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Conversation between a princess and an outlaw:
“If I stand for fairy-tale balls and dragon bait—dragon bait—what do you stand for?”
“Me? I stand for uncertainty, insecurity, bad taste, fun, and things that go boom in the night.”
“Franky, it seems to me that you’ve turned yourself into a stereotype.”
“You may be right. I don’t care. As any car freak will tell you, the old models are the most beautiful, even if they aren’t the most efficient. People who sacrifice beauty for efficiency get what they deserve.”
“Well, you may get off on being a beautiful stereotype, regardless of the social consequences, but my conscience won’t allow it.”
“And I goddamn refuse to be dragon bait. I’m as capable of rescuing you as you are of rescuing me.”
“I’m an outlaw, not a hero. I never intended to rescue you. We’re our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.” When he returns home, she has already made her preparations for sleep. But when he summons her to the barn, his workspace and play area, the room in which has heard her beg and plead and cry for mercy from the pleasure or pain he chooses to visit upon her countless of times before, she obeys. One of his hands grips the back of her nape as if she were an errant puppy, and he marches her, barefoot and in her nightgown, outside into the night, to the barn. She shivers, and it could be a combination of the chilled night, or fear and anxiety, or anticipation…or arousal. She doesn’t quite know which one it is, but she trusts that he knows. He can read her body very well, as he has demonstrated to them both over the years. In the barn, he leads her silently to a wall where he has installed new attachments. Wordlessly, he lifts her arms one at a time above her head and tightens the cuffs around her wrists. He kneels at her feet and draws her ankles apart until she has to stand on her toes, and binds them as well. The wind that blows into the barn molds her silk nightgown against her thighs and the outline of her breasts. He caresses her roughly through the thin fabric, fondling her body at his will. As he owns it. His touch arouses her until every nerve in her body is burning. He snaps a flogger at her breasts until her skin there is sensitized and aflame. Then he leaves her for a bit, leaves her hanging in the barn. She is no longer cold. To the very tips of her toes, she felts hot. Some time later, she doesn’t know when, he goes to her again and rouses her, this time with his mouth and well placed clamps. She writhes against him, begs him—for he has not gagged her this time—to rip off nightgown, to strip it from her and let her feel his bare flesh. He does not oblige her. He is not obligated to respond to her, and he doesn’t. This time he also introduces a little pain, with the clamps. She squeals, moans, whimpers. He chooses to withhold her relief, and pleasure. When she is about to peak, he leaves her again, dangling in her restraints. She feels exhausted, but she cannot sleep. The wind that whistles in abrades her skin. When he re-enters the barn, she is oblivious to his return, her strength having fled her, she sags in her bonds. He uncuffs her briefly only to massage her limbs and check the marks on her skin, then he ties her again. He begins again, toying with her flesh with almost clinical, unrelenting precision and knowledge of this body that holds no secrets from him. When he tires of the sounds she makes, desperate, needy sounds, he gags her. First with just a bit gag so he can watch her struggle and fail to control her drooling. Then an inflatable penis gag that presses her throat. All through the night, he tests her submission and denies her the privilege of climax, for the act of orgasming, like her body, is something that belongs to him alone. When morning comes, he lets her down. Cradles her close to him. Inserting his hand between her strained thighs, he inserts three fingers into her slickened cunt and holds them there, not thrusting. Still toying with her only. He whispers to her how proud he is.