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Love Is The Bond

M. R. Sellars

When the wind comes from the South,

Love will kiss thee on the mouth.

Couplet #11

The Wiccan Rede, Lady Gwen Thompson,

Friday, December 3

7:23 P.M.

Room 7, Satin Tide Motel

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

PROLOGUE:

She could feel the tickle rising in her belly. It had been there ever since they walked into the room together. It was faint and fleeting, in the background but always there. Now it was getting stronger.

Steady.

Even.

And, it was crawling upward in an ever-increasing ripple of internal pleasure. At this particular moment, the level was comfortable. More than comfortable, really, it was desirable and almost hypnotically rhythmic.

She knew from experience that as the rhythm of the tickle increased so would the pleasure-and with it the hypnotic trance. And, with that trance would come yet another step in her journey toward an ultimate goal; of course, that was what this was all about, her objective.

Her needs.

Her wants.

She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing on that which she desired. As she allowed the breath to slowly escape between pursed, red-glossed lips, she could feel the surge beginning. What was at this moment in time merely titillating would very soon push beyond that fragile envelope, exploding forth with untamed fury.

But, not until she was ready…

Absolutely not until she was ready…

It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen until she deemed it time. This may only be a game to him, but for her the game was a ritual-and so much more. And, after all, she was the one in control.

She opened her eyes slowly, feeling the rush as her pulse quickened and her breaths became shallow pants.

“Kneel,” she commanded, her voice alluringly hoarse but authoritative nonetheless.

The man was facing away from her just as she had instructed him to do. In response, he uttered a simple, “Yes, Mistress,” thus finally breaking the silence she had imposed on him fully fifteen minutes before. He set about complying with the order, struggling to keep his balance as he began lowering himself.

He was completely nude with only a few minor exceptions. His hands were tightly bound behind his back; a beige athletic bandage stretched securely in a figure eight about his wrists. A nylon dog collar encircled his neck, and attached to the chromed D-ring was a matched training lead. The tough strip of webbing made a straight line down the center of his back where it eventually looped beneath his restrained arms and trailed off at an upward angle through the space between the two of them, finally ending where it was held in a loose grip by his Mistress’ leather-gloved hand.

His right knee hit the floor with a hard thud, and he rocked forward as he fought for the equilibrium necessary to keep from slamming face first into the motel room’s thin carpet. Even so, Mistress didn’t yield her grip on the leash; instead, much more than simply allowing it to pull taught, she tugged hard on the end, levering his arms backward and straining the collar against his throat with delicious agony.

He gurgled for a moment as he choked then thudded his other knee against the floor as well, still reveling in the pain that brought him such pleasure. He felt his own tickle between his thighs and knew without looking that he had begun to stiffen. Whether the euphoria came from the lack of oxygen to his brain, the curious bent of being tortured by a beautiful woman, or both, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that his entire body was beginning to tingle, and he relished its off-kilter pleasure.

A rush of blood was beginning to roar in his ears, and bright spots of color flickered before him as the room began shifting out of focus. His nerve endings were tingling with what he perceived as pure ecstasy, but he knew also that there was a danger zone quickly approaching. Reluctantly, he began to shift his weight back to relieve the strain on the collar that was choking him into his personal bliss. The resistance he met was wholly unexpected.

His pathetic gagging was fueling the tickle in her belly, pushing it up to her solar plexus and out through her extremities, setting each individual cell in her body alight with a smoldering pleasure. Her breaths became shallower and quicker still as she listened to him, twisting the end of the leash in her hand to pull it even tighter. She could tell by the way he was beginning to shift that he was reaching his threshold, but she was not yet ready for it to end. The tickle was still growing, and it had now become a not-so-singular tingle. It needed to be nurtured, and she knew just exactly what would feed its hunger.

As he began to lean back, she maintained tension on the leash and quickly lifted her foot, placing the sole of her stiletto-heeled pump against his spine. She pushed him back forward, and though she was shorter and far lighter than he, she was in full command of the physical laws of leverage.

His gagging and gurgling continued unabated, and she began to almost tremble as the tingle skipped up the scale several notches to become a more than pleasurable full-body itch. She looked up toward the ceiling then closed her eyes yet again, stretching her milky-skinned form toward something unseen. She took in a sudden, deep breath out of autonomic reflex and let it go with an almost imperceptible moan. Opening her eyes she let her gaze fall back down to her slave then clenched her teeth as she slitted her cold stare. With a heaving sigh she released her grip on the leash and gave him a shove with the foot she held planted against his back. He fell forward into a heap, sputtering and gasping as he struck the floor. She watched him slowly roll over, his naked chest rising and falling as he sucked hungrily at the charged air in the room. Her gaze continued to roam his form, falling momentarily between his legs. It was obvious that he had been on the verge of release, and he was still throbbing as he lay there.

“Good,” she thought to herself. “He’s ready, and so are we. Almost…”

She moved forward, slowly stepping over his prone body but not without dragging the toe of her shoe hard across his heaving chest, taking a moment to relish the sudden yelp the scrape elicited from her slave. She then continued on with a high-heeled swagger that bordered on obscene then strode over to the bureau and stood with her back to him.

An airline bottle of a popular brand of rum was all she had on hand; she hadn’t had time to purchase any of the really good stuff. This session had come about far too quickly. The man on the floor behind her wasn’t even the real reason she was here. He was serendipity incarnate, spur of the moment and a fully unexpected bonus. Even more-dare she even think the cliche pun-almost literally “right out of the blue.” But, still, he was one she couldn’t pass up; they needed to be fed-all of them, including her. And, at least she did have rum, so she was certain that Papa would understand. He always did.

She looked down and opened the aluminum attache that adorned the scuffed top of the bureau. Latching the

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