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I have this fairy-tale daydream about being stranded with Byron on a lush island. We kiss amid rustling palms and fragrant bougainvillea. Salty breezes wrap our skin as we stroll white sand beaches. We bathe in a turquoise lagoon, laugh, and make love in the sun.Only in a dream can I make love with Byron. I make love with my devoted husband in our bed, in our house at the end of our quiet cul-de-sac. Byron is the man I fuck in sterile hotel rooms and places unimaginable to those who think they know me. Infidelity, cheating, adultery - choose a word. They?re all inadequate, though I?m partial to adultery because it?s so goddamn coldblooded.Byron did not sweep off my feet in a romantic whirlwind of opera and roses. There was no cosmopolitan seduction while sipping coffee in a sidewalk cafe, no exploited moment of emotional vulnerability. I didn?t yield to get back at my husband. God, no, it wasn?t like any of that at all. Better if it had been, though, because I could rationalize the guilt.So, what happened? Byron put me on my knees. The bastard snapped his fingers and to his feet I leapt, drooling and squirming like Pavlov?s favorite in-season bitch. He smashed my suburban America decorum, loosing a shameless, submissive slut I?d dared not admit existed, and, damn him for it, but I can?t control her. He sure as hell can.I harbor no illusions about our relationship. We have nothing in common except visceral sex, and in sex Byron is the verb, and I am his object.The slam of a car door splinters my tropical daydream like the crack of a frozen river shattering beneath me. Heart thumping, lungs flailing, apprehension wraps my body in sweaty tremors as I return to myself. In my head, my good angel?s anguished pleas to think of my marriage die away as my bad angel gleefully breaks her golden wings and drags her to some dark corner where she won?t be a bother - for a while, anyway.The tremors fade, and I open my slut eyes to see feet dirtied with flecks of straw. I wiggle the toes to make sure they are mine.I am standing on a straw-covered floor in the middle of an ancient, cavernous barn. It is a trysting ground for those times Byron finds civilization insufficiently deviant, and I hate it with the necessary hatred of the addict for her needle. An old barn, one of countless such relics, stubbornly enduring in the middle of nowhere, forgotten at the end of weedy farm track behind an unkempt wind break of geriatric Norway spruce - how many have you driven by and never noticed? Ever wondered what goes on in them?The barn is empty except for rectangular bales of sweet, summer hay, hauled in by Byron; arrange, throw a horse blanket over them, and you?ve got a chair, table, or bed to serve the perversion du jour. If I?m a nasty enough girl, anyway, I get the horse blanket. Ever been bent over a hay bale with nothing between your skin and the hay?Today, the bales make a broad semi-circle, stacked like bricks three and four high, and I warm to Byron?s pagan symbolism. Conjuring a torch-lit, prehistoric rite under a crescent moon, I imagine a pale virgin being led to the altar... Yeah, I know my place in this temple.Not a wisp of air stirs. Above me, sunbeams pierce like lasers through random holes in the rusting tin roof to cut brilliant slashes into the craggy beams and walls of an otherwise subdued and stifling space.I arrived ten minutes before Byron, at his request, and dressed to satisfy only the minimum of public decency. I am not his slave, though sometimes I think I might as well be. Nothing forces me to obey Byron, and there would be no punishment if I refused him. But I seldom do, because I am desperately and humiliatingly receptive to his dominance. I don?t need a collar to know my place; he doesn?t need a whip to keep me there.A form obscures the sunlight spilling through the crack between the double doors, but they do not open. Byron never comes to me forthwith. Brutal tease, that?s Escort Küçükköy his method.The sacrifice has readied herself. I am naked, my clothes hanging from rusty nails hammered decades ago into seasoned oak boards. Where once leather harness reins, traces, and collars hung in orderly tangles, my summer frock and diminutive panties droop like wilted pastel flowers. No longer do I wait for that brusque ?Get naked,? spoken the moment Byron pushes open the creaking barn door, or my hotel room door, or wherever. ?Get naked,? spoken like he?s telling a dog to get off the sofa without looking to see if the animal is even there.I just strip unbidden - whether waiting in this barn or upon entering a room ahead of him. It?s a vicarious swill of control slurped from a blistering sweet cauldron of submission.Finally, brilliant light dissipates the gloom as the barn doors groan open, but I don?t have the courage to abandon the fascination of my dirty feet. It?s not fear of Byron, but fear of what else I might, in this vulnerable moment of initial contact, surrender if I look into his eyes too soon. Byron doesn?t close the doors. That any person who chanced by, a infinitesimally small probability at best, would see me naked isn?t lost on me.?Hello, Tessa.? Byron?s words are smooth, enunciated, and matter-of-fact.?Hello, Sir.? The appellation rolls unbidden off my tongue like bitter honey, vocalized by some subconscious need to acknowledge his dominance. Byron doesn?t give a damn what I call him, and I don?t need to see his face to know he?s amused. He collects the submissive tells that escape my mouth and body like precious gems, and, sooner or later, he hangs them around my neck.His pack thuds to the floor. Nothing clinks, I note with disappointed relief. The soft crunch of boots on straw measures his unhurried circumnavigation of me at a distance beyond my downcast peripheral vision. The coarse and merciless examination resonates through me, sending perspiration trickling and tickling down my ribs, the backs of my knees, and between my breasts. Even my husband won?t look at me this way - he sees the wife he adores; Byron sees a woman he intends to fuck.?Did you have a good flight?? Byron says as he circles me.?Yes, Sir.? ?That?s a pretty dress you wore. I bet you?d sell a shit load of meds if you sashayed into doctor offices in that instead of a plain Jane business suit. Show some skin. Give the horny doctors a little whiff. I bet you?d get some quality face time.? He chuckles like it?s a private joke.He is teasing me. I?m a pharmaceutical rep, and it?s my job to travel my region making sure hospitals and doctors prescribe my company?s drugs before the competition?s. I am damn good at it. How the hell do you think I met Byron? He?s a surgeon, and yeah, more than once he?s taken me on an exam table - a damn versatile piece of equipment.?You want a whiff, Sir?? I say. ?Come closer and I?ll drown you.? Realizing my hands are foolishly shielding my mound, I slide them to my thighs to complete my nakedness. My gesture earns a laugh that is gentle, encouraging, and deceptive.?Touché, Tessa. You are more beautiful each time we meet.??Thank you, Sir.? The compliment rouses my nipples.?Tessa, stop playing coy. Wipe that salacious smile off your face and raise your head.? I?m smiling? A subvocal shift in his tone tightens my chest. Niceties are over, and, for a moment, I can?t obey, agonizing over and anticipating the bad things he?s going to make me do. My gut is in free fall, but my limbs are leaden.?Tessa, look at me.?Slowly, I will my eyes to journey from my feet to his dusty boots. I pause for a breath, then climb his blue denim jeans, shuddering at a conflicted memory of unbuckling his belt with my teeth, the leather sour on my tongue, pulling it out of the loops, and sinking to my elbows and knees with my ass high in the air? Yeah, I?ll never again dare the man to do anything.As Mecidiyeköy escort always, Byron wears a crisp Oxford shirt, today a red pinstripe, the long-sleeves rolled to his elbows. I hardly notice, fixated on the coils of rope draped over his left shoulder.Rope. My pulse revs as the warm dew between my legs thickens to a hot, yearning slickness.My timidity falls away, and I stare boldly into his face, all masculine angles and planes, shadowed with a weekend?s worth of whiskers, handsome, but unremarkable except for his steel grey eyes - wolf?s eyes - framed by subtle crow?s feet that bespeak of roguishness and competence. His smile exposes gleaming teeth behind delicious, full lips, his canines sharper than the norm. Or, is it only my imagination? My eyes flick back to the rope.?Yes, Tessa, the rope is for you, but not just yet. Now, spread your legs. It isn?t becoming for you to stand so demurely.?I separate my legs. Byron contemplates my unmistakable condition of arousal with satisfaction, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a candy wrapped in ornate silver foil. It?s an imported Dutch dark chocolate, expensive and difficult to find, a favorite indulgence of mine. Damn him. My face grows hot.?Does my pet want a chocolate?? He speaks like an alligator inviting a fawn for a swim. The foil flutters to the ground and the chocolate beckons in his outstretched palm.Fantasy rebellion flares behind my eyes. I could walk to him and take the chocolate. I could tell him no thanks. I could slap him and tell him to shove it up his ass, put on my clothes, and leave. But no, straw is already poking into my palms and knees. He?s read my state of mind perfectly.One hand in front on the other, I put on a show, slinking like a panther as I crawl. With each step my nipples ache and my pussy throbs. I nuzzle his leg.Byron affectionately tousles my hair. ?Good girl.?I lunge for the chocolate, but all I taste is his hard fist closed around it. I try to worm my tongue between his fingers.?Don?t get greedy, Tessa.?Through his fingers I sniff the chocolate, it?s scent and my shame watering my mouth.?Please, Sir.??That?s not how I want you to beg.?Exposing my throat, I stare into Byron?s face, but only his mouth is smiling. My wolf is hungry, famished to the brink of reason, yet he isn?t above torturing his prey before the feast. I open my mouth to speak, to obey his command to beg, but I make only silence. It?s not words he wants.What do I want? I can still ask this question, even as I rub my face against his thigh. We are alone here. He?s humiliated me before with mortifying ingenuity. With any other man, my ego struts like an Olympic champion. With Byron, it?s like a drowning man grasping for phantom straws in a perverse tempest blowing within my id.I dismiss the Freudian bullshit. I have no excuses. The data do not lie. I am crawling naked in a barn to a man, other than my husband, who treats me like a branded woman-animal. What do I want? I want his uncivilized, uncompromising attention. I want the beast behind those primal gray eyes gorging itself on my flesh and spirit. And I want the goddamn candy.So, the big bad wolf wants his slut to beg? I bark, not a yapping, girly bark, but a bitch-in-heat snarl. And I nip his hand for good measure.A harsh smile graces me as I get the chocolate. Warm and soft from his body heat, the bittersweet confection quickly dissolves under my flitting tongue. I don?t stop licking until Byron?s hand is spotless. ?Please, Sir,? I say, sucking his middle finger and wiggling my butt. ?May I have another??A violent jerk to my feet by my hair answers that question. Byron torques me around so my back is to his front, buries his face in my shoulder, tasting and biting a wet trail to my neck and climbing to my ear. I twist to meet his lips. His right hand grips my throat; his left descends to explore my pussy, forcefully groping me, testing my readiness. Merter escort bayan Flinching at his rough touch, I pass with dripping colors. A finger curls into me with a squish, expertly contacts my g-spot, and fucks me hard. Kittenish growls vibrate in my chest as I simultaneously ride his finger and grind my hip into his jeans - yeah, he?s bulging. All the while, our mouths make sloppy love.I?m about to come and I want him in me now. My fingernails rasp against his fly trying to grip his zipper pull to free his cock. Byron?s thumb mashes hard into my tumescent clitoris.?Ouch!? I break away, the spell obliterated. Byron hauls me back. The finger that fucked me disappears into his mouth like a chef sampling his handiwork.?Can I have some, too?? I slide my fingers down my belly.Byron grabs my hand. ?On your knees.? His words are powder dry husks poised to combust.?No.? I want his cock and everything attached to it and grab at his face for another kiss only to be thrust back by his left hand squeezing my throat. Blood roars in my skull.?Down, Tessa.?My knees obey, lowering me to the straw where I splay open my thighs, and, pouting for more kisses, petulantly fold my arms across my breasts in an immodest display of modesty. Byron?s cock is a denim-covered lump threatening my face, and I get a visual of sneaking past the hotel concierge?the alert fucker always makes small talk?with cum tangles in my hair.Surprise. Instead of feeding me cock, Byron turns his back as he unbuttons his shirt, tossing it aside and picking up the rope. An unnecessary examination of the rope commences. He checks the ends, pulls the thick braided cord through his fingers as if feeling for imperfections, and gives it an experimental jerk to gauge its strength.Fascination and angst pummel me. I?m on fire, but he?s purposely cooling off, walking himself back from the edge, sticking to his plan, whatever it is. Damn his surgeon?s discipline. Rare are the times I?ve cracked his cool. If I could have gotten my hands, or, better yet, my mouth, on his cock?Byron uncoils about two meters of rope. So much for a fast and filthy fuck. I give up playing schoolgirl shy with my breasts and extend my arms, wrists helpfully crossed.The thought of bondage used to terrify me. My fear had less to do with trust than the fact that I?m a borderline control freak. My head couldn?t span the chasm from my control space to a space where I couldn?t fight back, where I could not choose how and where I was touched, where ?no? might be a waste of breath. I couldn?t do it on my own, I should say.It was on our second fuck that Byron seized me by the scruff of the neck and threw me bodily across that chasm. I didn?t see it coming, and he sure as hell didn?t ask permission. In the middle of some delightfully rough foreplay, he seized my arms and in a heartbeat I was a captive flailing on his bed with my hands lashed behind my back with my bra. Shock silenced my panic?screams couldn?t pass my constricted throat?but it didn?t stop me from pissing myself silly. All Byron did was laugh while I fountained, then rip off my soggy panties, force my legs apart, and bury his face in my cunt. His tongue painted a new dimension into my reality, and, oh, Jesus, did I come.Lightning fast hands manipulate the rope. A half dozen loops and a two cinches later, my wrists are comfortably but inescapably secure, and Byron is stepping back, studying the barn space above me. He throws the free end of the rope over a rafter and hauls me to my feet. Up I go until my arms are stretched and my heels barely graze the floor. I concentrate on breathing through my nose.Byron drags a hay bale in front on me and sits. The conflagration that nearly burst loose is now locked up in that forge of a mind behind a dangerously impassive face. Only his eyes move as he takes a painstaking tour of my vulnerable body. I can sense the heat from whatever fire he?s stoking, know I?m about to be plunged in, but I can do naught except leak my approval.?Turn,? he commands.?No.? ?Tessa, you are in no position to be difficult.??Kiss me first.? Yeah, I?m submissive to him, but it doesn?t mean I have to roll over like a puppy.