The garret studio was not large, but it was comfortable: a plain table that doubled as a desk; a bed, a pair of library chairs for the table, a comfortable reading chair and side table for a sitting area, where the library chairs did double duty. On the table, a Temperanillo and two glasses. A simple meal, too: cheese, fruit, bread — a pain de campagne, because they had learned the first day that the morning’s baguette was usually too far gone by evening. Through the open window, the low verdigris rooftops of the Paris skyline winked in the twilight.

They had spent the daytime hours abroad in the boulevards and parks: the Champs-Elysees and the Jardin des Tuileries, the Place de l’Opera and the Palais Royale; the Bourse, the Marais.  In the morning they stopped for cafe au lait, sitting outdoors despite the cool weather, then across the Pont Neuf to the Ile de la Cité.  The climbed Notre Dame before noon, lunched on the Ile Saint Louis, and made their way back across the Seine to the Marais and the Hotel Salé, whose seventeenth-century baroque grandeur was an odd setting, they thought, for the Picasso Museum.

They ignored the building, and focused on the art and particularly the drawings and sketches.  Paula was the first to put it into words: “The thing about Picasso,” she said, “and what made him great, is that he really could draw.  Look at this one.”  Pointing to a small pencil drawing, an early portrait of a stunning young woman in just a few spare strokes.  The lines were unmistakably his: despite the differences of medium, of style, there was no doubting this was from the same hand as the much later Portrait of Dora Maar.  There was another sketch nearby, a small still life, that the artist had tossed off (so it seemed) in his last years: a return to his roots.  David looked around, remembering studying the sketches and early studies for Guernica; remembered, too, that after Franco died it had finally left New York, its temporary home for forty years, for Madrid.

They returned to the garret tired of walking but still giddy with excitement.  David opened the wine and poured two glasses.  “Does it strike you as odd,” he asked, “that we’re sitting in the middle of Paris, drinking a bottle of Spanish wine?”

Paula smiled at him.  “Picasso was Spanish, too.”

They drank slowly, tore off pieces of the bread and bits of different cheeses, seeing which ones they liked best and which went well with a slice of apple, or a pear, or with a cold grape chaser.  When the simple meal was finished, Paula stood to collect the plates and set them in the sink.  She was going to turn back around and say something, but she found that David had blocked her way.  He was standing close behind her, and she could feel the heat from his body through her sweater.  “You smell good,” he said simply, and put a hand on her arm.  His other hand was on her hip, now moving straight around her waist to pull her to him.  Paula closed her eyes and felt herself beginning to float, the sensations washing over her.  She could smell him, his cologne and his desire, mixing pleasantly with the wine on his breath and even the smoke, muted and pleasant now, that clung to him from the cafes they visited earlier in the day.

David quickly stripped her sweater off her shoulders, letting it dangle in his hand before he let it fall to the floor in a seemingly careless gesture. His hand moved down her arm, all the way past her wrist and across the back of her hand to her fingers, extended now in anticipation of — what?  She didn’t know.  He felt the gooseflesh rise under his palm, ran his hand back up the way it had come to heighten her awareness of him, of his absolute control over her in this moment.  He pulled his arm tighter around her waist and felt her breathing change, then put his hand in her hair and pulled her head back so he could speak close in her ear.

“You’re going to do everything I say tonight, aren’t you?”  He twisted Paula’s hair, forcing her head to turn towards him.  She knew he wanted to see her eyes, wanted her to look into his, but as always she found she couldn’t.  She could feel his dark eyes on her, and wanted to comply; but it was still an effort.  The thought of his eyes penetrating her like that always aroused her; and always, when she was finally able to look up as he demanded, the effect was overpowering.  She had to work up to it.

David’s hand closed around her throat and her eyes snapped open before she quickly looked down.  “Please,” she said, “I can’t.  You know I can’t.  I’ll do anything you say.  You know I will.  But…”  Paula’s voice trailed off, her gaze seeming to follow it through the floor as it trailed off into a whisper and then nothing.  David loosened his hand, and then suddenly tightened his grip, turning Paula while he did so that she was fully facing him, her eyes still downcast, her breathing labored.  Keeping one hand on her throat, David began to brush her breasts through her T-shirt, the one he’d bought for her in Chicago a couple of years ago, at Buddy Guy’s.  By now it had faded and softened through repeated washings into a comfortable favorite. He watched her flinch and suck more air each time his fingers crossed, with increasing intensity, a nipple poking through the layers of fabric.  He pulled at her throat, enough to pull her eyes up to meet his, finally; when she again shifted her eyes down, he released her throat and she saw him pick up the kitchen knife.

He deftly sliced her T-shirt and watched the pieces join her sweater on the floor.  Naked from the waist up, Paula wanted desperately to cover her breasts: she felt so exposed and vulnerable, especially in this strange city whose language, customs, and streetscapes David understood far better than she.  She moved to raise her arms, but David anticipated her and slapped her face, hard enough that she would think better of it, but never so hard as to leave a mark.  She stood still, pouting and wondering what else he had in store for her tonight.  She dropped her hands to her sides, cast her eyes at the floor, and waited passively while David slapped her again.

“You never learn, do you?” he asked quietly, and she refused to answer.  He struck her again, a little harder, and the blow was enough to bring her defiant eyes up to meet his.  As soon as she did, she knew she had erred: the intensity of his dark eyes always took her aback; they had been together three years, and Paula supposed she would never get used to it.  She felt another rush of excitement at the idea.  She closed her eyes waiting for the next blow to fall, and heard the rustling of a belt being unbuckled and pulled out of its loops.  She steeled herself, and tried not to flinch when the makeshift flail struck her breast; she knew she’d be bearing his marks for days.  She knew her jeans must be damp: her panties were soaking now, and she could feel the juices seeping down her thighs.  There was another spurt when the belt struck her again, very hard and just on the nipple, before the double thickness of leather swung upwards, attacking her inner thigh.

David pulled her to the center of the room, midway between bed and table, and gripped her throat again — harder than before, this time — and hissed in her ear.  “When will you learn, pet, that you can’t hide from me?”

She opened her mouth, not to answer but to gulp the air.  “I’m sorry,” she said simply, and felt herself get wet again when the belt struck her buttocks, painful even through the jeans.

“You’re always sorry.  That isn’t good enough.”  He gripped her left ass-cheek, squeezing it hard, standing close beside her.  She felt his breath on her neck, and felt her nipples grow stiff and the goosebumps rise on her arms.  “I think it’s time we tried something new, since you seem to be such a slow learner.”  Paula became even more aroused, even though she was apprehensive.  David always was able to pull her deeper, each time awakening some new part of herself.  He was standing behind her again, and she felt him pull her arms stiffly behind her back, looping the belt around her hands and wrists and cinching it tight.  Her hands were together, fingers pointed at the floor, and she thought that if she had to move her arms either up or down they were in danger of popping off her shoulders.  She said nothing.

David stepped away for a moment, and then was back, close behind her, his mouth at her ear: “I hope you didn’t have any plans for the evening, darling.  You’re going to be here quite a while.”  She felt the strip of cloth applied over her eyes, felt it tied tight behind her head, and she immediately felt dizzy, disoriented.  “I guess,” he said, “you’re just going to have to trust me.”

Paula nodded, almost imperceptibly.  “Yes.”  It was a whisper, barely audible.  She felt him seize her shoulders and spin her roughly, further disorienting (and arousing) her.  When he stopped, she was barely able to stand.  She felt something hard against her abdomen, and realized it was the kitchen knife: she felt a tug and heard the top button clatter to the floor across the room, followed in quick succession by each of the fly-buttons in turn.  Rough hands jerked the jeans to her ankles before her panties were cut from her.  She wondered whether she should step out of the jeans or wait to be told, and decided to wait.  The hands spun her again, and she almost tripped on her jeans before she was roughly pushed over, her breasts pressing against the narrow table, her lower half now fully exposed, her head too far across to rest it.

“You were so concerned about your breasts,” David was saying, “that I thought I would cover them for you.  I hope you feel better now.”  She felt his hands on her hips, his denim-clad knee pressing between her legs, rising to meet her flood, the hands now freely pressing her ass, pulling her hips, running up and down her thighs inside and out.  She felt his hand slide up the inside of her leg, the side of one long finger press between her swollen, thickly-dewed pussy lips, the tip just out of reach of her clitoris.  She wanted desperately to push back, to pull his finger into her, to have him rub her clit, take her any way he wanted: she needed him, and she knew he knew it.  She felt his finger slide back and forth, felt it inserted deep into her and then withdrawn, and again suppressed her urgent desire to beg him to violate her again, and not to let up.

David seemed to sense what she was thinking, because she felt him press two fingertips against her opening, felt him thrust at her, his fingers pressing forward and down against her G-spot while his thumb gently circled her anus.

“You’re a good little slut, aren’t you, Paula, my love?”  She could barely gasp out her assent.  “And you’ll do anything for this, won’t you?”  Another small gasp of agreement.  “Good girl.”  And with that his fingers were gone again, and she almost cried out.  She heard him step into the kitchen area, heard him pick up something and hoped to God it wasn’t the knife again.  Then he was back, his two crossed fingers in her cunt and his thumb gently lubricating her asshole, the pad pressing occasionally to test her sphincter.  He listened attentively to the sounds she made, to the way she breathed, the way her muscles clenched on his fingers and begged silently for more.  He pressed down with his thumb, felt her grip it tight while it slide into her.  He smiled when he heard her soft moans.  Though he couldn’t see her face, he knew what it looked like: contorted with pleasure, transfixed, open-mouthed.  He could hear it.

She whimpered when he withdrew his hand, whispered “Thank you” when she felt his cock slide into her from behind.  He stroked her hard, twice, and then she felt the tip at her back entrance.  Despite herself she pushed up, welcoming him deep, and he felt his hand suddenly crushing her neck, pressing her throat against the table.

“Does my pet want something?”  She nodded.  “You know my rules, Paula.”

“Yes.”

“And what is my most important rule?”

Tears were flooding her eyes, and she whispered, “Ask.”

“Yes, pet.  Ask.  You mustn’t take, like a greedy whore.”  And he stepped away from her, releasing her neck and leaving her empty.

“Please,” she begged.  “Please, please.  Fill me again.  I need you.”

“Yes, you do, my love.”  David stepped close to her again, and she felt his fingers in her pussy again.  She felt something press against her ass, and felt him push it home sharply before stroking his fingers in and out again and then stepping around her.  She felt her ass tingle, and thought for a moment her cunt might catch fire as the ginger began to exude its juices so they mingled with hers.  She felt David slip something between her labia, something hard and cold — metallic.  She wondered what it was, but knew better than to ask.  The ginger was making her weep, and she wanted to kick her legs and thrust her own fingers inside her to relieve her need.

David stepped around in front of her, grabbing her hair and lifting her head.  “Open your eyes.”  She could see his cock, stiff and ready, in front of her, and wanted to taste it.  “Look at me.”  She raised her teary eyes to his, and he could see all of her desire swimming in his reflection.  He stepped forward and pressed his cock to her lips, while she opened her mouth and took him as deep as she could.

While David thrust in her mouth, pulling her hair and sometimes pressing on her shoulders so hard that her breasts ached against the table, she felt a new buzzing in her pussy: a bullet vibrator, the control in David’s hand, now rising in intensity and now lowering to near-nothing, bringing her near a crescendo before bringing her down and then rising up again, a little higher each time.  David could tell, by the way she sucked and lapped at his cock, that she was nearing her limit.  He whispered to her: “You know what you have to do, don’t you?”

Paula’s lips communicated her acceptance, and he thrust harder into her mouth.  “You want to taste me, don’t you?”  Yes, please, her lips said, and please please please let me come, if I please you.  I am so close, her tongue shouted at him.  Please take me, and take me with you.

With a fury she hadn’t yet seen in him, in three years, David thrust into her mouth, gripped her hair tightly, pressed his hand against her throat.  He tipped his head back, allowing his own imminent climax to claim his attention, and Paula felt his cock tremble and tighten in her mouth.  His hand closed hard on her throat, giving her the signal she needed while he thrust his hips and turned up the vibrator.  Paula felt like she was going to burst, filled and stimulated this way, and let go of her remaining inhibition.

Paula felt her juices dripping down her legs, sliding, running, while she swallowed David’s seed, and then sucked and pumped for more, trying desperately to keep him stiff and in her mouth long after his erection subsided.  He bent over and kissed her shoulders, and slowly withdrew the ginger from her ass.  Her hands still bound, he guided her away from the table, allowing her to step out of her jeans before they both collapsed on the bed.  He folded her in his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest and turning the bullet down to a background buzz.

“Please,” she said, “no more.”

WIthout releasing her from his hug, David pulled on her hair again and tipped her head back, forcing her to look him in the eye once more.  “You’re done when I say you are done, and not before.”  He turned it down, but only just a little bit, and watched her eyes swim back in her head while his hand caressed her arms, still bound behind her back.

“Rest,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”