Rock and Water Ch. 06

We head back to my car and grab my bag. Walking up the stairs that lead to his house, I see that along with the Bronco there's a covered motorcycle in the driveway. I'd forgotten that during our first hike he'd mentioned that he owned one, but didn't use it much for city riding. Removing the cover, he reveals with pride a 1976 BMW R75/6, with a black tank. It's been since well before my marriage that I've been on a bike. In my mid-twenties I'd even taken the Motorcycle Safety Federation class with the thought that I'd buy my own, but never did. He asks if I'd be comfortable going for a ride on Sunday, and I nod with uncontained excitement.

As we approach the front door, he mentions that he and his wife bought it thirteen years ago; three years after they'd married. I remember that he'd mentioned that he married at twenty-five. Doing the math in my head I realize that makes him forty-one to my forty-two and I pause in the doorway feeling a bit stunned. For whatever reason, maybe the greying in his hair, I'd assumed he was older than me. Briefly I close my eyes as I process this new bit of information. He notices the change in my demeanor and asks me what's wrong. I tell him it's nothing, but it's clear by his expression he knows otherwise and backs me out the door.

"Ok Corrine... You need to talk to me. Do you have reservations about this weekend?" Although his tone is serious, his eyes impart worry and concern.

"What?" I answer, stunned. "No! I have no reservations at all. I want this... I want to be here." Summoning the courage to tell him the truth, I admit that I'm thrown off about being older than him.

Patrick throws his head back and laughs robustly. "Oh shit! You had me scared there for a moment!" Failing to see the humor, I step away from him, crossing my hands over my chest as I wait for him to stop laughing. Only then does he see how serious I am, but this only reignites his laughter once more.

"What is so fucking funny about this?" I want to come off as stern, but his laughter is infectious and I can't help but crack a smile.

"What's so fucking funny? Are you serious?" He just stares at me smiling for a bit, shaking his head. "Here I thought you were about to hightail it away from here...away from me and what I've asked from you; but instead you're worried about a few months difference in our age?" Before I know it, he's standing directly in front of me cupping my face in both hands; forcing me to look him in the eyes. "I don't give a rat's ass if you're ten months or ten years older than me. You're smart as hell, turn me on until I can't think straight, and every time we say goodbye all I can think about is seeing you again."

The warmth in his eyes and the sincerity of his words knock the wind out of me. No words have ever made me feel so cherished, and all I want in this moment is to make him feel the same. Walking through his front door is the best way to start. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I gently kiss his lips. "Thank you, Sir. May we go inside now?"

His expression becomes pensive as he looks at me for a few moments longer. He nods his head once. "Ok....let's do this."

I'm not sure what I was expecting as we entered the house. Perhaps that he would ask me to kneel, or strip. I thought he might have a list of instructions on how to address him or behave over the weekend lest I get punished. There were no such guidelines offered. In fact, he was acting as he would on any other night, telling me about finishing his job at the bar and the aged bottle of whiskey they gave him as a thank you. We take off our shoes in the foyer, and he goes about giving me a tour.

The interior of his house is all old hardwood floors, antique rugs and comfortable furniture. There's an odd assortment of industrial art and abstract paintings, along with an old refinished bar in his basement with original built in taps. I discover that he brews his own beer as a pastime and frequently invites friends over to watch soccer or basketball on the large screen television centered on the exposed brick wall. Overall, the house so far has a strong male presence. I suspect he must have purged any trace of Maureen from it after she left him.

His kitchen is small, but efficient. The defining features are an industrial grade oven that he salvaged from a restaurant supply store, and the beautiful butcher block counters. I smile as I check out his cabinets, the design not too far off from what I asked for myself, although the wood is a bit lighter than I'd requested.

What strikes me the most about his house is how alive it is with plants. From large potted ones to hanging spider plants and ferns, I'm in awe at the time and effort that must go into their care. I'm drawn to the far wall where a trellis runs from floor to ceiling. Rooted in to a large ceramic pot on the floor, is a vine-like plant with thick, dark green, curly leaves. It seems to have crawled up the trellis and taken over half of the wall. Long strands hang loose and a few have small bunches of pink flowers.

He walks up next to me, placing his arm casually around my shoulders. "It's a Hindu Rope plant... also known as Hoya Compacta. My grandmother started this one from a clipping over 35 years ago. It was quite a feat to bring it here after she passed.

"It's stunning. You never told me of your love for plants."

He laughs, and even looks a little embarrassed. "I figured I'd let my obsessive habits reveal themselves one by one. Don't want to overwhelm you from the get go."

Before heading upstairs, we briefly go to his back deck and yard. Unsurprisingly, there's a bar set up, also with a built in tap. A large grill and smoker are set off to one side of the deck, while two refinished picnic tables, attached benches and all, take up the other side. The plants are as lush and varied as they were inside.

We head back into the house. After grabbing my bag, he guides me towards the stairs. As we walk up the stairs I'm acutely aware of the large plug that with each step simultaneously feels as if it is pressing deeper yet also slipping. I clench tighter to ensure it won't fall out, and needless to say it is a relief when I reach the last step. I pause at the top in secret satisfaction with myself for my success, only to see the amused look on his face which makes it clear that my struggle was not so secret after all.

I roll my eyes at him and he just smiles harder. At the top of the stairs, there is immediately a door on the left where his home office is. Along with a traditional desk which has his laptop and printer set up, he has a drafting table currently covered in various sketches. Many photographs of finished work are haphazardly thumbtacked to the walls.

To the right of the stairs is a hallway with two doors on either side, along with a final door at the end of the short hallway. The door on the left leads to a sparsely furnished guest room, while the door on the right leads to the guest bathroom. His descriptions of these rooms are limited. I notice as we approach what I assume is the master bedroom his demeanor, and even his posture, have shifted. Just minutes before he projected ease and humor; now he radiates quiet intensity. In response, all thoughts and emotions come to a crashing halt as my mind begins to clear itself of everything except what is happening right here, right now.

We walk through the door and he sets down my bag. I take in his room; slate grey walls, off-white trim, wrought iron king bed with a large antique chest at the foot of it. There are old, wood nightstands with their own lights on either side of the bed. Two windows look out to the backyard, with large black-out shutters that are currently open. There are sliding doors that likely lead to a closet, and an open door that appears to lead into his bathroom. As with the rest of the house, a few paintings and plants decorate the room. A faded Persian rug covers most of the hardwood floor.

My perusal of the room is brief, as my eyes continue to be drawn to not his bed, but what is on top of it. I walk closer to the bed, but he stays where he is by the door allowing me to explore on my own. Lying on the neatly made bed, still in their packaging, are an array of leather cuffs, floggers, whips, vibrators, dildos, plugs, beads, clamps, a hand-held massager and rope. Almost the entire bed is covered, and I realize there's more on one of the nightstands. Walking over I see some paraffin wax candles and a box. Picking up the box, I see that it's a Chinese cupping set. I look at him in question and he just gives me a sexy smile.

Placing it back on the nightstand, I look back at the bed. It's almost too much to take in at once, but curiosity and excitement begin to tingle inside of me. I go to pick up a flogger, but look back at him first. Patrick nods his approval, his eyes transfixed on me and my reaction to his collection. I pick up the black leather flogger; it feels heavy in my hand. Tendrils of leather hang from the handle, each with a single knot tied near the end. I run the ends of the flogger against my other palm, causing a chill to run down my arm. Placing it back on the bed, I run my hands briefly over the coiled, single-tailed whip. I don't know whether its fear or avoidance, but I move on quickly to the next toys.

The collection of vibrators and plugs in various shapes and sizes is similar to my own. There is a box with a picture of a very large dildo with a suction cup which seizes my attention and makes my cunt twitch. Last year Robert had sent me a link to a video of a woman forced to fuck herself on one of these as she was flogged, and I'd masturbated more than once to it as I imagined myself in her place.

Again I look at him for permission and he nods. I remove the dildo from its packaging, and feel its weight and thickness before attempting to encircle my hand around it. My hands are of average size for a woman, but I can just barely touch my thumb to my middle finger. Between the length and the width it appears a little bigger than my favorite vibrator at home. I've never bought a dildo before, preferring the benefits of vibrations should I need them. I replace it into its box and lay it on the bed.

Lastly, I run my hands over the coils of soft hemp rope and briefly flash back to the feel of the nylon rope as it rested snug against my chest just last weekend. I feel Patrick approach me from behind until he is standing directly behind me with his arms snuggly encircling my own.

"I can't tell you how hot it was to watch you scrutinize those toys. It almost looked like you were shopping at a farmer's market, deciding which peach to purchase until I saw you flush as you picked up the flogger."

"I, uh...like the flogger." I look down as I say this, my flush spreading.

"I also saw your reaction to the whip, and at another time we'll address that. Just know that for now I have no intention of using it on you any time soon." Relief, but also an odd twinge of disappointment course through me. It's true, the whip made me wary, but I'm concerned that my reaction to it may inhibit him from introducing me to whip-play; which by the fact that he bought one means it's something that he enjoys. I'm about to protest but he stops me.

"Take note that I said it wouldn't be any time soon; I didn't say never." The stern tone and certainty of his words make me know this is true, and my eyes close as I picture Patrick above me, the handle of the whip firmly in his grip. I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding and feel the familiar twinges of lust forming deep in my gut, causing my pussy walls to swell and my nipples to become tight and erect against the thin material of my tank top.

He pulls me even tighter into his embrace. "It's important to me that you see that everything here is new; that it's all for you." He pauses before continuing. "As my marriage was crumbling, I tossed everything I had because it was too painful of a reminder for me... of all of the lies and deception that had become of us. Until I met you, I wasn't even certain if I'd ever find a partner that I could share this with again. I don't mean finding someone to play with, that's easy enough to find in a club or online... I mean a true partner...someone to love."

My breath catches as I hear his last words. I'm not sure if it's an admission of love, or a just a desire for it. In this moment though, I don't really care.

"I bought these earlier today, each one with you in mind." His cock begins to harden against my lower back, and I reflexively grind my hips against him. "Be still," he commands. "I'd considered having a little fun and taking you with me, but in truth I don't think I could have handled the distraction." He laughs a little before adding, "I was hard the whole time I was shopping as it was."

I smile as I revel at the image of my dominant, always in control boyfriend unable to control his hard-on while shopping for toys for me...for us. I realize that even in my own mind, this is my first admission that he is, in fact, my boyfriend.

Patrick moves from around me, heading to the trunk and opening it. The inside of the oversized trunk appears to have been refinished, and has multiple pull out shelves and compartments. Meticulously he begins to remove items from the bed and packs them into the trunk. Every item appears to have its place predetermined by him. Remaining on the bed are only leather wrist cuffs, two carabiners, nipple clamps, and lubricant.

Steady gaze fixed on me; he walks back and instructs me to sit on the side of the bed, causing the butt plug to settle deep inside of me. I'm forced to look up at him and suddenly he looks larger than life, or more to the point, I feel very small.

"You've been waiting since you arrived here for some sort of instructions or guidelines for the weekend." He says this as a statement as we both know it's true, but he still pauses for a response.

"Yes Sir." Every ounce of my attention is on him. His ice-blue eyes are bright and intense as he stands over me. My body, hyperaware of his proximity begins to respond on its own accord. Aromatic juices begin to seep in to my panties, as my breasts continue to swell.

Reaching down, he lifts my thin bra and tank top over my breasts, leaving them to rest on my upper chest; no longer of consequence to him. He inspects my flushed breasts briefly; perhaps ensuring that the marks and small bruises from the other night have faded. Taking both nipples between his fingers, he gradually begins to pinch them as he resumes speaking.

"Here are the rules for the weekend... One, in the house or when we're alone together out of the house, I'm Sir. In public, I'm Patrick." His grip on my nipples tightens, triggering a spasm in my pussy.

"Two, you will not deny me any request, sexual or otherwise." Pinching my nipples harder, he begins to slowly pull them outwards. I respond with a throaty moan.

"Three, you will be punished if you break either rule one or two. The level of punishment will fit the infraction." Both nipples are twisted ninety degrees and held there. I begin to breathe rapidly through my nose, not wanting to tempt fate by opening my mouth for fear that I might shout out in pain.

"Lastly, as we discussed earlier on the phone, I expect you to use your safewords if at any time you feel your emotional or physical well-being are at risk; this includes during punishment." With one final tug he lets go and they bounce back to my chest. Briefly the pain ratchets up and my eyes squeeze shut as I absorb the pain.

"OPEN THEM!" My eyes shoot open in time to see him drop to his knees, alternately suckling each of my breasts, soothing the tortured nipples with his tongue. With a final lingering lick along my cleavage, he reaches behind me to retrieve the wrist cuffs. With a pair of scissors I hadn't noticed on the nightstand, he cuts away the packaging and hands the cuffs to me. I feel the weight of the cuffs in my hands, stroking the black leather. They appear well crafted, and although the leather is new and still slightly stiff, there is also softness to them. Large gauge, quick release buckles are on one side, while O-rings adorn the other.

He buckles them securely to my wrists, ensuring that he can easily fit two fingers underneath while also making sure I can't slip out. He turns the O-rings to the inside of my wrists, then secures them together in front of me with a carabiner. Instructing me to lay on my back with my head towards the headboard, he lifts my arms above my head, securing my wrists to the wrought iron headboard with the other carabiner.

Tilting my head back a little, I look in wonder at the thick black leather and chrome binding my pale wrists to the headboard. The visual alone creates a delicious sense of helplessness; but when I test the restraints and feel the tug of leather against my skin and hear the loud clang of chrome against iron, my body convulses as if I've been shocked. Pulling my legs tightly together and bringing my knees close in, I squeeze my cunt muscles and begin rapidly rocking my hips back and forth as I feel myself suddenly reeling towards orgasm. The plug in my ass stimulates me with each thrust and just before the wave crashes I feel my ankles grabbed, pulled down and apart. I can't help myself when I scream "No!" and begin flailing against the bed.

"Corrine... CORRINE!!" I hear Patrick calling me, but it takes a moment for me to realize what just happened and I blush with embarrassment. "You're fine sweetie... I know this is all new to you. It's a lot to take in. That was a beautiful display, but holy shit... I can't say I've ever seen someone almost come from just seeing themselves in wrist cuffs." This makes me blush even more, and I turn my head away.

"Look at me." I do, and am met by warm but incredibly impassioned eyes. "You are the most passionate, responsive, and oh so lucky for me, easily embarrassed little slut I've met." He gives me a crooked grin as he slowly slips my skirt and panties down and off my legs. "Fuck. I love that no one else knows what a wicked little woman you are."

Patrick slowly rises from the bed and in no rush removes his clothes. My eyes take in his long, trim runner's body. His chest is rises and falls rapidly, in contrast to his slow, languid movements. My eyes travel down his torso, from the well-defined muscles of his abdomen to the sexy trail of hair leading to his very erect cock. It twitches and bobs as he casually massages his balls while staring down at me. Forgetting my restraints, I struggle to rise to him, only to land with a soft thud back on the bed.

Crawling over me, he straddles my hips; his cock and balls resting on my soft belly. At some point he's picked up the nipple clamps and dangles them overhead for me to see. They're wide clamps covered in black rubber; each with a screw to adjust the tension. He spends a brief time lightly pinching and twisting my nipples to make them erect before closing the clamps around each one, including some of the areolas. He places them in quick succession without allowing me to adjust to the first. I scream and buck, but he leans down penetrates my lips, muffling me by driving his tongue deep into my mouth.

We make-out like teenagers, grinding our bodies together, although mine helpless against his probing and punishing hands. One of his hands rests on the chain connecting the clamps, periodically giving it a light tug. His other hand alternately massages and pinches the flesh of my breasts and the undersides of my arms, each torment sending stabs of pleasure to my swollen, dripping cunt.

Pulling away from me, Patrick sits up on his knees as I continue to writhe before him. Grabbing two pillows, he stacks them, then tucks them under my hips and bottom.

"Spread your legs wide and place your feet on the bed, as close to your lovely ass as you can."