They are reading, together and calmly. Him a book on the Russian Revolution, and her a novel by a new author,  novel of maps, seas and secrets. The clock ticks. She turns a page. He rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Bed,” he says. He does not look up. He turns another page.

“Where?” she looks about her. “Should we hide from it or see if it wants to stay in the spare room?”

He looks over his glasses at her.

“Bed,” He returns to his reading.

So, with less concentration that she appears to have, does she.

The clock ticks.

She hears him place his book on the table and keeps her eyes firmly down.

It hurts when he takes her arm in his hand, it feels too rough to be fair, but she only says, “Ow!” as he lifts her to her feet.

She feels herself bent over as her skirt is flicked up and is hand is sharp and hard four times on her surprised bottom.

“Ow, ow, ow, OW! But I just …”

“Bed.”

She glares at his chest. Outside a bird blissfully sings to the last rays of the summer sun.

She stomps up the stairs, stamping on each step. Then she stops and fully aware of the childish and ineffective nature of her actions, sits on the top step and chews on her lip as she sulks and plots fantastical revenge.

She hears him move and for a second starts to run away and obey him, but then thinks the better of it and holds her ground.

She watches the top of his head as he approaches her, remembering for a moment the little pants of pleasure she gave as he kissed and licked her nipples the night before.

He walks past her and takes her, like a child might pick up a teddy bear to the bath room.

The toothbrush, complete with paste is put in her hand. She considers it as a weapon before placing it in her mouth and being satisfied with the mere thought of white toothpaste on his black tee shirt.

Handing him back the toothbrush she leaves the bathroom and turns confidently to the right, ignoring their bedroom door on her left. She makes two strides before being swept around, as though in a dance and taken to the correct room.

He points. “Bed.”

“Fine, I will then.” She takes off each piece of clothing whilst never once dropping he daggers in her eyes until she stands naked before him.

With a confident flounce she turns her back to him, her bottom faded to light pink and gets under the duvet with a confident little shake of her head and she resolves to plan the next stage of her battle plan.

“I do not need those,” her voice for the first time high, a suggestion of retreat as he takes a wrist and gently pulls it to the edge of the bed before strapping it in a purple Velcro restraint.

“No. Please.”

As he goes around to the other side of the bed and the other wrist, likewise is pulled to the edge of the bed.

She is central, still, considering something, he can see the potential in her shoulders.

She hears him open the draw under the bed.

“I’m tired.” Her voice is small and muffled. It becomes a little whine as he folds back the duvet from her feet and with her finger tips moves her ankles until she stretched wide, open, exposed, shy. Velcro around one ankle, and then the other, she does not struggle against him. She knows she is held fast.

“I’m sorry.” She says. She means it.

He knows. He sits by her, and folds back the rest of the duvet to look at his creation. His hand is light, down from her neck to her bottom, noting how the muscles in her bottom are altered by the ignoble position. He sees how still she is, how far he has taken her to make her accept his authority. He knows how horrified she is by all he can see of her in this position.

He leans back and looks at her. The view she most wants him to never see waits for him. It is a testament to how he has her that she says nothing, she does not even ask him not to look. She just holds her breath and silently hopes he will stop soon.

He does not want to stop. He uses one tender hand to stroke her, to open her folds. He is not in the least surprised at her arousal but he is impressed at how still she holds herself as he ministers to her.

Given freedom now she would fold shut like a daisy at night. But she has no freedom, he strokes her, creating her as he wishes her and watches.

He wants her not just compliant; he wants her to be focussed on obedience, to have only his authority in her mind.

When she starts to move against him, pointing her bottom up and forgetting how shameful she thinks she looks he knows she is close, if he chose he could make her come. He slows. She tries to push against him. He removes his fingers.

When she makes a sigh of protest, he wants more obedience from her. She must not just want to come, she must want only what he wants for her.

She feels him leave her, her side feels cold without him, her frustration builds. She will stay still, be good and he will let her explode all over his hand. He must.

But no, she starts and tries to move away as she feels it. Even in the dark of facing the sheet she squeezes shut her eyes. Please no.

Standing behind her he opens her bottom and places the round tip inside her, at the same time, the other end of the little toy goes inside her swollen folds and inside her pussy. Both. All at once. So full. Pushed in. Pushed all the way in. But nothing against the part of her that will let her come, just the pushing and pressure that makes her want … want, she doesn’t know what.

She wants.

He stands back. He admires his creation. Ten minutes before she was throwing her bra at him, now, she dare not say one syllable for fear of displeasing him. If he let her speak she could not, all she wants now is just to know what he desires. Watching her, spread open like that, invaded like that, all he desires is her.

Just not yet.

He leans down and whispers in her ear, one word.

“Bed.”

He turns out the light as he leaves the room.