I wake and watch you sleep: the windows are open, and the air has turned chilly; you’ve slipped into panties and a camisole that do exactly they should: reveal all to me even while concealing. I look around the room at the strewn clothing, left wherever it fell in our initial anxiousness, eagerness, overwhelming desire to discover each other, to do something memorable. I look at you again, knowing exactly how much wine you’ve had — in the bar, and since we returned — and I think about the possibilities: your body is mine, to do what I want; what I want, however, is so much more fun if you are awake and helpless, and allowed some slow-growing glimmer of awareness of your extreme vulnerability. You are well and truly fucked, metaphorically (for now) speaking.

So I ponder how best to wake you, slowly and sensually: how to rouse you into consciousness while your libido slumbers; then arouse that, too. I am in no hurry: in fact, the longer I take the better, because the booze will wear off slowly and you’ll begin to come out of it, enough to object weakly and mildly, a pro-forma protestation before succumbing, submitting, becoming an eager participant.

From my bag I gather the tools I have brought: my ugliest neckties, razor, shaving brush, shaving balm, lube, condoms; and from the bathroom I fetch towels, washcloths, a deep bowl of hot water, a hairbrush. I open a bottle of wine and pour a glass, for myself (when you wake, perhaps I’ll let you share); and from the kitchen, I retrieve a good pair of scissors and a mop handle.

You didn’t shave, which is both surprising and good: the first time around, your pungent, earthy taste was trapped as nature intended it to be, for my benefit; and the stubble — in addition to the pleasing taste — felt good on my tongue. Now, though, it’s time for it to come off. I consider the possibility that you’ll stir: can’t have that. Best to restrain you, before doing anything else. I assemble the neckties and tie you down, a big towel spread beneath you. Your legs I spread wide, wrists above your head and tied to the bed as well. The panties are next: I gently pull first one leg, then the other, and snip them off. And the camisole: it’s a shame, but it’s got to go.

I consider your stripped, naked, helpless form: perfect, in every way. I begin with the brush, lathering gently: I can tell you like it, even in your sleep, by the way you shift against the brush, moving your hips to try to prolong the contact. I gather more neckties and tie you down mid-thigh, to try to immobilize your hips a bit better. More lather, and then gentle passes with the razor as I slowly strip what remains, to leave you completely denuded. Hot compresses to remove the lather, and a splash of balm to soothe the skin which is now soft, supple, and begging to be licked.

I put away the shaving kit and begin to work you over with my mouth and tongue, my hands roaming to pinch and twist here and there; your hips are grinding into my mouth, and I can feel and taste that first trickle, then more, as you become aroused. I pull on a condom and slip into you, pinning your arms, and enjoy the feeling. But I don’t want you awake just yet, and I pull out and watch you calm yourself before going on.

This next part is going to be tricky, and it takes me a few minutes to form a plan, all the while gently rubbing you first here, then there, to make sure your juices are still flowing (but not too much). I untie you carefully, then flip you over. You murmur something, rub your head into the pillow, and push your ass in the air. Perfect. I grab some ties and the mop handle, and tie your ankles to it; I raise you to your knees and retie your wrists, so you are buns-up and fully accessible. The mop handle I tie to the bed so that you can’t back down: you are where I want you, and you’ll stay there.

I’ve been fascinated with your perfect ass since your first provocative photo (even though it wasn’t the centerpiece); now, while one hand plays with your nipples, while I nibble and suck on your shoulders, your ears, your neck, your tits, my other hand grabs the lube and applies it between your cheeks, and liberally; more goes on one finger, which I slowly work into you. My other hand roams down between your legs; my tongue sucks you for a moment, tasting the juices flowing more freely now, as you sleepily push your hips up to pull my finger deeper. More lube, another finger, and despite the wine (or maybe because of it, because you are not really awake yet) you are a willing partner.

I swing around and fuck you, the way I’ve wanted: slowly, gently, forcefully without forcing, taking what is mine. I hold your nipples, kiss your neck, bite your earlobe, and I realize that you are waking up: first a look of panic, then realization, and finally resignation and you submit to everything that is happening. We begin to accelerate the rhythm, rocking into and off each other, until we finally climax almost simultaneously sbefore falling back asleep, exhausted.