Chapter 1: The Game

I keep a brownstone in the city for ... entertaining. I mention it because there’s a game I like to play when I bring a woman there for the first time. Oh, she knows she’s there for sex. Raw, passionate, primal. We’ve talked and flirted enough that my intentions have become abundantly clear. She’s confessed her deepest, most secret fantasies to me. This is not a sudden fling or a one-night stand, mind. My seduction has been a slow, careful, and precise dance.

Likely she’s read 50 Shades of Grey, or something like that, so she knows she’s going to be bound.

Perhaps she knows she’ll be spanked.

If she doesn’t know, she hopes. I’ve done my homework.

But that’s all she knows, of course. She doesn’t know the truth.

Some part of her, at least, thinks she’ll be in control, saying what she likes, saying, too hard, or too soft, or enough for now, please. If she calls me Sir, she thinks it’s a game. Just something to add spice, something to get the juices flowing, as it were.

She is very wrong.

I know more, of course. I know who she really is: a natural submissive, rare as a miracle and more precious than a mountain of red diamond. I know what she needs, even if she’s never been able to admit it, not out loud, not even to herself. Maybe she herself doesn’t know what it is she longs for.

But I know. Oh yes.

She is a woman who doesn’t want to be asked. She wants to be taken.

But I was speaking of my little game.

She comes to my threshold for the first time, trembling a little, wondering if perhaps she’s made a mistake. Does she dare cross? Does she dare not? She turns to say something; probably to make some little joke, or even to offer an excuse and flee. But I meet her gaze. Eyes lock. She has such lovely eyes. The women I choose always do. In certain circles, I’m rather famous for that, if I do say so.

For a long moment, she holds my gaze. And then, trembling, she looks away. Down, usually, but sometimes back, wondering what surprises I have waiting for her inside. She doesn’t bolt. She knows if she does, she’ll regret it forever. And besides, she doesn’t really have anything to run to.

Like I said, I’ve done my homework.

Our courtship has been long and slow.

At that point, she makes another little joke. Something to break the tension. Or maybe she tries to spark conversation. Bringing up something we talked about over dinner or drinks, or some fragment of small talk we began and abandoned. She never brings up any of the things we talked about online, or in our late night conversations, the secret confessions. The wishes, the hopes, the fondest, forbidden fantasies. No, not that. They are dangerous, the night talks, and right now, she wants safety.

Except that she doesn’t. Not really.

And if I offer it to her, she’ll hate us both.

So I offer her nothing. Especially not a choice. A spell has been cast, you see. It must not be broken. No indeed, never that. Like a spider, I must continue to weave, for a while yet, anyway, until I have her caught well and proper.

By that point, I’ve removed my silk tie. I use a different one with each woman; it seems the least I can do. While the trembling girl, with her lovely, doe-like eyes, bites her lower lip nervously, trying to think of something else to say, I take her right hand in mine, and begin to wrap the silk tie around her slender wrist. Then I capture the left, encircle it, and finally I tie them together.

A knot, and she’s mine.

I smile at her then, and use the loose ends of the knot to pull her closer and kiss her. The kiss lasts a long time. There is no taste sweeter than a first kiss, deep and lingering, especially when it is sweetened by a woman’s lust. And her fear. Fear has a taste, you know.

When we break the kiss at last, I push her inside, never letting go of the tie that binds her wrists, pausing only to lock the door behind us. It’s a heavy lock, and the loud click of the tumblers echoes ominously. It’s a nice touch. The girl swallows nervously.

The decor of my open first floor is tasteful of course. Elegant luxury, the best of the best. She has an impression of marble, brass, and dark, polished wood. We don’t linger there.

We pass through my parlor. A winding staircase with a rail of delicately wrought iron leads down.

I release my grip on the girl’s bound wrists and move behind her. Holding her by the hips (shapely—naturally, I insist on that. I appreciate a woman with curves) I guide her to the stairway. Down we go, her hands bound before her, down into the wine cellar. I chose a bottle as we pass through, always red, always fine. I will not abide a poor wine, especially not when it is to accompany an exquisite woman. Both must be selected precisely, paired expertly, and prepared carefully. The bottle I open and affix an aerator to the neck. The woman I disrobe. It’s best to do it here, before we continue into the next room.

When a woman is nude in a gentleman’s home, especially if he is still clad, she has already surrendered.

I’m happiest when I can manage to undress her without untying her wrists. How I love a woman in a strapless gown! That’s not always possible, more’s the pity. Usually, alas, I must hold one wrist, firmly, while I lift or unbutton, and then unsnap. Blouse or dress falls to the floor with only a brief rustling sound, soft as a whisper, and lingerie is pulled swiftly but gracefully away. Cool air washes across suddenly bared skin, raising goose bumps. And then, as her hands rise to cover her suddenly bared breasts, the tie snakes around them again. Quickly and surely. She doesn’t even have time to gasp. It doesn’t do to give her even the illusion of freedom again, not even for a moment. The gentleman must retain control, naturally.

Besides, if I’d wanted her to cover her lovely breasts, I wouldn’t have bared them in the first place.

If she’s wearing anything else — a skirt, panties, stockings — they, too, drop to the floor. Now she is nude, save for the silk tie that still holds her wrists, tightly bound.

Exactly as I desired. And as she dreamed. Secretly, and for so long.

The game. Yes, I digress.

I try not to touch her too much at this point. A hand on her shoulder, yes. A casual, almost accidental brush against the swell of her breast, where the nipple is already pebbling. She blushes. She looks down; she can’t bring herself to meet my gaze. She trembles again. They always do, and I want to drink her. I am a creature of pure appetite; I long to consume all that she is.