Loose Ends, Tied

Monday at 11:09 AM

Another true story from my life and the book I am trying to write, this one continues after Chapter 15: Marking The Milestone. For those wondering, this is from the "Black Tape" collection which means there is a video that accompanies the chapter to show where I got my inspiration. Hope you enjoy!

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The couch presses against my back, the leather stiff and cold. The spreader bar sits heavy in my hand, and I turn it over slowly, letting the metal bite into my skin. The phone is pressed to my ear, her words shaky, pretending at confidence but slipping into frustration. She is eigh*** and eager, the kind of eager that only comes from not knowing what she is asking for.

"My mom is so ***ed at me. Why can't I just be your girlfriend and live with you?" Her words hang in the air, more dare than question.

I close my eyes and let her voice fade to static. My mind drifts back to the others. Three women, each carving out their place in my life, promising to be there whenever I needed. They were more than visitors. They belonged to my space, folding themselves into the routines of my survival, bodies shaped by what I asked of them.

My playroom was a sanctuary built from need, not for titles or roles, but to quiet the chaos clawing at the edges of my mind. Dom or Master. I never needed those words. What mattered was survival, stitching together what the world kept ripping apart. Without control, without the precise rhythm of pleasure and release, everything threatened to fall apart. Control was not a choice. It was the line separating functioning from collapse.

Her voice pulls me back, pressing against the silence I had let grow too wide. "You can do anything you want to me," she says, her tone shifting, sensing the quiet space stretching between us.

Her words cut through, pulling me back. I’ve let too much slip, let too much of what’s inside my head seep into this conversation. The hunger, the gnawing need, fogs everything, making it hard to keep my grip. The beast stirs, demanding to be fed, and when it’s starved for too long, everything starts to break down. For just a second, my hold falters. Now she’s offering herself, unknowingly tapping on a door she doesn’t even realize exists

My fingers trace the cold metal of the spreader bar, tension building like a rising tide. "Anything?" I echo, the corner of my mouth lifting into a smirk.

"Anything you want," she promises, the words an awkward mix of naivety and seduction.

A familiar pulse stirs beneath my skin, the thrill kicking in at the idea of feeding the restless thing that rides with me. "I'll send one of my guys to pick you up. Let's make some videos," I say, feeling the weight shift within, a momentary relief in the anticipation of release, knowing the itch will soon be scratched.

Yet now, sitting behind the wheel, the silence between us settles like stale smoke, thick and bitter at the edges. She is glowing beside me, her eyes wide and glistening, like she just won the lottery and has not told me yet. A smile curls at the corners of her mouth, eager and sharp, like a child on Christmas morning, waiting to tear through the wrapping paper. Her sweater, soft and too white, clings to her body like armor made for someone far too gentle for this world.

I watch her for a moment. She is here, completely, but her excitement has no anchor, no direction. It hangs in the air, unspoken, waiting for me to give it meaning.

"Do you have any boundaries?" I ask, cutting through the quiet that has settled around us.

She glances at me, caught off guard. "None that I can think of," she says, almost hesitant, like she is unsure if that is the right answer. Then she stops, a nervous laugh slipping out. "Actually… I don’t want to be beaten with fists." Her eyes flicker toward me, gauging my reaction. "But belts and spanking are fine, I think."

I nod, letting her words linger for a moment. "If there’s anything else you can think of," I say, keeping my tone calm but steady, "you need to tell me as soon as it comes to mind. I don’t want to push you into anything, but I can’t work with too many restrictions."

She bites her lip, her smile flickering for a second before she catches herself. "Okay," she says softly. "I’ll think it over."

"Good," I say, leaning back into my seat, the hum of the conveyor belt vibrating through the tires. "I need freedom. Someone willing to follow wherever I take them."

The rhythm of the car wash grows louder around us. I slip the belt from its loop, open my pants, and pull out my cock. It sits heavy in my hand, warm and thick, a command without words.

"Put this in your mouth," I say, firm and deliberate.

She leans in, her breath warm against my skin, pausing as hesitation flickers across her face. "In public?" she whispers, the words slipping out like a secret she is not sure she should share.

I glance toward the man outside, wiping down windows, his focus elsewhere, lost in the motions of his routine. He has no idea how close he is to being pulled into my game. "Him," I say, nodding toward the man. "I want him to see you. I want him to watch as you make this disappear."

She stills, caught between resistance and obedience, the line between who she is and who she thinks she should be blurring in real-time. A subtle shift passes over her, the hunger inside me stirring in response.

Her fingers wrap around me, tentative at first, as if she is touching something she can’t quite believe, mesmerized but unable to resist. I feel myself respond immediately, thickening in her hand, as if it knows exactly what it wants. She meets my gaze, her eyes wide and questioning, like a student unsure if she has the right answer. "Any further instructions?" she asks, soft and uncertain, with a trace of practiced innocence.

I meet her with steady authority. "When I cum, hold it in your mouth. Do not swallow until you show me."

Her nod is immediate and sharp, like a promise she has waited her whole life to keep. The world moves outside the window, but here, in this moment, the only thing that exists is her obedience.

The rational voice in my head, the one that whispers she is not the perfect fit for this intricate puzzle of desires I have built, drowns beneath the rush. She is glowing, bright-eyed and beaming, as if the entire purpose of her existence is to make me feel this way.

When she reappears, her green eyes hook into mine, wide with triumph. That grin, so big it is almost reckless, stretches across her face as if the universe owes her applause. A single drop lingers at the corner of her lip, a traitor to her perfect execution. She swallows with a small grimace, the briefest crack in her armor, then smiles again, soft this time, almost childlike. "All gone," she whispers with satisfaction, like she has just aced some secret test.

If she thinks she just passed a test, she is wrong. The real test starts now. The idea settles into me, sharp and irresistible, like a hook sinking into soft flesh. Push her further. Take her where she has never been. Strip away the parts she hides to see what lies underneath.

I glance at her, taking in every detail. Her skin glows softly in the light slipping through the car window. There is something almost too perfect about her face, the way youth clings to her, like the smell of spring after rain. But the real pull is not just in how she looks. It is in the way she offers herself so completely, without hesitation, unaware of the weight behind what she gives. That ignorance holds a certain thrill. It is in her gaze, expectant, waiting to be shaped into something she cannot yet comprehend.

The choice is already made. I open the door, and the hum of the car fades behind us. By the time the hotel key slides into place, the path is set.

She lies across the bed, waiting, stretched out beneath the soft glow of the room’s light. Her consent is like a key, unlocking the freedom to explore her however I choose. It hangs unspoken but heavy, a promise as solid as any vow. My hands find her thighs again, parting them like before, the moment echoing the first time we were interrupted. Now, there are no interruptions, no obstacles. It is just her body, mine to mold, to finish what we started.

Her birthday flashes in my mind, the way I pictured it. Her beneath me, laughter folding into breathy moans, the kind of pleasure that feels both new and well-worn, like a favorite song replayed until it loops in your bones. I plunge inside her, slow at first, testing the warmth and tightness, savoring how she pulls me deeper. Then I pull back, deliberate, dragging myself from her wet heat. Skin to skin, I slide down, the tip of me skimming her slick flesh, aiming lower. Her wetness becomes the only lubrication I need as I push gently but firmly into the tight ring that hasn’t known me yet.

In this moment, everything happens as I planned. The slow withdrawal, the soft glide, the quiet tension in the air. I push into her ass, careful but sure, and her face lights up with a smile, welcoming the intrusion. She accepts it with more ease than I expected, as if this was always meant to be part of our exploration.

Her leg hooks over my shoulder, her hips moving in unison with mine, and for a second, I want to reach for that hidden place, to feel her trembling for me. But I don’t. My hands are bound, not by rope, but by the moment we are creating, the perfect frame I have crafted for the voyeur behind the camera.

“Oh, fuck, it feels so good,” she moans, her voice thick with need. “Please, put it back in my pussy.”

Her words hit me like gasoline catching fire. The idea of switching from one of her holes to the other sparks something primal in me. It is not just the act. It is the thrill of crossing lines, of violating the invisible boundary separating what is expected from what is forbidden.

I guide myself back into her soft warmth, hard and deliberate, each thrust leaving its mark. Nine inches of flesh burying deeper with every stroke, claiming space that feels made for me. I pull out, slide downward, and push into her ass again. Her body opens for me, taking everything I give, seamless and unflinching. The repetition becomes ritual, an act of domination and acceptance, shifting from her pussy to her ass in a continuous flow. Every thrust rein***s what belongs to me. Every switch asserts that nothing is off-limits.

For twenty minutes, I move through her, relentless and unyielding. Each motion is measured, precise, like the ticking of a clock. She clenches around me, the curve of her mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a moan, her lips parted as if teetering on the edge of laughter or gasping. Sweat gathers in the hollow of her collarbone, her tank top clinging tighter with every passing second. When her head lifts, her hair spills across the pillow like ink, and she watches. Her eyes drift down to where we meet, as if she is watching a show meant only for her.

Her smile spreads slowly, a little crooked at the edge, her cheek lifting as if she is savoring a private joke. "Oh, Jack," she murmurs, almost purring. "Oh, Jack, I love you."

Maybe it is her naivety, saying she loves me when we barely know each other. Maybe it is because "I love you" is something I want to hear one day, something real, something earned, not handed out like cheap confetti. Her words hit me sideways, knocking me off balance. For a second, everything stalls, like a car engine that sputters before roaring back to life.

I take a slow breath, reset myself, and signal to the cameraman for a smoke. Without hesitation, he steps forward, cigarette balanced at his fingertips. His movements are practiced, deliberate. He leans in, his hand steady as he sets the cigarette against my lips, a ritual we have done countless times before. The brief pause lingers in the air, followed by the crackle of the lighter as he brings the flame to life, illuminating the thin paper before smoke spirals upward. I never falter. Not for a second. Each motion lands exactly where it should, my body moving in perfect sync with the haze of nicotine curling around us.

"You don’t love me," I tell her, voice flat and steady. "You don’t know me." The cigarette dangles from my lips, a thread of smoke twisting toward the ceiling. "But you can love my cock," I say, my tone sharpening, cold and precise. "That much you know." I press deeper into her, a grin curling at the edges of my mouth. "Say you love my cock."

She draws a breath, her whisper unsteady. "I love your cock."

Her legs part wider, like doors flung open, exposing everything. My hips move with the instinct of a hunter, every motion telling its own story of control and yielding, a raw kind of power spilling into each second.

"Say it again," I shout, slamming into her with every ounce of *** I can summon. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room, a wet, rhythmic echo that drowns out everything else.

"I love it," she cries out, her pleasure spilling over, raw and unfiltered.

I lean closer, every nerve set alight. The words leave me rough, low and jagged with urgency. "Say you love my cock."

She opens her mouth to respond, but I am already there, buried so deep that I tremble with the strain. My release surges through me, unstoppable. I swell inside her, growing harder, throbbing against the tightness of her ass with each pulse, each thick rope of cum shooting from me, hotter than the last. My breath catches, ragged and uneven, and I stay buried to the hilt, savoring the moment, feeling every contraction, every tremor as my climax pours into her.

Her hands twist violently in the sheets, knuckles white. Her back arches, and a broken moan escapes her lips, as if the *** of my release hits her from the inside out. She gasps, biting down hard on her lower lip until it almost splits. Another moan spills from her, louder, desperate, like she cannot contain the sensation coursing through her.

"Fuck," she cries, breathless and shaking. "I love your big cock."

There was never going to be love here. This was not about connection. This is performance, a brutal ballet where every move, every thrust, sets a standard. I am not just another man she will stumble across. I am the one she will compare them all to from now on. And none of them will even come close.

When I pull out, still hard, I slide back into her pussy, pushing deep, determined to finish this one last time. "I am going to cum again," I tell her, my voice rough with need.

Her legs fold over my shoulders as I lean in, our faces so close I can taste the heat radiating from her. The cigarette smolders at my lips, smoke curling around us like a binding thread. My hips drive forward, deeper, faster, harder, hammering toward the edge. She tightens around me, clenching like she wants to trap me inside and never let go.

Her breath stutters, chest heaving in frantic bursts. Her feet hook behind my neck, pulling me closer, locking me into her. Every part of her coils tight, ready to snap. And then it happens. Her head jerks back, mouth open in a silent scream that shatters into jagged moans. She shudders violently, *** under the *** of her orgasm, each wave ripping through her like a storm. Her nails rake across my shoulders, burning lines into my skin. Her wild eyes meet mine, caught in that strange space between defiance and surrender.

Her depths clamp down, spasming around me, milking every inch, pulling me into her release. The grip is relentless, overwhelming, dragging me deeper into her climax. I feel every pulse, every ripple as it radiates through her, a cadence that matches my own. She whimpers, broken and undone, as the last tremors roll through her.

That is when it hits me. My second orgasm, monumental as always. It burns through me fast, gathering at the base of my spine, spreading like wildfire until the pressure explodes. The release comes hard, breaking through me in thick, unrelenting bursts. I stay buried inside her, pumping until I am empty, until nothing remains but the ache of completion. Every muscle tightens, wrung out to the last drop, and I ride the final pulse until I go still.

Then, just as it always does, clarity seeps in, cool and sharp, washing away the fog that clouded my mind. The cigarette burns down to the filter, its ember glowing weakly before fading. Her body trembles beneath me, filled with everything I had to give. The way she feels around me, both entrances marked by my release, is exactly how I imagined it.

Maybe this was never about finding someone new to fill my space, even though she was eager for it. It was never about molding her into what I needed. This was about settling scores, tying up loose ends, finishing what I started. That is who I am, driven by compulsion, an architect of pleasure and deep, consuming experiences. I live for the details, obsessed with completion, seeing each act through to its bitter or sweet end.