A Sense of Responsibility
My ex wife and I effectively had our first date at Sandals in Jamaica. We met in the harsh landscape of Southern Iraq and the disparity of our army ranks meant that we had to constrain our nascent romance to fleeting moments away from the madding crowd.
So the sense of liberation that we felt amidst the lush Caribbean Island when we eventually got away on leave was an intoxicating contrast. People smiled at our togetherness, rather than frowned at it, and we revelled in each other's company.
Every afternoon, we left the blue sea and white sand to hide in the luxury of our room and physically and emotionally explore each other after such long refrain. Jemma had taken a pair of fur covered handcuffs with her and she offered them to me with challenging submission. It was not something we had discussed, so why she had them and whether she had been restrained with them before where considerations that I had to quell as I lay her down on the bed and shackled her to the post, covering her eyes with a scarf.
Then I kissed her cheek and traced my lips around her jaw to the soft skin of her neck. I was careful to avoid her lips, not wanting to reward her with such intimacy until she had earned it. I trailed my fingertips down her sides, along the edge of her breasts, denying her nipples such embrace, across her stomach, avoiding more sensual touch and along her finely sculpted thighs.
She was still, only occasionally yielding or rising to the bait of my touch, and she was quiet; only whispers of breath or suggestions of pleasure emanating from her lips. And I was watching, waiting, trying to gauge her response, sense when she was ready for more demanding exploration but she would not tell me. The handcuffs and blindfold seemed to absolve her of that responsibility and left to me the decision of when to caress a breast, offer intimate strokes, explore with my tongue or rise above her for the final domination.
It seemed as if she would lie there forever, straining against the cuffs, waiting, anticipating, demanding more but never denying. Her appetite was unquenchable; yielding and resisting, and I could not tell whether she lay there to please me or challenge me. Did she actually like being dominated or was this act of submission a temporary gift to ensure my obedience in the wider sense?
Ultimately, my concern at the sense of responsibility that Jemma had ceded me was misjudged. After I had taken my final pleasure from her and released her from the actual and metaphorical bonds, Jemma rose up and smiled and I realised that it was me who had been dominated, subjugated to her whim, from the beginning when she had first offered me the handcuffs.
Indeed, months earlier when she had first smiled at me in Basra.
So the sense of liberation that we felt amidst the lush Caribbean Island when we eventually got away on leave was an intoxicating contrast. People smiled at our togetherness, rather than frowned at it, and we revelled in each other's company.
Every afternoon, we left the blue sea and white sand to hide in the luxury of our room and physically and emotionally explore each other after such long refrain. Jemma had taken a pair of fur covered handcuffs with her and she offered them to me with challenging submission. It was not something we had discussed, so why she had them and whether she had been restrained with them before where considerations that I had to quell as I lay her down on the bed and shackled her to the post, covering her eyes with a scarf.
Then I kissed her cheek and traced my lips around her jaw to the soft skin of her neck. I was careful to avoid her lips, not wanting to reward her with such intimacy until she had earned it. I trailed my fingertips down her sides, along the edge of her breasts, denying her nipples such embrace, across her stomach, avoiding more sensual touch and along her finely sculpted thighs.
She was still, only occasionally yielding or rising to the bait of my touch, and she was quiet; only whispers of breath or suggestions of pleasure emanating from her lips. And I was watching, waiting, trying to gauge her response, sense when she was ready for more demanding exploration but she would not tell me. The handcuffs and blindfold seemed to absolve her of that responsibility and left to me the decision of when to caress a breast, offer intimate strokes, explore with my tongue or rise above her for the final domination.
It seemed as if she would lie there forever, straining against the cuffs, waiting, anticipating, demanding more but never denying. Her appetite was unquenchable; yielding and resisting, and I could not tell whether she lay there to please me or challenge me. Did she actually like being dominated or was this act of submission a temporary gift to ensure my obedience in the wider sense?
Ultimately, my concern at the sense of responsibility that Jemma had ceded me was misjudged. After I had taken my final pleasure from her and released her from the actual and metaphorical bonds, Jemma rose up and smiled and I realised that it was me who had been dominated, subjugated to her whim, from the beginning when she had first offered me the handcuffs.
Indeed, months earlier when she had first smiled at me in Basra.
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