We'll come back in an hour to discuss how we can implement what we just learned."

Chairs groaned, cups rasped over the table and the team--my team--left the room in pairs, talking quietly as they went.

"Sorry, I get excited when..." Dan started but I waved him off, putting on a bright smile.

"Not at all, it was a great presentation. I'm really grateful you joined our team."

He nodded, pushing his hand through his hair. It hung down to his chin almost exactly like Paul's did, and I was struck with a sudden desire to touch, to pull, and hold.

He looked at the door, then hesitated.

"Do you want to grab a bite together? You really look like you could use some sugar in your system." There was a sparkle in his eyes, like a joke I wasn't quite privy too. "It's on me."

I blinked, shaking my head before I could actually think about it. I wasn't really hungry, and I'd certainly heard enough of his voice for one morning. Still my throat closed up and I stepped from one foot to the other.

It struck me that it wouldn't be difficult to date him. He was handsome in a Harry Potter kind of way, and he had a good reputation. Everybody liked him at the office; he had a nice smile. I'd see him every day, we'd go for lunch together; share the same inside jokes about the office, leave together in the afternoon. And yet the prospect depressed me so much, I found it hard to breathe.

A knock at the door spared me an answer. We both turned and it broke the moment.

"Um, Iris? There's a delivery for you at reception."

I felt a modicum of guilt at the relief that flooded me. Dan shrugged and I dashed ahead--I've never been good at turning men down. How do you casually drop into a work conversation that you're seeing someone--or at least, that there is someone you're dating, who's on your mind all the time, even if his hands are never on your skin.

"Delivery?" I asked the UPS guy, who was leaning against the desk to flirt with our receptionist.

"Iris Ellis?" At my nod, he handed over a thin cardboard tube. I signed for it, a sprinkle of disappointment in the dragging flow of the pen. We were sent film posters and promotional material all the time, and I took a moment to feel stupid about the rush of excitement on my way over here.

Then I saw the shipping label.

There was the familiar, powerful sweep of straight lines, the long, smooth curve of the final s. I bit my lip, cradled the tube against my chest. My cunt contracted, just once. Arousal, however, was too closely linked to my tear ducts that day, and I avoided Dan's eye as he ambled past me. I didn't want lunch with him, I didn't want anything he could have given me--and so I turned my back, and slipped into the closest bathroom, locking myself in a stall.

My hands shook when I tried to pry open the lid. It finally gave with a hollow pop and I stared into the dark hole. I couldn't see a thing. Then I upturned it. I listened to the sound of something soft sliding over cardboard, held my breath. Then my fingers closed around a smooth, long object. I blinked, forced my eyes to focus on the flat leather strap. It had a warm, reddish hue, looked worn and worked, and it wasn't hard to imagine his long-fingered, chapped hands on the handle, staining, darkening the leather.

I swallowed hard, pressed the strap to my lips. It was cool against the heat of my skin, and I reached into my pants just to feel my fingers curl against my cunt.

Paul.

I whispered his name out loud, "Paul."

It choked me, just for a moment, and then I forced my fingers out of my pants and fished for the letter inside the tube. It was a regular sheet of printer paper with just a few words scrawled onto the center of the page.

Take a long lunch.

Find your favorite restaurant. Don't order, don't touch yourself, don't try your present.

Text me for your next instructions.

-Paul

My hand was the first thing I stared at. I worried my bottom lip with my teeth until it hurt. It was dishonest, but I washed my hands before I left, scrubbed them long and hard and with a lot of soap. They felt too dry when I gathered up my things and found the last member of my team still in the building, sitting by her desk with her salad. I told her that I might be back a little late and to take the minutes for me while Dan finished showing them websites for inspiration.

I don't know if it was my flushed, excited face or the sudden squeaky pitch, but I thought she looked at me strangely. I didn't care. I didn't even care that the strap and the instructions could only mean that I was going to be punished for the night before. I deserved it, didn't I? I welcomed it, even, if that would make me feel less awful, less like we were fighting a losing battle in a room that was slowly disintegrating around us.

***

The cold was bracing against my cheeks. It hadn't snowed since that night of Thai food and fingers pushed deep into my ass for his viewing pleasure, but moving into April had brought nothing but cold winds and rain. I checked my watch, tried to concentrate. My favorite restaurant was a small curry place from which you could look out over the less interesting part of the Thames, where it was brown and muddy and not framed in verdant tree-lined paths and famous landmarks.

A bus would take me 15 minutes, at least, so I hailed a cab, shivering and holding onto my bag a little too tightly. I tipped the driver too much when we got there five minutes later and I stumbled onto the pavement. The wind blew up my hair, and I hugged my coat around myself as I sought shelter in the restaurant. The air smelled hot and spicy, and I asked for a corner table, somewhere a little bit hidden--just in case.

I texted Paul even before I ordered a drink, and the phone was still in my hand when it whirred to deliver his reply.

Paul: Go to the bathroom.

I stood, swayed on the spot and took a deep breath. The tapestry on the wall slid in and out of focus: golden thread weaved into colorful patterns. I touched the side of my head, then directed my steps towards the bathroom in the back. My hand slipped into my bag to wrap around the leather. It was cold, and it felt both reassuring and absolutely terrifying.

I was already slick. I could feel it when I walked, the slow drag of wet fabric between my legs. Every step made it worse. By the time I reached the door I was breathing through my mouth.

The bathroom was empty except for the middle stall, which looked occupied--or maybe out of order. I pulled out my phone again, started to type a message.

My thumb was hovering over the letter S for Sir, when the room went dark around me.

I jumped, clutched my phone harder, and just as I decided to use its light to guide me back out, I felt a hand sliding over the small of my back. I gasped. A second one clamped over the back of my neck and bent me bodily over the counter, gasping and stunned, as my phone clattered into the sink.

"P... Paul?" I squeaked, heart hammering in my chest.

"Were you expecting somebody else?"

I exhaled, and a modicum of relief flooded through my system, loosened painfully taut muscles. I watched the blue light of the phone screen as it reflected off the white ceramic sink, and let my body rest against the cool surface, fingers fanned out wide.

"You're... here." I breathed, and his grip on the back of my neck loosened a little. "You came."

"I told you I'd come and fix you, pet," he rasped gently, so close to my ear that I felt his breath stir my hair. "You sounded like you needed me."

I'd thought, somehow, that his voice was the one thing that phoning allowed me to have, but it took him being so close again to realize how wrong I'd been. There was a world of difference, an ocean of depth and layers, sediments of rock and earth that no phone line managed to transport. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I sniffed pushing myself back against him.

"I do. I did. I do. Sir."

He slid his hand over my back; I sucked a sharp breath through my teeth when he reached my ass. He clicked his tongue twice.

"Trousers," he admonished, a smile in his voice. He reached around, plopped open the button and pushed his hand deep into my panties.

"That's how I find my girl..."

"Wet." I whispered and he hummed in reply, thrusting his groin against my behind. I shuddered, cunt contracting against his fingers.

He'd just taken a breath to continue, when someone pushed open the bathroom door. They made a noise of surprise, searched for the light switch, then left again.

"Come on, babygirl," he whispered. His hands closed around mine, I could still feel the moisture. He waited long enough for me to close the button of my trousers and grab my phone, and then pulled me along and back into the bright colors of the restaurant. I stared at the back of his head, the spot where the tips of his hair brushed over his sweater, at the beautiful slope of his shoulder, and held my breath until he turned around. Paul.

VI

The brackish smell of the distant sea smacked against our faces as we jogged across the street and down to the river. His hair was flapping in the breeze.

I still couldn't believe he was actually here.

I hung onto his hand and let him lead. It was easy once I'd heard his voice, looked into his eyes. That feeling, the one we'd tried to recreate in more ways than one over the last weeks--here it was, heady and immediate: my mind cleared, my stomach grew warm and hollow and my feet stopped touching the ground.

We reached the riverside, breathing hard and holding hands. He pressed me against the high-water wall. It reached just up to the small of my back, and I bent backwards when he kissed me, hard, his hands in my hair, on my face, holding me, finally, holding me.

The wall was cold through my coat. His body was not. Every place he touched me burned against the chill, and I arched into it, greedy for the contrast.

The stubble of his beard brushed over my chin, his lips, his eyelashes. He still smelled of the sea, even though he'd carried it so much further than the wind here in the city. I touched his chest, pressed my palms against his sweater; wanted to make absolutely sure that he was really there.

"Paul..." I whispered when the kiss broke, breathless and staring at him. "You..."

I realized I had no idea what to say, that my head was empty. I just wanted to look at him, to soak him up inside of me: his smile that crinkled around his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips--redder now and slightly bee-stung after he'd kissed me. Almost of their own accord, my fingers reached up to run along his strong jaw, rubbing gently against the grain of his stubble. He'd been clean-shaven the last time I saw him, and I revelled in the new sensation, looking up into his storm-green colored eyes.

"How?"

He chuckled; there was a hint of mischievous pride in his eyes and something inside ached with longing. Wrapping his fingers hard around my wrist, he brought my palm to his lips, nuzzled into the smell of my hand and then kissed the ridge under my fingers. He pressed it against his lips, never breaking the blazing eye contact between us.

We didn't breathe; I think our heartbeats aligned, and then he let go of my wrist. He lifted me onto the high-water wall and pushed himself between my legs. I wrapped them around his waist, pulled him closer, and the last few inches between us disappeared. I felt his breath on my cheek, his warmth all the way through the layers of clothing, and the wind tossed my hair into his. Tendrils entangled, reaching, trying to bind us together.

I rolled my hips once, deliberately, and felt him hard against me. The sound I made was small and involuntary. He answered it with a low noise in his throat and ground back, slow, letting me feel the full length of him through our clothes.

"Easy," he whispered, brushing the pad of his thumb over my cheek, then my nose, my lips.

"But your work. The long drive."

"I'm American," he said, with a crooked grin. "I'd drive three times as far to take care of my girl."

I laughed, scrunched up my nose and poked his stomach. He let me do it twice before he stopped me, wrapping his large hands around my wrists and pushing them both behind my back and sending me spiraling down into a different place in my head. My features went slack with surprise and desire, my lips opened, breathing shallow.

"You only made it difficult when you hailed a cab and I had to jog back to my car to follow it." He growled against my neck. His nose touched my skin, then his lips, and his teeth. I whimpered, tightened my legs around him. "I felt like James Bond."

When we laughed this time, I could feel the difference. It was softer, more held back, both of our thoughts already elsewhere.

"Did you bring it?" His teeth found a hold in my skin just as I tried to answer and he bit hard enough to make me moan. Shivering, I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Yes, Sir," I breathed. He pressed my wrists together behind my back, so that he could hold them both with one hand. Then he pushed my jacket down over my shoulder to nip at the base of my neck.

"In my bag."

He growled in assent but didn't stop. He breathed me in, kept me upright and licked and bit his way up my jaw and over my chin until he reached my lips and we could look into each other's eyes again. A surge of longing washed over me at the strong, tender expression on his face. His hand tightened around my wrists and then he kissed me, hard and claiming, and I was his again.

Truly, really, actually his.

***

He tugged at my wrists, pushed them hard against the small of my back, and I knew without being told that I was to keep them there when he let go of them and reached for the bag that still hung off my elbow. A smile slid over his features. I held my breath, quivering, and he produced the strap. It looked even better in his hand than I'd imagined, like it was made for him, became a part of him the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle.

He flexed his wrist once. The leather made a soft, heavy sound against his palm. My cunt clenched at the noise.

He brought it to my face, and I gasped, shivering. He ran the cool leather over my cheek and down to my lips. My gaze darted to the road behind him, the Thames-side path to his side, but we were alone in the chilly midday wind, and I relaxed a little.

"Do you know why I sent you this?" he asked, using it to sweep a few flyaway strands of hair out of my face.

"Punishment?" I asked, both tremulous and excited, "because of how I... because of yesterday?"

My face fell when he let the strap sink. His hands smoothed over the cool paths the leather had traveled on my skin. He shook his head, then lowered it until his forehead rested against mine.

"No," he repeated quietly, into this small, intimate space between us. "No, babygirl, not to punish you."

He kissed me again, softer this time. I leaned into him, felt his tongue move against mine. Without the heated frenzy of him claiming my mouth, I appreciated other sensations. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, and I imagined him on his long drive into the city, a thermos and a pack of cookies on the passenger's seat. My fingers itched to touch him, to run through his hair and hold him close, but I kept them at my back, pressing them together harder. His nose brushed against mine and he wrapped his arms around me. I was enveloped, warm, felt small and held and perfect.

"Not to punish me?" I whispered, lips nipping at his chin, at his jaw, anywhere I could reach.

"No. Not to punish you," he echoed. He pulled me off the low wall and took my hand again. He looked at it and I raised my brows, until he drew something from his pocket.

It was more leather, and it brought on another twinge of need between my legs. This time, it was a broad, dark cuff and he fixed it wordlessly around my wrist. It was padded in a softer, warmer material on the inside. I smiled at the sensation, until I saw his hand disappearing into his pocket once more. There was a tinkling sound, like that of metal. Glinting when he pulled it out, smooth and snake-like, a chain curved around his hand. His eyes met mine; my knees went weak and I staggered back against the wall.

With a knowing smile, Paul brushed his fingers over my palm, along the curved line, and then clicked the chain into the metal ring on my cuff. That little click travelled through my entire body, forced me to rise to my toes to dispel the rush of excitement.

The weight of the chain settled against the inside of my wrist. Every tiny shift of it sent a bright, electric thread straight between my legs.

"There's my good girl," he whispered hoarsely as the length of the fine chain disappeared into his pocket again. A thin line of glittering metal stretched between us, and I stared at it, fascinated, scared, and utterly transfixed. I licked my lips, tried to breathe more deeply than the audible shallow gasps I'd been capable of for the last few minutes, but it was like I'd forgotten how.

He stared me down, until I felt a soft pulsing in my clit--a ghost orgasm, a promise, my body's only chance for release.

"Your eyes are dilating."

I didn't know what to say, and then his hand disappeared into his pocket for a third time.

"Do you trust me, Iris?"

"Of course I do," I whispered without a second's thought. He smiled crookedly and I looked at the ground between us. The chain glittered a little out of focus and I raised my eyes again. "I trust you, Sir."

I held his gaze until I felt a little tug at my cuffed wrist.

"Turn around, pet."

I did. The muddy, brackish water of the Thames passed before my eyes until I stood still again, facing the line of trees and the road behind it; the chain jingled as he gave me more leeway.

I felt him step closer behind me; it was the warmth of his body that radiated against my back. I took a deep breath and then he lowered something over my eyes, a piece of fabric that he tied in the back of my head. I sucked a sharp breath between my teeth when my vision went black, when stray hair caught in the knot; I swayed on the spot, then pressed myself against him.

Without sight the cold sharpened. So did the heat of him. I could feel the exact shape of his chest against my shoulder blades, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Hush," he breathed, smoothing his hand down my arm. "I'm here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Remember what you said?"

"I trust you."

"Yes, you do."

He turned me again, just a few degrees, then he stepped to my side and started to walk. The chain jingled again, pulled taut and tugged at my wrist--and so I followed. One tentative step before the next.

"What if..." I started. Silence stretched and so I went on, "What if someone sees?"

"Let them see." I listened to his strong steps on the concrete, to the gentle flow of the river and the caw of the birds. "There's nobody here. Trust me."

"I trust you, Sir."

With time, I found it easier to walk, to put one foot before the other without knowing where I placed them. His steady walk beside me helped, and so did the sound of his breath. He kept talking to me, describing exactly what he saw--the trees, still bare but bursting with the desire to show their spring splendor.

He made me stop after a while, so that he could pull down a branch. He brought my fingers to touch the hard little nubs that would turn into bright blossoms within a few weeks. They were cold and smooth against the rougher bark.

"Can you hear the river?" he asked. I nodded, but held my breath anyway, just for a few steps.

"Describe what you hear."

I licked my lips, hesitating as I groped for words in the darkness under my blindfold.

"I hear a rushing sound, like white noise," I whispered. My feet stilled when he stopped moving; his hand in the small of my back sent a violent shiver through my body. "I think I can hear little waves lap up against the embankment. Really softly."

"Good. Good, what else?"

"There's the wind. And the street over there. I hear birds and... the city. Like a thrumming, like drums, like..." He pulled me closer, threaded his fingers through my hair, and I leaned my cheek against his chest. "Your heartbeat. Air in your lungs."

He tightened his fingers in my hair, pulled my face back. I moaned against the sting, and he stifled the sound when his lips descended on mine. He walked me backwards, I don't know how far. We were kissing, floating, and I let him lead.

Every sensation felt intensified, magnified under my blindfold. I forgot where we were, forgot to be conscious of my body, how to position it, how to act, rubbed against him without fear. Then he pushed something hard between my legs and I cried out in surprise. I thought it had to be the leather strap, when he pushed harder and I ground against it, back and forth through the fabric of my trousers.

The pressure was blunt and exact. I rode it without thinking, the seam of my trousers dragging over my clit with every roll of my hips. Wetness soaked through. I could feel it cooling in the air.

"Paul..." I whimpered. The quality of sound was a little different here, but I noticed it more when he spoke again.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes, Sir. I trust you."

"Kneel for me."

I hesitated, moved my head as though I could have looked around, but he'd tied the blindfold well. My heart rate rocketed; still I nodded. A shiver went through me and I bent my knees, then swayed and stood straight again. I held my breath.

"Kneel, baby girl," he repeated; the chain jangled between us. "Right here."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was scared, but just as I was about to say it, I knew I could conquer it. I had to--because Paul had come for me, all the way, just for me.

Blindly, I reached my arms out for balance and sank to my knees. The moist concrete dug against my skin. I was breathing hard with nerves, and clutched at his trousers.

"There you go. That's my girl." He smoothed his hand over my hair, and I sighed as he sent a wave of calm down through my spine. "What do you hear now?"

I held my breath; the river was quieter, and I was just about to say that when I heard the sound of his zipper. I felt faint, hopelessly, deliriously dizzy. A sound of longing crossed my lips; he made a fist in my hair.

"Your trousers, Sir."

I caught a whiff of his scent--sweat and salt--and then his cock was on my face, rubbing over my cheeks and lips, over the blindfold and down to my chin.

He was hot. The skin was softer than I remembered and harder underneath. I turned my face into it, open-mouthed, and tasted salt.

"Open your mouth now. Stick out your tongue."

I managed to breathe once, and then he filled my mouth so completely, I just clung to his legs, gasping, taking him, trying to open myself wide, to be a vessel, an opening, just for him.

He determined the pace and the speed, pushed into my mouth fast and bold. His fingers curled against the back of my neck, pulled me off him by my hair, only to plunge back into me. The head of his cock ran along the roof of my mouth, over my soft palate and to the entrance of my throat. I choked and he pushed harder.

Tears leaked under the blindfold. I didn't wipe them. I took him deeper, throat working, and felt the chain tug at my wrist every time he pulled me forward.

I couldn't feel the concrete anymore, nor hear the river lap against the embankment.

VII

His cock squirmed in my mouth, wriggling in anticipation of release, when he suddenly pulled the blindfold off my face. Light streamed against my retinas, and I blinked, pressed my eyes shut in surprise.

"Look at me." His voice was deep now, hoarse and strained like distant thunder.

He clamped his fingers around my ears just as I opened my eyes again. My field of vision was filled with his sweater, but just at the edge, all the way up, high above me, there was his face. His eyes connected with mine, I blinked for a sharper image and then it was over: he groaned and I tasted the first drop of his come in the back of my throat. I could feel it pumping through the length of his cock, coating my soft palate, and then my tongue as he started to pull out, patting my cheek.

The taste was sharp and thick. I swallowed what I could and felt the rest slide warm down my throat. My eyes watered. I kept them on his.

One of his hands went to the wall behind me to steady himself, and I watched him lean over, catch his breath. It was only then that I noticed our surroundings. I could no longer see the river, it was darker here, in a corner under a bridge and the heavy concrete wall Paul was leaning against stood between us and the flow of brackish water.

I felt the stone under my knees again, the air burning in my lungs as I panted for oxygen. His cock was still out, softened in the cool air and when he reached for it, I touched his wrist.

"May I?"

He nodded, took his hand away and watched me. There was a new glimmer of interest in his tired eyes and I smirked, trying to curb my panting breath as I touched the soft skin. It was beautiful, and seized with a sudden impulse, I leaned in, pressed his cock against my cheek, my lips. There was still a bit of come on its head, and gently, I licked him clean. He felt so different now, softer, sweeter. I clung to the moment, before I put it back into his briefs and closed his zip.

I stayed on my knees a second longer than I needed to, cheek against the damp cotton of his briefs, breathing him in. The chain was still fastened to my wrist. I could feel its weight every time I moved.

"Thank you, babygirl," he whispered, fingers curling in my hair. "Can you get up by yourself?"

I nodded, but when I swayed a little, he hefted me up under my shoulders and lifted me to my feet. I leaned against him, because he let me; I breathed him in.

I could still taste him in the back of my throat, under my tongue. It was sticky and bitter, not a pleasant taste altogether, but that didn't matter. He was in my mouth, literally, and after over a month of longing, of aching for him, I wanted every part. I wanted to keep tasting, feeling, seeing, hearing him for as long and as intensely as I could.

"Are you okay?" he asked, nose rubbing against my ear.

I managed a nod, then slowly whispered "Yes, Sir," against his neck while he threaded his fingers through my hair. I wanted to purr and curl up on his lap for the next few hours.

My body felt gelatinous and soft already, knees weak as I leaned against him for support, for warmth. It felt good, the kind of feeling you can never recreate on the phone or with your hands alone, and he had hardly even touched me yet.

When he pushed me a few inches away to look at me, a smile crossed his features. He reached for my handbag again and I didn't question it when he pilfered through it. There wasn't much in there, my wallet, keys, a cotton bag for the groceries I was planning on buying after work. But he unearthed an old pack of handkerchiefs from some side pocket and held it up, smiling. I raked my fingers through my hair--all in knots and disarray, and he wet one of the handkerchiefs on his tongue. Cradling my head, he started to run the soft paper along my cheek and under my eyes. It came back with black and beige smudges; I bit my lip in embarrassment.

"You made me messy." I whispered, grinning.

He didn't answer, just clicked his tongue and smirked with something like pride, while he tried his best on the other side of my face as well. I could watch him, that focused, caring expression on his face, the way the light caught in his eyes. They were like the sea, calm and soft, or rough and stormy, depending on the climate. He licked his lip in concentration and finally pulled back, apparently content with his achievement.

"We'll have to slip you into the bathroom one more time before you head back to work," he chuckled, then took my hand and squeezed it. "It's a pity. You look so nice and fucked now."

I shivered, and leaned against his side as we started to go back, out from under the bridge and back into the cold and cloudy afternoon.

***

I squeezed his hand and he looked over at me, raising his brows.

"I could take the afternoon off." I licked my lips and inadvertently, my eyes fell on the leather strap that stuck out of his pocket now. The sight of the leather still made me tremble, and it got worse while I waited for him to help me out, to fill the blank. All he did was smile though, that sweet, dangerous smile. He, too, looked down at himself, as though it was only my glance that drew his attention to an almost forgotten implement.

"That's my girl," he whispered against the wind, then plucked the strap from his pocket. He curled his fingers around the handle slowly, suggestively, until something deep inside me contracted and ached. He smiled; he knew.

"Eager. I like you eager."

Gently, he brought the leather to my face again, ran it down my cheek. The skin spanned there, dry after the tears that had leaked into the blindfold, after his scrubbing. I shivered.

"Were you hoping I'd use this on you?"

My mouth opened; I stared for a long second, then I looked down and nodded. "Yes, Sir."

More firmly this time, he placed the strap under my chin and directed my gaze back up to his face. My clit tingled distractingly.

"Out here?"

I looked around as though to consider his question, then jumped when a slap came down on my cheek with a crack, and he directed my gaze back to his face once more. I swallowed, resisted the desire to reach up to my cheek and run my fingers over the aching patch of skin. I wanted him so much in that moment, my knees wavered, even my mouth watered, as though there just wasn't any way to direct more liquid between my legs and it had to go somewhere.

"I..." Licking my lips again, I played for time, for some kind of answer that would make sense. Of course I had been horrified at the idea of doing anything out here, where anyone might have seen, but now that concern had squeezed itself somewhere into the back of my mind, pushed away by the mountainous force of desire.

"I don't know, Sir." It wasn't enough, and I tried again. "I trust you."

I was sure, for a few heartbeats, that I had failed somehow, that it had been a cowardly answer, but then a smile rose on his features and he patted my cheek gently. The leather made hardly a sound as it connected with my skin this time, and I didn't feel any need to look around, to make sure we were still alone.

"I told you I'd come here to fix you, baby girl. I'm not done fixing you, not even close." I wanted to sink into his arms, legs weak with relief and need. But he held me steady by the shoulder, ran the leather over my lips. "This was just lunch. Special delivery."

I giggled at the expression on his face, the sharp taste of his come that still coated the back of my throat.

"Now my sweet, ambitious, intelligent girl has to go back to work, and I'll wait until you're done."

My mouth opened again; I hesitated.

"But that's still a couple of hours, are you sure?" I thought of my team assembling in the conference room, waiting for me while I blew them off, and I squirmed guiltily at how much I wanted to do just that. But Paul shook his head. His smile, his eyes were back to looking gentle and calm, and the strap vanished in his pocket so that he could take my hand and start walking again. The metal jangled between us.

"I was gonna head over to Westminster and take a look at the Ben Franklin House for a script I'm developing, anyway. I also brought a book. You don't worry about a thing."

I pouted, and he laughed.

"Besides, I like the idea of my pet squirming in her seat, aching for me all afternoon."

I smiled, too far lost in his eyes and his voice to grumble. I loved the sound of the chain that still hung between us, loved the ease with which we fell in step, the warmth of his hand around mine. I don't remember us talking a lot; the air between us was tense and full of static longing for each other, for the promises he'd hinted at. The walk back seemed shorter, too; we could walk with faster, more confident steps and it was just a few minutes until I saw the familiar storefront of the Gate to India looming into view. It reminded me that I was still hungry, that my lunch had consisted of nothing but a spoonful of protein. The thought made me grin. I'd get something from the vending machine. It wouldn't be the first time.

There was a small parking lot, nestled next to the restaurant. His car stood there, all familiar and too big for the city. I smiled, stroked its flank as we passed it.

"You came," I said again; he squeezed my hand and my heart leapt, then powered along a little faster.

He had parked almost precariously close to the wall and we had to walk around the car before he could open the passenger door for me. Once open, it created a barrier between us and the busy street and then I knew, even before I turned to see the glint in his eyes, that he had planned this.

"Put your hands on the passenger's seat, baby girl. I'm not so cruel as to leave you with nothing to remind you of me all afternoon."

Immediately, my breath grew more shallow, but I obeyed. I closed my eyes as I braced my fingers against the sheep skin he'd fixed to the seat, fluffy and soft, and I dug around until I found a good grip. I wasn't really bent over, his pick-up truck seats were located rather higher than in a normal city car, but I still felt as though my rear was sticking out at him dangerously.

I gasped when he reached around, popped open the button of my trousers again like he had in the bathroom of the restaurant, and then gently lowered them to my knees. He pushed my legs apart as far as they would go. I shivered at the cold wind around my thighs and bit my lip when he dragged my panties to the side. I heard him sigh, and then his fingers were inside me, slow and deep, and I couldn't stop myself from moaning his name.

Two fingers. He curled them once and I felt the wet sound of it. My knees threatened to buckle. I locked them and stayed where he had put me.

"There she is. Always wet for me. So much wetter than half an hour ago," he whispered. His nose brushed over the shell of my ear and his breath stirred the peach fluff inside. I trembled and closed my eyes.

"Yes, Sir."

"I can't wait to fuck you again." He was smirking, I could tell, teasing, raising the anticipation even higher as he pumped his fingers in and out of me, rubbing against my g-spot with each turn. I let my head hang, gasped and whimpered and pressed my eyes closed as though nobody could possibly see me if I couldn't see them.

"For now, though..." his hand left my hip, the other my cunt and then I felt him pry my ass cheeks apart so that he could drag my juices all over my crack. I held my breath. "For now, I want to test how well you followed orders."

The tip of his finger started to press against the tight ring of muscles. I knew what to do now, knew how to relax but that wasn't easy, standing in public, out in the cold, fingers balled to fists in the sheep skin on his passenger's seat. He rubbed, pressed again and then it gave, just like that. It was nothing like my finger. How I could ever have convinced myself that it was even comparable, was beyond me now. With his inside me, I felt helpless and small, I felt owned and perfect, and the calloused, lined texture rubbed against the sensitive nerve endings in its own special way that my fingers couldn't hope to imitate.

He worked the finger in to the second knuckle and held it there. I could feel my pulse around it. The cold air on my bare ass made everything tighter.

"There you go. There's a good girl. Here, this will make it easier for you later." I heard the chain clink, something rustle in his pocket and a second later he pressed something else against my sphincter. This time, it was smooth and soft and it slid inside easily at first. Then it grew bigger, stretched me more and more. I grunted when it passed its biggest point and the flanged bottom came to rest against my ass. I felt full, marked, his.

The stretch burned for a second, then settled into a deep, constant pressure. Every tiny shift of my weight moved it. I clenched once, experimentally, and the fullness answered.

"It's only a small one." He patted my ass, and then pulled my trousers back up. I managed not to protest, but it was a close thing. My clit felt on fire, my heart was racing.

"You can sit down now, baby girl."

"Yes, Sir."

He offered me his hand and I took it as I climbed into his truck. I'm not sure my jelly legs would have made it on their own, and he stood there, watching me until I gingerly lowered my bottom onto the seat. Even with the soft pelt, it pushed the plug further inside and I groaned again, just as our eyes met.

The sheepskin was soft. The plug was not. I sat very still and felt it settle deeper.

"Your ass is mine, this time," he said, spreading his fingers over my thigh. "I'll fuck it before the night is through."