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Message-ID: <28446asstr$979647002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Thea Max" <thea_max@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} An Act of Love
Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2001 07:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Hello, friends.  This is my first time posting anything I have written, so
while I welcome your questions, comments, and suggestions, please, be
gentle.  You can contact me at thea_max@hotmail.com.  This is the first
chapter of a much larger work, and if it is well received, I will post
subsequent chapters as I get them edited, but you will have to be patient
with me.  Enjoy!

   "An Act of Love"         
   Copyright, 2001, Thea Max

   It was a set scene, just the type of drama he would love.  But to me,
this was not a scene, this was my life, and my chance, maybe, to get away.
I had dressed with care, in a short, tight, flame colored dress that left
my arms and shoulders bare under thin straps, and heels.  The small gun in
my hand trembled as I walked into the study to wait for him.  I had felt a
small rush of excitement, a trembling tremor of fear when I had found it,
in an unlocked drawer in the garage.  I suppose, in hindsight, I could have
just used it to shoot the lock on the garage door, and escape that way, but
hindsight is 20/20, and it was too late.  Besides, this way was surer,
there would be no way for him to keep coming after me if he was dead.

   Dead.  Another dilemma there, in itself.  All things being equal, I
suppose I could have used the gun on myself, too.  That was also an escape.
Too late.  I heard his measured tread on the wooden floorboards outside the
door, than the quiet click as the handle was turned.  A slight rush of air
in the room, as the door opened, and he walked in.  He was tall, dressed
(of course) impeccably, in a black suit, white shirt, the long, strong
fingers of his hands relaxed at his sides.  Long, black hair, held back by
a length of black silk ribbon.  Deep ebony eyes, eyes so piercing, and
mesmerizing, they could almost make you forget the depravities hidden in
his soul.  The face, angelic in its frame of black hair, high cheekbones, a
wide, sensual mouth.  A face known and lusted after by millions of women
all around the world, and he was focused only on me.  Lucky me.

   I had been one of the lusting masses at one time.  But that had been
before I knew him as well as I did now.  I turned to face him, willing the
tremors that shook me to subside.  I cocked the gun, then raised it and
pointed it at him, praying he could not see just how badly my hand was
shaking.  I refused to examine my motives, whether I was doing this for me,
or for him.  He stared at me a moment, and I thought to myself, my god; I
have truly caught him off guard.  Then he smiled.  Despite the gun in my
hand, I felt a shiver work its way down my spine.

   He began to walk toward me.  Stunned, I fell back on the cliches. 
"Stay where you are," I said in a voice that, thankfully, was stronger than
I felt at the moment.

   "What are you going to do, Grace, shoot me?" he asked, his voice gentle,
like a lover's.

   "If I have to," I replied, shaking my head inwardly at the lousy
dialogue.  I had written feature scripts much better than this.  He
continued to smile, and I felt heat rushing through me.  He came closer,
one slow step at a time, his eyes on mine.

   "Have you arranged this little scene for my benefit, love?  If so, I
have to tell you, it's having the desired effect," he said, gesturing to
the bulge beginning to show at the front of his trousers.  Of course.  I
threaten his life, and he becomes aroused.

   "I want you to let me go," I managed to ground out between clenched
teeth, struggling to keep my hand steady, and my eyes on his face.  My body
was sweating, and I felt like I had a fever.  Something was wrong.  I was
almost as aroused as he was.

   "We both know you're not going to shoot me, Grace.  Besides, it's
probably not even loaded," he said, reassuring, smiling at me.

   "Want to bet?" I asked, taking the gun off him for a moment, and aiming
it at a small, priceless crystal vase on an incidental table near the door,
shattering it with a single shot before aiming at his head again.  I jumped
at the sound of the gunshot, and cringed a little inside at the shattering
of the glass, but he had not even blinked.  Instead, he shook his head, as
if chastising a small child.

   "That was not very smart, Grace." He continued, one slow step after
another, to come closer.  My hand had begun to shake, and I had the
irrational impulse to drop the gun for a moment, so I could dry my sweating
palm on my dress.  But I didn't.  And he got closer.  Now he was one step
away, and I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.  They were burning, with
desire, amusement, and even a touch of anger at the destruction of the
vase, but there was no fear there.  I was the one feeling all the fear,
despite the fact that I had a gun aimed at his temple, not six inches away
from me.  I knew I was not about to shoot him.  I watched, as if from a
distance, his hand come up to cover mine on the gun, and allowed him to
push my arm toward the floor.  He pulled the gun away from me, put the
safety catch on, and dropped it on the floor.  I felt the urge to urinate,
but contained myself, and was aware that I was the one shaking in reaction
to what had just happened.  He called my name, softly, and unable to
resist, I looked at him.

   He still had my hand in his, and he put it over his erection, curling my
fingers around the bulge through the cloth of his pants.  He bent closer,
so that his mouth was very near to my ear, and he kept his voice very
gentle, very matter-of-fact, as he whispered to me.

   "Thank you, love.  That was very exciting, but you know you're going to
have to pay for this little scene.  I think I will make you come three- no,
five times, first.  Then, I am going to take this erection, and shove it
into your ass, until you beg me to stop.  How does that sound to you?"

   I had lost.  I should have shot him when I had the chance, and it made
no sense to me, why I had not done that.  Then again, I had never found an
unlocked drawer in this house that held more than a nail file, so maybe it
had been a test, from the first.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe I had staged
it all for him.  Maybe he had changed me so fundamentally, that I needed
this, too.  I couldn't breathe, and it is hard to explain the fear his
words evinced in me.  He could be cruel, and he was probably going to hurt
me some more tonight, but he was also able to bring out passion in me that
I had never known existed, and he was able to do it in spite of myself, and
in spite of any vow on my part to resist him.  On the contrary, resistance
made him try harder to please me, a fact that I was well aware of.  It was
not just the things he did, it was the way he did them, juxtaposing
opposite sensations so close together that pain became pleasure, and I lost
any control over myself that I might have had.

   He stepped away, still holding my hand in his.  "Shall we go in to
dinner?" he asked, as if nothing had happened, as if the scene we had just
played out had been a figment of my imagination, as if we were a normal,
regular, everyday husband and wife, going into their dining room to eat
their evening meal together.

   That's how life with him was.  Scenes of extreme sexual arousal and
violence played out next to scenes of normal, tranquil domesticity, and
never the twain shall meet.  I wondered if maybe I was not as crazy as he
was, wondered if maybe he had been right all along, that I wanted this
existence as much as he did, needed for him to do the things he did to me
as much as he needed to do them to me.  Maybe I had lost my last chance to
escape him, and I was trying to justify.  Meekly, but not quite defeated, I
allowed him to lead me in to dinner.

   Ever the gentleman, he held my chair for me as I sat down, his hands
heavy on my shoulders before he moved away.  His maid, Carina, served us
salads, and he began to eat with relish.  I had no appetite, and picked at
my food.  Carina ignored me.  So did the cook, Thomas.  I had no
relationships with them at all.  I knew they had heard the gunshot, but no
one had investigated at all.  Lost in my own world, contemplating staff
that had no respect for their mistress, I was startled to hear Bailey's
voice.

   "Carina, there is a broken vase in my study.  Please have it cleaned
up." She nodded to him, and went to do his bidding.  Belatedly, I
remembered he had left the gun on the floor of the study.  I started to get
up, perhaps to bring it back into the dining room and place a bullet
between his smug eyes, but his voice stopped me.

   "Where are you going?" I had the insane urge to tell him, but stayed put
instead.  He had that effect on me, making me forget what it was I was
going to do, making me subjugate my wants and desires to him.  He did not
want me to get up; staying put was easier than arguing.  And less painful,
too, in the long run.

   Carina came back into the dining room, and exchanged our salad plates
for our dinner.  Thomas had made some sort of beef dish, but I did not even
taste it.  I kept my hands folded in my lap, and my eyes down, brooding.

   "You should at least try the wine, love." I ignored him.  He was smiling
at me, I knew it, that smug, self-satisfied, know-it-all smile that made me
want to shoot him.  I had failed miserably at that.  He finished his
dinner, and came down toward my end of the table, dismissing Carina as he
came.  He took my limp wrist in one of his hands, and pulled me up from my
chair.  I went blank inside, determined that in this, at least, I would not
fail.  I tried to go inside myself, to get away from him, but he forced my
head back, and his mouth covered mine.  Despite my resolution, my heart
began to beat faster as his tongue entered my mouth, caressing, demanding a
reaction.  Oh, he knew all the tricks, all my weak spots.  He had spent
countless hours uncovering them.  There had been a time all he had to do
was say my name to make me wet.  Who was I kidding.  It's still all he had
to do.

   His hand came up, and dipped into the top of my dress, cupping my
breast. His hand was warm, soft, holding the tender flesh firmly, and his
thumbnail hard as he scraped it across my nipple until it tightened into a
hard, erect bud.  I whimpered, deep in my throat, his tongue was still
moving inside my mouth, stroking my lips, and his hand was a burning brand
on my skin.  He kneaded my flesh, and his other hand came up to tangle in
the hair falling from my scalp, he pulled my head back to deepen his kiss,
his hand tight on the back of my neck, strong enough to remind me (as if I
could forget) he was the master.  My legs went weak, I would have fallen if
he hadn't been holding me up.  I hated myself for feeling this passion
almost as much as I hated him for arousing it in me.

   He broke off his kiss, and his lips slipped down, over my throat, the
jutting bones of my collarbone, and closed around my nipple.  His lips, his
mouth were hot, and my skin burned where his mouth had touched.  I was
helpless to resist, to save myself, as he continued to suckle at my breast,
pulling tighter and harder, using his teeth to bruise the tender skin.  I
knew what he wanted, he wanted me to cry out, but I didn't, I was absorbing
the sensation, letting it build within me.  It aroused him as much as
anything else I could do, this passive resistance to him, because it made
him redouble his efforts to wring a reaction out of me, a moan of ecstasy
or a cry of pain, it meant little to him, as long as he had proof he was
making me feel something.

   He turned his wet, feeding mouth to my other breast, pulling it from
beneath the cloth of my dress with his hands.  His hand moved down over my
waist, my belly fluttering at his touch, and I tried weakly to stop him
with my hands, but he trapped my wrists in his grasp and pulled my arms
behind my back, holding them there with one hand.  With the other, he
caressed down the length of my thigh, coming up under the cloth of my
dress, inching slowly toward the burning flesh there.  He did not want me
to wear panties when he was around, another of his many demands cloaked in
tender language that amounted to no more than threats of dire consequences
if I refused, so his fingers brushed against my naked thigh, no thin cotton
barrier to keep him from feeling all the dripping, swollen arousal he
created.  My breath locked in my chest as his fingers continued to explore,
now the downy flesh of my inner thigh, now the throbbing heat of my sex.

   "This is just too easy," he whispered, lifting his mouth for a moment
from ravaging my breast, before wrapping his tongue around and around the
nipple again.

   "Go to hell," I whispered, without any vehemence.  I was already there.

   When I felt his fingers begin to penetrate me in response to my
impertinent words, I could not hold back a soft moan.  The scene in the
study must have affected me more than I knew, I was so aroused, I could not
hold back, and at the gentle insistent pressure of his fingers, felt myself
begin to orgasm.  It was hard to let go, standing upright in the dining
room, impaled on his fingers, but nature took over, and I shuddered and
moaned, my body a willing slave to his touch.  He returned to kissing my
mouth, one hand still inside me, the other holding my wrists pinned to the
small of my back, inhaling the soft cries I made as I came.  When I
stopped, he let me sink back into the chair, and pulled my dress back up to
cover my chest.  I took deep breaths, trying to steady myself, and watched
him helplessly, as he sat back down in his own chair, licking his fingers
as if they were covered in chocolate sauce.

   He called out for Carina to return, and she served us coffee.  This,
too, was part of his plan, this forcing me to wait for him to punish me,
the waiting added spice to it for him, and was torturous for me.  It was
impossible to be indifferent to him, and I felt warm and soft inside after
my orgasm.  His quiet voice interrupted me again.

   "Four more to go," he said, reminding me of his promise after our scene
in the study.  I tried to remain impassive, but I knew he meant every word
he had said.  Of all his the things he could do to me, he knew the one that
I hated and feared the most was to be penetrated that way.  It aroused such
a deep and primal fear in me that I could not control myself.  My heart
beat sluggishly in my chest.  Anticipation made me tense and tight.  He
leisurely finished his coffee and told me to follow him.  He told Carina
she could leave.  None of the staff lived in the house; they had their own
families and lives to go to.  I sometimes wondered what they thought about
what they saw going on between us, but they didn't talk to me.  I had no
way of finding out.  Bailey was very private, and his staff well paid for
their discretion.

   Wordlessly, I stood and followed him down the hall, and into the room in
the basement he referred to as his "training room." It was where he had
introduced me to the life I now led, after coming here to live following
our honeymoon.  There had been signs that should have warned me during our
brief courtship, but I had been unable to interpret them, and I had been
enough in love with him to not want to notice anything unusual.  Bailey had
been the star in the last feature I had written.  I had built a good name
for myself writing movie scripts, and was well liked and respected.  Bailey
had not been the inspiration for the character in my last movie, but he had
fit the part perfectly.  I still remembered the moment I had met him, when
he came in to read for the part with the actress we had cast opposite him.
I had been impressed with his strength, his magnetism, and his dark, almost
exotic good looks.  We had become friendly while we were shooting the
movie, and it did not surprise me when he asked me to dinner after it had
wrapped.  What had surprised me was how alive he made me feel, how relaxed
and at the same time tensed I felt around him, as if I were a coiled spring
waiting to release the stored kinetic energy.  We had dated seriously for
only a short time, and following the premiere of the movie, which became a
summer blockbuster, enhancing his career greatly and making me a heavily
sought after commodity, I agreed to write him a script, and, after a long,
beautiful exquisitely rapturous evening in bed with him, had agreed to
become his wife.

   He had been waiting for that to make his move.  When he brought me back
to this house, with his ring on my finger and newly said vows fresh in my
mind, he brought me down to the "training room" and quietly explained not
just his propensities, but my part in them as well.  I had laughed at
first, but that quickly became horror as I realized the old-fashioned oak
armoire down here held a selection of whips, riding crops, and paddles,
while in its drawers were gags, blindfolds, phalluses, and various other
instruments he would use to "train" me.  One found oneself immensely
sobered, not to mention stunned and in a lot of pain, to be bound hand and
foot and spanked black and blue on the first night at home as man and wife.

   I quickly realized that not only did he mean what he said, but also that
escape was practically impossible.  I had not been outside the property in
two months.  I had access to most of the house, but the kitchen and the
basement room were off limits.  I could not find the keys to unlock any of
the many locked drawers in the house.  I could not lock him out of our
bedroom, and I could not keep myself from responding to him.  My computer
was a stand-alone, there was no connection to the outside world, and forget
about telephones.  He had thought out this prison in intricate detail, and
was always a step ahead of me.  His answers to my questions, when he chose
to respond to them, left me more confused than his silence.  There was
something undeniably...compelling in my current situation, something
inescapably exciting.  By now, I was fighting myself almost as hard as I
was fighting him.  And I was frightened by the sheer intensity of my
response to him.  Just giving in, though, was not an option.

   I stood in the small entry area of the large, rectangular basement room.
The armoire was against the right wall, locked.  There were chains with
leather cuffs dangling from the ceiling, and adjustable chains bolted to
the floor.  There was a table, like a doctor's exam table, only padded in
black leather and with a variety of chains, straps, and hooks attached to
it.  He had a framework, of leather wrapped wooden bars, that he could bend
me over and strap me to, and a bed on a low platform at the far end of the
room, with its own system of restraints.  He knew what he was doing, all
right.

   I stood, remembering and contemplating my options, of which I was aware
there were few.  I could submit to him, or I could resist him.  Either way,
he would win, and I would lose a little bit more of myself.  He locked the
door behind us, and stood very close to me, his mouth close to my ear.  I
felt his hands as he placed them on my back, slowly moving up the back of
my dress, and the faint sigh as he lowered the zipper and the dress
loosened around me.

   "Take it off," he whispered.

   "Take it off yourself," I replied.  He chuckled, low, next to my ear,
the sound sending shivers through me, and he took my earlobe between his
teeth and bit down.  I felt the faint prickling all the way down to my
groin as his tongue touched my earlobe.  He hooked his fingers in the
straps of the dress and pushed them down slowly, letting the cloth fall
around my feet.  He straightened, moving away from me, and beckoned me to
follow as he moved deeper in the room.  I stayed where I was.  I knew how
dangerous my behavior was, but hey, he was going to do what he was going to
do anyway, why should I make it easy for him?  I knew this would make him
enjoy his dominance all the more, to have to force me to do what he wanted,
and maybe you would think I should just passively and meekly give in, that
this would eventually bore him.  But it was simply not in my nature to
submit, and fighting him made it easier for me to sleep at night.  That is,
when he would let me sleep.

   He grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me to the framework in the
corner.  He bent me over the long bar at the front, adjusting the frame so
that I was stretched over the bar, my hands pulled out in front of me and
down, attached to posts, and my legs stretched so that I was on tiptoe, my
ankles strapped to the front bars of the frame.  This position, while
debasing to me by leaving my buttocks completely exposed to him, had the
added benefit of leaving my soft parts open and available to him to do
whatever he wanted.  I hated it.  But I felt myself swelling, too, and
getting wet, knowing he was going to touch me, and force me to feel.

   He left me tied there.  He went back upstairs to change, and returned
wearing only a soft, old pair of jeans.  From my position, bent over and
facing the wall, I could not see him, but I knew exactly how he looked,
wide, muscular chest bare, with a light dusting of crisp black curls, the
sensitive, rock hard tips of his nipples almost hidden, dark hair arrowing
down his slim waist into the top of his pants.  I heard the click as he
unlocked the armoire, and my breathing began to get unsteady.

   I felt the smooth, hard surface of a flexible, wooden paddle as he
stroked my ass with it.  My mouth was suddenly dry, and I had the intense
urge to beg him, but I would not.  The first strike came before I was
ready, the second even faster, and he settled into a steady rhythm of
strikes that I was unable to escape from.  I felt my buttocks swell and
redden beneath the paddle.  I was sobbing, my whole body shuddering and
shaking, trying in vain to pull my arms free, when he finally stopped.  I
felt his hands on the aching flesh, moving down, to touch the soft wetness
I needed him to touch.  His fingers rubbed my clitoris, and I came, pulling
even harder against my bonds, and crying out in release.  He came around
the frame, and bent down in front of me.

   "That's two, love," he said, his voice quixotically gentle, soothing,
his mouth like silk as he kissed the tears away.  He released my hands and
helped me to stand up, turning me to face him.  He had to pull my hair to
get me to lift my head, and he had to hold my head to convince me to open
my mouth to receive his kiss, but when his mouth touched mine, when his
tongue began to mate with mine, my whole body quivered, and I clung to him.
My breathing was unsteady, and my legs shaky as he positioned me under the
chains hanging from the ceiling, stretching my arms over my head and
securing my wrists in wide lambs wool lined leather cuffs.  He reached for
my leg, to pull it away and cuff it to the chain attached to the floor, and
I tried to kick him, tried to twist away, but he was too strong, and I only
succeeded in wearing myself out.  I was panting by the time he was able to
secure my other leg, my head hanging forward, letting my arms support my
weight.  I was crying.  I spent a lot of time now doing that, so it had no
effect on him, except for him to comment how lovely the tears made me to
him.  I would have spit in his face, but the last time I had done that, he
had kept me gagged for two days, tied up down here, and I would not do that
again.  You see?  He was training me.

   He moved around behind me.  I could hear him breathe, slow, even
breaths. My struggles had winded him not at all.  He stood close, the crisp
hairs on his chest tickling my back, and reached his hands up.  He stroked
his way down my body, down my arms, my back, over my sore and aching
buttocks, then down my thighs and calves.  He kissed the backs of my knees,
scraped his teeth over the raw flesh of my ass, reached around and pinched
my nipples.  I felt him step closer to me, his whole body pressed against
me, his hands moved down the bare, sensitive flesh of my stomach.  I felt
sobs building in my throat at my helplessness, as his fingers moved down,
over the bones of my pelvis, and felt his touch on me.  I was straining at
the bonds that held me, I tried to move away from him, from the
excruciating pleasure of the rough cloth of his jeans against my bare ass,
but he held me against him.  His highly skilled fingers probed, caressed,
pinched at me, until I felt myself come again.

   "That's three, Grace.  Really, love, you are making this too easy for
me," I heard him whisper in my ear, scolding me.  "Could it be you really
want me to sodomize you?  I thought you hated that," he whispered.  I
shuddered, unable to stop the autonomic function of my body, caught in the
waves of pleasure his still moving fingers were causing.  I tried to ignore
his words, but they left a cold knife of fear in my belly, and as my whole
body shook in response to those magical fingers, I could do nothing to stop
him.  Not from bringing me to fulfillment, or from following through on the
threat he had made in the study.

   That knowledge, while it terrified me into almost mindlessness, also
was, in a strange way, comforting.  Nothing I could do would stop him.  He
was focused on me in a way no one had ever been before, indeed, in a way I
had never known existed.  I don't know how, or why, maybe I really was
losing my mind.  Bailey had been the first man to make me come.  I was not
a virgin by any stretch of the imagination before I had met him, I was a
31-year old Hollywood scriptwriter, with a solid career, and a good
reputation at my craft, and I had had my share of love affairs.  But they
had always been short, and ultimately unfulfilling, I had blamed the men,
because I was afraid to face the truth that I might have been frigid.  Or
something equally heinous.  So I had not indulged in the physical for the
past several years, and I had never really missed it.  When Bailey came
along, when he seemed interested in me, had confessed to a certain
fascination for me, I had been flattered, and a little suspicious.  He was
an international movie star, and while I was well known in certain circles,
I was certainly not in his league.  He had made me feel beautiful, sexy,
desirable, in ways I had never experienced before.

   Don't start thinking my falling into his trap was a self-esteem trick.
That's way too easy an assumption to make, and it does not tell the whole
story.  I knew I was a beautiful woman physically.  I have long, honey
brown hair that curls down my back, long, long legs, a tiny waist and a
respectable shape, which I kept by daily workouts and a good diet.  I have
high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and large, sea green eyes.  I had no
complaints about how I looked, or my ability to attract the opposite sex. I
had merely not been interested, because, as I said, my affairs in the past
had been rather unsatisfying, leaving me with little interest in pursuing
new ones.  I kept to myself, read a lot, and worked a lot.  In addition to
writing feature film scripts, I had done the novelizations of some of my
movies, so had a name for myself as a writer.  I had a nice, airy, open
beach house in Marin County, a black Porsche 911, and enough money in the
bank so that if I got the urge to go jetting off to Jamaica one weekend, I
could indulge.  I felt like a woman who knew herself, and was comfortable
not just with who I was, but where I was in my life.

   Then Bailey had come along, and turned everything upside down.  He was
kind, solicitous, fun to be with.  And there was that charge of energy, of
excitement I felt when I was around him, so unlike anything I had ever felt
before.  He made me feel like the men I had been with before were mere
boys, he had deep strength of personality, and there was an edge to it,
that I should have been afraid of, but I found so attractive at the time.
We had been photographed together outside Mann's when the movie had opened,
and the picture had been published in several magazines.  "Movie star
Bailey King, star of the new film "Virtual Flight," with movie-star
beautiful Grace Lunelle, the movie's writer, at the premiere in Los
Angeles," had read one caption.  So I knew who I was, I knew I was a
desirable, healthy, talented woman.  It wasn't that I was some lonely, star
struck groupie, overpowered by the great movie star, the old rags to riches
clich .  He had come after me.  Bailey had been the first man to wring a
reaction from me in bed.  I had never told him that, all I had said was
that relationships and sex had seemed too much effort for too little
return, when the subject had come up.  Bailey had been forceful that night,
but not hurtful, and he had taken so much time, to touch me in ways no one
ever had.  He had held me, caressing my back as I shuddered and came apart
in his arms.  He was masterful, and skilled, very aware of his own size,
both his physical body, and his erections, and took great pains not to
overwhelm me with either.  I had been so lost in the sensations, almost
drunk with the pleasure he gave me, and had believed him utterly when he
told me he loved me, and wanted to marry me.

   Okay, so sue me for being naive.  It wasn't the first time, but it could
well turn out to be the biggest mistake I've ever made.  We had gotten
married quickly and quietly, with a few friends, on the beach near my
house.

   Bailey explained the speed by saying he didn't want the media sharks to
build up a full feeding frenzy about it, which may well have happened,
considering his place in Hollywood, and that was no conceit on his part. 
We had gone to St.  Bart's for a couple of days after the ceremony, but he
had a part in a movie he needed to get back for.  Those days were confusing
to me.

   He was loving, attentive, and extremely erotic with me, and he would
sometimes hold my hands behind my back, or over my head when we made love,
but I found it very new, exotic and exciting.  I also found it
disconcerting, but he was otherwise gentle, and would spend hours
sometimes, just holding me, rubbing my back or all over my body with
massage oil, or brushing my hair.  I had realized later he had been doing
research, finding out what I liked, what made me really hot, and what was
guaranteed to make me balk.  He was as solicitous as he had been before,
very gentlemanly.  Strangely, he still was solicitous and gentlemanly about
the same types of things, which merely frightens and confuses me more. 
Maybe that's why he does it.  All I know is, he does not explain himself to
me, so how do I know what his motivations are for the things he does.

   I have already explained what happened when we came home, to his house
here, for the first time.  I had been to his house several times before,
for dinner, and once a small party with some of the others who had worked
on the movie, but to say I was shocked when he led me into his basement
room was an understatement.  I was still in that state of shock, and
probably would be for the rest of my life.

   I groaned when Bailey knelt between my spread legs.  He stroked the
tender flesh of my inner thighs with the backs of his hands, while he
kissed my stomach, my hipbones, and worked his way lower.  I knew once he
started to lick me, and suck on the swollen throb of my clitoris, that I
would come almost immediately.  The thought of this fourth orgasm scared
the hell out of me, for I knew it would bring me that much closer to his
ultimate punishment tonight.  I tried to resist him as he used his tongue,
lips, and even his teeth to assault the dripping, throbbing flesh between
my straining thighs.  His tongue pushed up and into me, moving in erotic
circles inside me, as if he was French-kissing my mouth.  I felt his mouth
move forward slightly, and he took his time closing his lips around that
tight little knot of flesh, using the tip of his tongue on it, then sucking
strongly, pulling me up on tiptoe at the sensation.  He stopped for a
moment, his lips wrapped around that little knot of flesh, left me hovering
there on the razor's edge, and I tried not to move, not to press myself
forward into his face, grind my hips to complete the cycle.  He made me do
that, not moving, until I could not control my body, and pushed down on
him. Then he stroked me with his tongue, as I came.

   "Four, Grace.  Only one more to go.  Are you regretting your little
scene yet, love?  I'm not," he laughed, low, and released my legs, then
stood and opened the cuffs holding my arms over my head.  I sagged,
drained, limp, against him.  Maybe he had outsmarted himself.  There was no
way I could come again, at least not any time soon.

   But I was wrong.

   He brought me over to the mattress.  All the fight had gone out of me. I
allowed him to lay me down, on my back, and stay where he put me.  I felt
the bed move as he climbed on it.  He covered me with his body, pressing me
into the mattress.  My eyes were closed, and I turned my head away from
him, but he turned it back, and kissed me.  I could taste myself on his
lips.  He was still wearing his jeans, but I could feel the heat of his
erection, like steel against my naked thigh, through the denim.  My stomach
fluttered in response.  His tongue searched my mouth, and I was unable to
stop myself from kissing him back.  He was gentle with me now, stroking my
cheek with his fingertips, threading those long fingers through my hair and
massaging my scalp lightly.  The heat of his mouth against mine made me
drowsy, swimming in the sensation of being covered by him, he surrounded
me, his scent, his arms at my sides, holding me in, and the insistent push
of his erection, now pressing into the cleft between my legs as he shifted
position on top of me.  Whenever he changed like this, became so loving and
soft with me, I melted.  He continued to kiss me as his hand moved to cup
my breast, unhurried, molding the softness into his hand, and stroking the
tip with the ball of his thumb until it tightened with a delicious shiver
that sent a shock traveling down my body.  I felt my sex swell anew in
response to the sensations, his intensity had shifted, and he seemed to be
taking all the time in the world to arouse me slowly, touching all the soft
parts of my body, trailing fire across my skin with his hot hand, and
following the trails he blazed with his even hotter mouth.  I knew what he
was doing, too.

   I felt my last climax building in me, climbing slowly as he expertly
guided me to it, and I was equally aware that he knew.  He touched his
mouth to the flesh between my legs, and I cried out, my body spasming as I
came for a fifth time.

   He had me flipped over on my stomach almost before I could catch another
breath.  Damn, he was so fast, and so strong; I fought the languor in my
veins and cursed myself for allowing him to lull me into this state.  I
tried to rise up on all fours, but his knee was pressing on the small of my
back, and I couldn't move.  The fear was back, its icy fingers prickling
around inside me as he pulled my arms out to each side and cuffed them to
the restraints.  My mouth was dry in anticipation, but my sex was soaking
wet.  I was appalled at how easy it had been for him to get me in this
position.  I was on my stomach, flat on the bed, my cheek pressed into the
mattress, my arms pulled out to either side, and I could not move, even to
kick at him.  I felt the bed shift as he got off it, and the whisper of a
zipper as he took off the jeans.  The bed dipped again, and I jumped when
his hand touched my calf.  He forced my legs to bend up and under me, so
that I was on my knees near the top of the bed, with my bottom up in the
air.  I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to make a sound.  I felt him
move behind me, his hand on my back where he had put his knee a moment ago
to hold me down, and then he touched my still burning ass.

   "Are you ready, Grace?" he asked, in that wicked voice, so full of
himself, so sure, as he tried to enter me with his finger.  I tried to
resist him, tried to keep myself clenched and closed, but he laughed again,
and then I felt the head of his cock enter me.  Suddenly filled with him,
and he was inside my slippery folds to the hilt immediately, I relaxed. 
But after a few strokes, giving me time to feel every inch of him rubbing
against my insides, he pulled out, and before I could blink, he began to
penetrate my ass.  I felt the tip of him go in, and I stiffened, tried to
push him out, but he pulled me back by my hips, not allowing me the room to
pull away.  His hands held me apart as he filled me.

   It hurt.  He knew that, too, as I heard him sigh and whisper how tight
it was, and I tried again and again to push him out, but then he whispered
that made it tighter for him, and I stopped struggling.  As if that was his
cue, he pressed his hands on my back, and began to move very slowly, in and
out of me.  I couldn't breathe.  Faster he went, picking up speed slowly,
until with one final lunge that pushed my head into the headboard of the
bed, he came.  He collapsed on me, still buried inside, and sighed.

   "Ah, Grace, how you please me," he whispered in my ear.  I waited for
him to back out, and ease off me, but he did not.  He remained where he
was, and to my horror, I felt him, after a few moments, start to get hard
again.

   "Bailey, what-" I said in a panic.  Wasn't this over yet?

   He reached around and covered my mouth with his hand.  "Until you beg me
to stop, Grace.  That's what I said.  And I will know when you really mean
it."

   He was fully erect again, and I had to clamp my mouth shut.  No way was
I giving him that satisfaction.  A moment later, I felt my resolve weaken
as he began to move again, pounding against my sore buttocks with his hips.
I groaned under him.  He had come once already.  He could go on with this a
very long time.  I knew that from long, hard experience, and I was
frightened.  I would not beg him, I had never done it before, no matter
what he did, and he knew it.

   He stopped after a couple of minutes, and I heard his whisper, his mouth
near my ear again, his chest pressing into my back.  "Come on, Grace, it's
easy.  All you have to do is say, Bailey, please.  Just beg me to stop."

   "Go to hell," I gritted out through clenched teeth, and my punishment
for that little infraction was a particularly hard thrust that made me
groan.

   "You are a delight, Grace.  Truly the light of my life," he panted out
as he continued to push into me.  My head was whirling, and I felt like I
might pass out, but with a groan, he thrust once more, and came again.  I
felt him ease out this time, and sighed, my whole body seemed to soften,
and I slid down on the mattress, with a deep sense of relief.  I didn't
know what he was doing, but I thanked whatever shred of decency Bailey had
left for changing his mind.  He got up off the bed, and I heard water
running in the bathroom.  He came back to the bed, where I was still curled
up.  I was trying to tuck my aching backside as far under me as I could,
but it wasn't working.  He took me by the shoulders, and pushed me as far
down the bed as my bound hands would let me go, then climbed over me and
positioned himself in front of my mouth.  I knew exactly what he wanted,
but I wouldn't do it, not until he took me by the hair and pushed himself
into my mouth.  I felt him get hard again.  He was always so ready, nothing
ever really took that away from him, he could have an erection almost on
command.  It was the strangest thing how he was always able to get hard, no
matter how many times he came.  He pulled out of my mouth, and stroked my
hair, whispering to me that I was a good girl.  He moved around behind me
again, and took up his position, and I realized that he was going to
continue.  I had not been granted a reprieve; it had merely been an
interlude.  I felt him enter me again, in my ass, and I cried in real pain,
despite the liberal lubrication he had used.  He moved again, and again,
and I realized just how determined he was.  Finally, I could stand it no
longer, and started to cry out.

   "Bailey, please, stop.  Please, Bailey," I was beyond myself, and felt
him give a long, painful thrust, as he came yet again, before pulling out.
I dropped my head down, still crying.  My ass felt huge, gaping, and I
could not control the spasms that pumped his juices out of me.  I cried
from the humiliation of being tied like this, forced to open for him, and
then to beg him to stop.  Bailey had lay down next to me.  I realized dimly
that he was stroking my face.

   "Come now, Grace.  That wasn't so bad.  At least, not so bad that it
won't be worse next time.  I suggest you remember that, love." He kissed me
gently, on the nose, on the forehead, over my closed eyelids, but he did
not yet untie me.  I was still in the ignominious position he had placed me
in, my legs cramped, too tired and sore to move.  After a few moments,
though, he released one of my hands, and allowed me to roll over on my
back. I could not stifle another groan, as the sheets rubbed against my
punished flesh.  Bailey got up and returned with a warm towel, which he
used to clean me up.  I was lying there, drifting, awaiting his next move,
when I fell asleep.

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