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pressed her to
the bed.
    She was only
vaguely aware of the roughness of the bedspread against her
back.
    She was
intimately aware of his pubic curls crushed against hers, the dewy
wetness of the head of his penis as it ploughed through her sex,
its strength and size as it penetrated her; the heat of his stem
against the soft suck of her pubic lips.
    'You like
being tied up, don't you?'
    His body
thudded against her.
    'I might.' Her
voice trembled with passion.
    'Say it. Go
on, say it.' There was power in his voice. He was willing her to do
this.
    'I can't.'
    It was true.
Somehow, to say such a thing would be to expose her innermost self;
the person she really was. Or was it that she didn't want to say
it? That she wanted him to force the words out of her?
    His features
hardened. His body banged heavily and fiercely against hers. The
sound of belly slapping against belly filled the tiny room.
    She cried
out.
    'Say it. I
know you like it.' He continued to fuck her as he said it. His face
was intense, his jaw set like iron.
    'I won't!'
    Her cry held
more than defiance. It trembled with pleasure.
    God - she
liked what he was doing to her, liked this feeling of helplessness
with a man she instinctively trusted!
    All the same,
she was aware of the grim line of his mouth, the tight grip of his
hands. The tips of his fingers dug into her hips.
    'You,' he
said, as he skewered her more deeply, then paused, 'are not what
you seem.' He withdrew a little, then plunged again. She cried
out.
    'You,' he said
as he repeated the ramming, the pausing as he asked her the
question, 'like what I'm doing to you, but will not admit it.'
Again he withdrew, held himself back like an archer about to
fire.
    Abby, lost in
her own sexuality, her own fantasy, sucked in her breath. Each time
he thrust her enjoyment increased. Each time he paused, harbingers
of climax radiated upwards and outwards from the centre of her
pleasure. The coming climax was like the feathers of a fan. First
it was only slightly open. With each thrust, each pause, it opened
a little more, tantalized a little more. But it was increasing. The
fan was gradually opening into one fantastic statement. One
fantastic climax.
    'You,' he
exclaimed again as he rammed himself into her, 'like to be in
control of your life and of men, yet, when it comes to sex, you
need to submit to the more sordid side of your nature. Is that not
right?'
    The sensations
increased. The fan of sexual feathers went that much further
towards its fullest opening.
    Moaning
through gritted teeth, Carmel thrashed her head from side to side,
burying her face and her cries in the pillow. At the same time, she
arched her body so that she might better meet the fierceness of his
thrusts.
    He retrieved
his cock, then rammed it in again.
    'Is that not
right?' he demanded again... and again, and again, her juices
slurping as he pumped himself into her in time with his
question.
    'Yes!' she
cried. 'Yes! Yes!' The ostrich-feathered fan of her own sensations
was now fully open.
    As her climax
ranted through her mind and her body, she would have said anything,
would have done anything, and would be anything he wanted her to
be.
    Even once the
orgasm was completely over and he lay snuggled close to her side,
he did not untie her. Strangely enough, it did not seem to matter.
The way he stroked her breasts as they talked made her forget she
was still tied to the bed and to his wishes. The warmth of his
voice against her ear, and the way one hand stayed trapped beneath
her behind, gave her a strangely secure feeling.
    But why am I allowing this? she asked
herself. It was a question she had asked herself before. The answer
was there, and she knew it was there.
    In her other
life she was powerful, successful, and unapproachable. It was her
that led the way, made the headway, and dominated her field in a
way few women ever got to do. Here, in this other world, this
twilight where people indulged their wildest excesses, she was
someone