Gifted

by Jane Davitt




Joel is showing off a ring he's going to give to his wife for her birthday; a glimmer of gold, a flash of diamonds. I've already admired it dutifully and I listen to the predictable comments he's getting about setting the bar too high for the rest of us. Because it's expected that we act like sex-mad jerks when there's a crowd of us, someone drops a broad hint about what she'll do to say thank you.

Diamonds equal oral, guaranteed, apparently; it's funny how they don't mention that more often in the commercials. Joel doesn't like the nudge-nudge comment; his face heats with embarrassment he knows how to channel into anger and the guy with the big mouth backs off, backs down, a murmured apology slipping out as he reverts to himself, all posturing forgotten, just a guy in his fifties, divorced so long he's forgotten the rules of the game and how you show a man's wife some respect.

It's true, though. The wildest sex I ever had with Carolyn was one night after I'd given her a platinum necklace with three emeralds dripping down from it for our first anniversary, knocking a sizable hole in my savings account. Three stones and I fucked her three ways, three places, going from her obediently rounded open mouth, kissed bare of lipstick, to the succulent heat of her cunt, to the tight dryness of her ass. She'd never let me do that before, not even a finger slid up there, squirming away with a flustered disapproval when I tried, but that night, naked except for the necklace I'd fastened around her throat, she spread for me, blatant and begging and made sounds I didn't know were in her.

The next day she walked with a wincing care and her eyes were sullen, resentful. She wore the necklace again but I'd spoiled it for her and she let me know that without words, as only a wife can do.

I come from a class where it's expected that a man buys his women jewelry and spends a little more on his mistress than his wife if he's a bastard. When I met Blair and realized what he was to me, there was that same impulse to be extravagantly generous, to bind him to me with chains of gold and silver.

I gave in to it. Oh, not the usual cold sparkle of gems and precious metal; not for my Blair. Not his style at all. Blair got woven leather, studded with scraps of polished bone and stone, handmade, unique, sure, but dirt-cheap and easy to receive without obligation. He smiled, thanked me, and wore them not as a duty, but out of desire, taking them often from the box he stored them in and clasping them around his neck and wrists.

I didn't want him to feel awkward about them. I didn't want more than the quick, casual hug each one earned me.

I just wanted to watch him go out on a date with my collar and cuffs against his skin. And that was what they are, even if he doesn't know it yet.

I picture him laid out on my bed, naked, eyes wide, heart hammering with anticipation, cock so beautifully hard. I'll open the box and take each strand of leather out and tie it on him. Throat, upper arms, wrists. Down to his ankles, using the ones he'd puzzled over because they were too short for a necklace, too long for a bracelet (he'd wound them around his hair in the end, a mosaic of beads threaded through the silky spring of his curls).

Then I'll wrap a length around his cock in a tight spiral that makes him sob out a protest and take it down lower, cinching and separating his balls. I can't leave him like that for long, but I just need to see --

His hands are free; they're bound, sure, but not to anything; he can move. He could stop me, tear off the tormenting strip of leather, and let the crushed, squeezed flesh breathe. He doesn't, and it's permission enough to continue, not that I need it.

I know how it feels to have the warm, pliant leather against your skin; before I passed each piece of jewelry over, I wore it for a day or a night, tight and secret against my skin under my clothes. I've jerked off with them wrapped around my hand, tied them to a belt loop on my jeans and fed them down inside to rub against my thigh. They smell of me when I hand them over, once, God, once, still warm from my body, but Blair doesn't know that. I never did that again. Too risky. He hugged me gratefully and I was hard, close to coming, and had to push him away. The flash of hurt in his eyes -- I hated that.

Around his cock, around his balls… he's mewling now, soft cries spilling out… then I take the trailing end of it and finger the large, polished bead knotted there, a swirl of turquoise and black. Get between his legs, bent over, and suck the bead and the leather into my mouth, the heat from his balls like a touch on my face. I'm overwhelmed by the rich, ripe smell of his body down here, rising from the dark, secret places I'm going to explore.

He cries out once as I force the bead inside him and tell him to keep it there, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, his cock wet and messy, glazed shiny. His hands are restless, touching himself and my gifts, fingers shaking.

I press my thumb against his stuffed, hungry little hole and feel it give way and let me inside. The bead is hot already, as hot as him.

My Blair. My sweetly grateful Blair.

I let my thumb slide out and lick him clean of tears and the sharp, clear fluid beading his cock. He's this hot, shaking presence in my bed, reduced to nothing but a scream of need and I want to paint patterns on his skin with spit and come and red, bright scratches and blood-dark bites.



He walks across the room to me, replacing fantasy with reality, his face lit up with a smile that has no source or reason but that he's happy to see me.

There's the darkness of leather at his neck and a muted shimmer of shiny beads. As I swallow dryly, his hand rises and he strokes the central bead and settles it so that it's over the pulse in the hollow of his throat. He's still touching it when he arrives at my desk and then his hand drops away and he tilts his chin up, offering himself for inspection and my approval.

That's… that's new and I have to force myself not to react.

"Looks good on you," I tell him and as I say it, I realize how much I've given away with those few words, but it's Blair, my Blair, and I should have trusted him, because he slips something into my hand with a casualness that deflects attention and smiles again.

"Think that will, too?" he asks and without looking down, my fingers separate the tangle of leather and work out what it is and where he'll wear it in the time it takes for him to shape a single word under his breath.

Tonight

Oh, God, it's only two o'clock --


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