When I take my hand away, he opens his eyes and his jaw drops just a little in an expression of pleading overcome with lust. I pay absolutely no attention to it, and he knows better than to actually say anything to me. Sometimes I love to ask him questions when he's in this state, just to hear his voice, the roughness in his tone, the tremors in his words, the accent that makes me weak-kneed. Maybe later I'll make him talk to me. Now, I have better ideas.

I stand up again and kick the pillow out of my way. Sergei watches me intently, and I don't remind him to keep his head down. I'd like it better if he watched this.

I slip my hands underneath the hem of my skirt and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down and then stepping out of them. His eyes widen as I walk toward him without hurry. Without saying anything, I lean over him and position myself on top of him, knees on either side of him, my shins resting on his thighs. It's a little awkward for me and I have to wiggle a bit to inch my skirt up more, but I finally rest my left hand on his shoulder and slide my right hand up his neck and into his hair. He squeaks a tiny little squeak as I pull his hair, forcing his head back so I can look down into his eyes.

I move my left hand from his shoulder down between us, stroking him lightly a few more times before guiding him into me. His breathing stops, catching in his throat, and I can imagine that if it feels this good to me, it's probably unbearable for him.

That makes me grin, and I stay like that for a moment, on top of him, grinning down at him with my fingers still curled in his hair. He holds still for a long time, considering the situation, and then he can't help himself. He thrusts his hips, just a little bit. I yank his head further back unmercifully and he stops moving entirely, doesn't even breathe for a few beats until I ease my grip.

I know he knows what I want, but I say it anyway. "Don't you dare move." I can see the acquiescence in his eyes and it makes me want to kiss him and slap him at the same time, for being so willing, for not resisting me. As I begin to move, grinding my hips against his, I add, "And don't you dare come."

He whimpers very loudly, almost a quiet wail at this. I chuckle without a drop of remorse or pity. Right now, I don't care. I know what I want, and I know that's exactly what I'm going to get; at this point, I don't give a damn about what he wants - and more correctly, at this point anyway, what he probably needs.

I writhe on him at a frenzied pace, utterly using him, both because I'm so aroused and because I know it will make it that much harder for him to keep control. Yes, I want to come, but more than that, I want to watch him struggle with himself.

I can hear my pulse pounding in my head, hear myself panting, but all that I'm paying attention to are the sounds that Sergei is making. He whines, he moans, he whimpers in that low, sweet voice of his, and at last, he begins to beg.

"Maggie," he whispers, choking on the word. "Please, I can't -"

"You have to," I growl, concentrating on my movements.

"I'm..." he doesn't finish the sentence, his eyebrows crash together in effort. He's sweating all over; I can see it dampening the hair framing his face, his shoulders, running down his chest. He takes another gasping breath. "You're... it's too... oh, Maggie, please!" he cries out, his hands gripping the ends of the chair arms so tightly that I'm sure he's going to leave marks in the wood.

But I'm not about to stop now. His pleading and his tears only make me increase the pace, and soon, I block out Sergei entirely, riding him heartlessly until I cry out in pleasure and then collapse against him. When I sit up straight to look at him, I see something that makes me want to fuck him all over again

. His eyes are still shut so tightly I can see the little wrinkles at their corners. Tears slip from between his lashes and roll down his face, mixing with the sweat, and his jaw is clenched, his lips pulled back slightly from his teeth.

I pull away from him and stand up, and he has to work to keep the sobs under control; it doesn't happen. He sits there, grinding his hips into the chair and crying, his eyes closed. He's so upset he doesn't even remember to use those big blue eyes on me.

I fold my arms in front of me and stare at him. It's the perfect sight.

I do realize how cruel I'm being. And I'm sure that, given a different situation, there would be no way in hell I would torture him so much. But everything just fell into place tonight, and right now, I can't be sympathetic. Later, of course, I'll hold him and comfort him, tell him how wonderful he is for taking everything I give him, and there may even be a few tears on my part. Right now, though, all that agony just eggs me on. I want more, more sobbing, more begging, more squirming and pleading.

At last, he does raise his eyes to mine. His cheeks are flushed with a mixture of arousal and shame, and probably the remnants of the effort he had to expend to meet my wishes. I shiver. Imagine being able to have that much control over someone else's body. Imagine having someone let you have that much control.

"Do you think you can take more just yet?" I ask with a sardonic tone. He starts to cry harder and I grin maniacally. "Don't worry, you can say no. I'll think of something to pass the time for the next few minutes," I tell him, loftily waving my hand around.

He swallows hard. Then he shakes his head no, and for a split second, I'm stumped. What am I going to do for the next few minutes? But I don't let him know this, not ever. I give him a brusque little nod and turn away, wracking my brain when I glance at the TV sitting quietly in the entertainment center, the cabinet below it shut neatly.

I begin to smile again.

I know what's in that cabinet. I know because I put it there together one evening a few months ago when there was nothing better to do and I felt like being a little daring.

"We're going to watch a movie," I declare, and he looks at me for a second as if I've completely lost my mind, obviously imagining the other movies we have, new releases and black and white classics. I chuckle at his expression. "Well, not just any movie," I amend. "This movie."

I hold the box up so he can see it. He's stunned. He's so stunned that he forgets to cry.

"What's the matter, you've never seen a porno before?" I ask him with a lopsided grin. "I highly doubt that."

He still doesn't move, doesn't speak. I wonder if he's breathing.

"It's not that long, really," I go on as I turn on the TV and the VCR, pushing the tape in. "Maybe forty-five minutes, tops. Think that'll give you enough time?"

He closes his eyes. It will give him forty-five minutes of unbearable arousal, forty-five minutes of visual torture, forty-five minutes of wishing he were anywhere but in his current position. But he nods just the same, even knowing everything.

I raise my eyebrows with a smile as I press "play". "Here we go," I announce, walking back to the couch and flopping down comfortably. He eyes me, a little angrily. I can see his nostrils flare when he breathes in, and his eyes narrow. He's miserable. His muscles probably ache from being restrained while he wriggles and squirms, his neck is probably growing a little stiff from all my hair-pulling, and the pressure between his thighs is most likely to a point that I couldn't even begin to fathom. But he never says the word that would make it all go away.

I ponder this while the movie starts. Like most pornographic movies, if a plot exists, it's almost always loose and fairly unnecessary. If this one has a plot, I obviously pondered my way through it, because when I focus my eyes on the screen, two people I imagine to be the main characters are already going at it with vigor.

I watch Sergei as he watches the movie. His eyes are wide and he leans a little forward in his chair - as much as is possible, I suppose - unconsciously I'm sure. He doesn't blink; he stares. I want to talk to him now, I decide, especially now that he's going to have trouble concentrating. I turn my body toward him.

"Do you think she's pretty?" I ask innocently, referring to the blond on her hands on knees.

He doesn't look at me when he answers. "No."

I laugh out loud at that. "Good answer!" I exclaim. "But now be honest. Do you think she's pretty?"

He pauses. "Sort of."

"Would you like to fuck her?" I continue. He turns his head toward me for a moment, obviously surprised.

"No," he exclaims genuinely.

"No?" I repeat, my tone gently mocking. "I would."

Of course it's a lie, but it's a very calculated lie, one that I know will make him squirm and give him visual images that will all but make him pass out. He knows I'm lying too, but the idea still gives him pause. I can see him calling up mental pictures. I sigh.

"So you wouldn't fuck her, hm? Even if she was nice to you? Even if she didn't tie you up and torture you?" I ask. It's mean and it's manipulative, but it's what I do best.

He just shakes his head, because I have a feeling he's still caught up on the previous idea. But he shakes it emphatically.

"Why?" I demand.

"Because I love you," he answers in a shaky voice.

"Do you love being tied up like this?" I shoot back as the couple on TV moans louder and changes position.

His voice quivers more as he says, "I don't know."

"It's not a hard question," I snort.

"Yes," he blurts out. I'm genuinely surprised. It wasn't what I was expecting him to say. Then again I should've known better. It was what I wanted to hear, what would make me the hottest, and he always did know just what to say.

"Why?" I ask again.

He widens those sweet blue eyes of his at me and says, "Because it makes you happy."

I smile at him. "Smart." I let the subject drop, because I'm actually beginning to get interested in the movie. To be honest, it's only the second real porno movie I've seen.

To my surprise, I am truly getting into this movie, and the longer it's on, the hotter I get. I forget to check on Sergei, too, although if I were concentrating, I could probably hear him fidgeting, breathing heavily.

I'm doing the same things though, and that takes most of my attention.

There are two different people on the screen now, screwing each other wildly. It's tacky, it's lewd, and it's one of the worst-made cinematic accomplishments I've ever seen. And it's also driving me insane with lust. Without meaning to, my hand slips under the hem of my skirt and between my legs once again. My eyelids shut partly, unconsciously, and the moan that comes from me sounds more like a growl than anything.

Sergei glances over at me; I can see him watching me in my peripheral vision. I turn toward him for a moment and look him in the eye. I'm not self-conscious about what I'm doing and this only turns him on even more.

I start to turn away but think better of it.

If he wants to watch, why not make it a little easier.

I stay where I am and lick my lips slowly while I touch myself. Sergei groans low in his throat and I smile at him.

"Maggie," he snarls, looking rabid. I raise my eyebrows.

"Something you'd like?" I ask. He doesn't respond but glares at me, not out of anger but out of crazed desire. His eyes dart between me and what I'm doing, to the television where yet another couple is screaming and writhing, and then back to me.

I wait.

"Well? What is it you want?" I press him.

He fixes me with a look that makes my stomach flutter. "You," is his response.

I giggle gleefully. "Well what's stopping you?" I reply. He narrows his eyes and suddenly begins thrashing about in the chair, at least as much as he can. I fear more for the safety of the chair though than I do for Sergei.

I can't help it. I laugh harder, and it's mean. I'm absolutely laughing at him, not with him. The color rises in his cheeks and there are large tears forming in his eyes. "That's not fair," he whispers, betrayed.

"I don't care about being fair," I snap. "Look at you. God you look hot." His lower lip stops quivering at that and he begins to stop feeling sorry for himself. He looks at me curiously now, his eyes wide and open.

I go on. "I love seeing you like this, you know that? Tied up like that. And so fucking horny. I'm right, too, I know I'm right," I tell him, glancing at the throbbing erection between his legs. He whimpers softly and I arch my back helplessly. "Do you know what that does to me? Just hearing your voice?"

I pause and stare at him. "Keep talking to me," I order suddenly, but now it's his turn to be angry. He clamps his mouth shut defiantly and glares at me. Neither of us is watching the movie much anymore, anyway. I raise my eyebrows. "I said, keep talking to me," I repeat but he only narrows his eyes and sets his jaw.

I'm distracted now. I want to have my way, and I'll make him do what I want. I remove my hand and stand up, walking to him swiftly and suddenly slapping him across the cheek. I don't do it with a great deal of force, but it still makes a very satisfying smack and the red patch that appears on his cheek appeases me a little.

Sergei hates pain, but when he gets an idea in his head, it takes a great deal to change his mind. I know that I could stand here and slap him around all night and he'd not talk, just out of simple stubbornness.

But slapping gives me so much satisfaction. It hurts him - not enough to make him safeword, but enough to make tears spring to his eyes after awhile. It humiliates him more than anything, though, and the look in his eyes, the flush in his face, that's what I love to see. I'd take beautiful humiliation over inflicting pain any day.

I slap him on the other side of his face and he doesn't flinch.

He's challenging me, and I can hardly believe that he would want to voluntarily make me madder than I am.

I stand even closer to him, and lean forward. "Why won't you cooperate with me, hm?" I ask him quietly, and lift my hand. He flinches and I shudder inwardly, but instead of another slap, I simply run my hand through his hair. "Why don't you want to do this for me?" He closes his eyes, and I know his lack of cooperation was a futile attempt, half-assed at best. He'll talk to me now, and I'll help things along with a simple question.

"Do you love me?" I say it softly, sweetly, and he nods.

"Yes." His voice is small and shaky, and I feel somewhat dizzy underneath the gratification of at last getting my way.

"How much?" I ask him, and move even closer to him. I can feel him stretching his arm, shifting his position in the chair, and then his fingertips brushing the inside of my thigh, tracing little nondescript patterns.

"I love you more than anything," he replies, and while it's not a very creative answer, it's lengthy for Sergei, and that makes me happy. Meanwhile, his fingers creep higher, high enough to make me gasp, and I realize he's hoping that by doing this, he'll somehow get me to untie him. Never, I decide, but that's nothing I want to tell him.

I stand still and let him work, moaning my encouragement and stroking his hair. His eyes are closed and I watch his face for awhile; he looks calm for a change. But when he finally makes me come and I pull his hair, he loses the serene appearance and instead twists his face in discomfort and squirms uncomfortably.

I sigh deeply and back away from him. He looks at me innocently, pleading with his eyes, using them as best as he knows how. Which is almost too good, and sometimes I wonder if he's as innocent as he seems.

But I'm not going to give in to him, not today.

I turn away from him and start off toward the kitchen. It kills me not to turn around; I would love to see his expression. However, that would defeat much of my purpose. I walk to the freezer and take out an ice cube tray, and take it with me back to the living room.

He's apparently still wearing the expression he had when I left him. His eyes are wide, his jaw is hanging open slightly, and he is frozen in his position.

I hold up the ice cube tray and he groans, a particularly lovely sound to my ears and it makes me want to come all over again. With a flourish, I twist the tray and the cubes crack apart with a delicious snapping sound. Sergei whimpers as he watches me pick out a cube and hold it in my palm.

And when I start toward him, he begins to struggle.

"Shhh, baby," I say soothingly, "it won't hurt." I'm correct. It won't hurt him; it will just drive him insane. If ever you've had to ice down an injury, you'll know that the numbing feeling of the ice is practically unbearable. And this is usually ice on something like a knee or an ankle or an elbow, not a penis.

I flip my palm over and the cube slides down my palm and into my fingertips easily. I make sure I have a good hold on it. He's got his eyes closed and mouth open, head turned away from me slightly, but I can still run the ice along his lower lip. He sighs audibly and I stroke his hair with my other hand gently, moving the cube and tracing a line down his throat, over his chest, down his stomach, and pausing directly above his crotch.

His eyes snap open then and he starts breathing quicker, anticipating what's about to happen to him.

"Think of it this way, baby. It's better than if I'd left you completely alone." Which is also true. If I'd gone away, he'd have stayed tied up and intolerably aroused for a long, long time. This way, he's out of his misery, so to speak.

And then I touch the ice to the very tip of his cock. He makes a noise that is somewhere between a moan and a scream. Disturbing if you're not expecting it, beautiful if you are. I do it again and this time I am rewarded with a long, drawn-out, anguished, "Maggie".

I lean toward him, my hand hovering millimeters from his cock, my lips so close to his that they actually brush when I speak. "That makes me so... very... fucking... hot." And as he's moaning, I take the opportunity to run the ice cube up the entire length of his shaft, from base to tip, making sure to give a little extra attention to his piss-slit.

The scream I get from him makes me moan.

I can tell things are going as I expect. His cock is still fairly hard but not nearly as much as before, and the stream of precum that had become steady has finally abated. But he's still squirming and he's still got that half-crazed look of lust in his eyes.

Still, he's calmer, and after I rub the ice over his cock a few more times, he seems to have himself under control.

I drop the half-melted cube back into the empty space in the tray. Sergei watches me, and when I kneel down, he groans through clenched teeth, expecting another unbearable round of torture. But I don't need that anymore. I want Sergei, not humiliation. I also promised myself I'd make up for making him stop earlier when he'd been so close.

Instead of teasing his cock, mercilessly stroking his slit, I lean down and unfasten the restraint holding his right ankle to the chair. After I release his left, I stand up and he's looking at me with almost comical shock.

I smile at him, but not as I did before. This is a kind smile, and I can see the relief flood his eyes, relief that I'm finished for the night, that he got through another bout with my cruel streak, that he once again gave me what I wanted. His body visibly relaxes, too, and he even manages a small weak smile back at me.

I stand up and take his left hand in mine as I unbuckle the restraint with my right. When his wrist is free, instead of letting go of my hand, he holds tighter and pulls me to him until his lips touch mine. Only then does he release my hand, but it's only to put his behind my head, to tangle his fingers in my hair gently and hold me in place. I don't resist him anymore. I've done to him all I needed, and now if he wants to direct things, I can allow it. I love to humiliate him, to make him cry and beg, but I also love this particular moment, the moment that I stand back and let him have things his way. It's relaxing, really; being in control is actually, believe it or not, very taxing on a person in every aspect from physical to emotional.

And he kisses so wonderfully. Yet another reason why I can't let him kiss me while I dominate him. I'd give in. He knows it, and I know it, and he will always try it anyway, and I will always push him away.

But I think we're both comfortable with the routine.

For a minute, I don't move, just stand and kiss, but I know that I want to untie him completely. I feel my way lightly with my left hand to his right, still strapped to the chair, and rather awkwardly unbuckle the clasp. As he feels the leather loosen, he doesn't wait for me to slip the free end through the buckle, instead just sliding his wrist out of the leather.

The second he's completely free, he stands up, and as he does it, his body presses against mine. He keeps one hand behind my head and his other arm wrapped firmly around my waist. I reach up and put my arms around his neck, and unconsciously my right hand weaves itself into the hair at the base of his neck.

I feel his hand on my back slide lower toward the zipper on my skirt, no doubt. I tighten my grip on his hair and give it a short yank. His eyes open somewhat and he looks at me with a smirk. I can pull all I want to, but he's not tied up now. If he were vengeful, he could do whatever he wanted to me. But he doesn't try and stop me, and he doesn't pull away.

I have this feeling, and while I'd never ask him because he'd never admit to it, I'm almost certain he likes it.

Sometimes.

Although he doesn't mind the hair pulling, he's definitely the one in control now. He starts to walk forward, in the process gently guiding me backward, his lips still on mine. I take little steps backward, stepping out of my heels as we walk. I instantly lose five inches of height, and now I feel rather small compared to Sergei. Small but not afraid, and although I'm not quite sure where he's going with all of this, I'm not concerned, either. The only thing I'm thinking about is how soft and warm mouth feels, how I love the way he runs his tongue along my lower lip, teasingly.

He starts to unfasten the clasps on my top and I don't protest, still taking slow, small steps backward. He finally pulls it forward, off my shoulders, and tosses it aside, his hands immediately going to the zipper of my skirt. I let him push the skirt off my hips and when it falls to the floor, I step out of it and nudge it to one side.

Another few steps backward and at last, Sergei stops and eases his hold on me a little. I stand still, waiting. His hand moves from my hair to my cheek, holding my face as he kisses me with increasing fervor.

He pushes me down, gently, his right hand still against my cheek, his left still behind my back. Not so much pushing, even, more like guiding, but with an urgency that won't be ignored. I let my knees bend, let him hold me and keep me from falling backward gracelessly to the floor. He kneels over me and carefully lowers both of us onto the fluffy, off-white rug in front of the fireplace.

The fireplace is gas, and so the fire has been burning steadily for several hours. And although I can feel the warmth of the flames, it's nothing compared to the strangely comforting heat of Sergei's body next to mine.

He positions himself on top of me and takes my hands in his, pinning them lightly at my sides. not in any way as reciprocation for what I've done to him but instead a manifestation of his arousal, a gesture meant to demonstrate his need. It meant that I will not have things my way for awhile. I lie back and don't struggle as he holds me in place, possessively kissing my mouth, my neck, my shoulders. After all, his way isn't so terrible either.

But I do want to touch him.

I start to slip my right hand out of his grasp. For a moment, he doesn't let go, but then his fingers open and I can move my arm again. I run my palm over his shoulder and around to his back, feeling his muscles tense and relax as he slides against me rhythmically. I sigh his name softly.

"Sergei."

He raises up and opens his eyes, fixing his beautiful blue eyes on mine. He looks at me for a moment more before taking my wrist and placing my hand on his chest. He lowers his head once again and growls, "Touch me," his lips brushing mine as he speaks. And then he kisses me, aggressively, desperately.

I close my eyes and let my right hand travel over his body, my left still held in place. I touch him without hurry, trailing my fingertips over him, down his side and up his stomach and chest. His skin is hot and slick with sweat, and the way my hand slides so easily over him is making me breath a little faster. Meanwhile, his mouth is against mine, his tongue gently probing. I can't concentrate on anything else but what he's doing to me, how it's making me almost dizzy, and it takes me by surprise when he suddenly takes my hand again.

My eyes open and he pulls his lips from mine. "No," he says in a deep, rough voice as he steers my hand down between us, wrapping my fingers around his cock firmly. "Like this." He closes his hand around mine for a moment and guides my movement, eventually letting go, but I continue to stroke him steadily.

He groans against my neck and it makes me shiver.

I stroke him for several minutes until my hand is covered with precum and Sergei is panting heavily. Just as abruptly as he took my hand before, he reaches down and pulls my hand away, resituating it around his neck. I hold him to me with my free arm and he closes his eyes as he slips himself into me with a soft little moan.

He gives me one more firm kiss before at last letting go of my other hand and bracing himself above me, one hand on either side of me. There is no pretense of tenderness anymore, if ever there had been. I have teased and tortured him for an eternity, and he has been forced to control himself the entire time. I doubt he could take this slow if he wanted to.

And I certainly don't want him to.

I can't seem to get the images of him from tonight out of my mind. I close my eyes tighter and I can see him crawling on the floor in his favorite suit, touching himself for me, writhing each time I touched him. Just remembering what he's done for me tonight makes me want him that much more.

I tighten my hold on him, one arm around his neck and the other around his trim waist. He's thrusting hard enough to actually move me a fraction of an inch on the rug with each thrust, and the sounds that he makes are equally as wonderful as those I heard while he was tied up. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I worry that he'll get terrible rug-burn. But then he whispers my name and all I can see is him, tied up and grinding his hips into the chair. The thought is enough to push me over the edge once again, and I come, clinging to him firmly.

I want to look at him. I relax and let my head rest on the rug, and look up. What I really want to see are his eyes, but they're still shut tightly. His hair is almost completely soaked, plastered to his face, and his cheeks are flushed. He looks incredible, and that thought barely registers in my mind before he suddenly goes rigid, motionless for a moment; then he cries out, and I can feel his entire body shaking through a frighteningly intense orgasm, his hips bucking helplessly. I can't tell if he's panting or crying, probably both. Hours of sexual torment can make him rather emotional. So I just hold him and stroke his hair while he comes.

He trembles for a little while afterward and at last I feel him relax. The pressure of his weight on top of me is so familiar and comforting, it makes me smile and feel very warm. But he doesn't stay there for very long, instead raises himself up and lays down beside me on the fluffy rug I imagine is probably ruined by now.

He's exhausted now, but he still reaches out toward me and gathers me into his arms gently. I curl up next to him, resting my cheek on his chest, and he kisses the top of my head softly. I smile to myself again, touched at how sweet he is to me, even after what I put him through. Suddenly, I feel like I want to apologize, explain to him, somehow make it okay, but when I lift my head to talk to him, I see that he's already mostly asleep, breathing quietly, his face relaxed and almost serene. I touch his cheek lightly and he smiles a bit in his sleep.

I sigh and put my head back down, stare into the fire, and then I too fall asleep, still smiling.

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