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dyed purple leather and soft, black fur, a cushion against his wrists to keep them from growing sore. with his hands pushed up, bound above his head, the chain connecting them booked around the bedpost to truly immobilize him, emil feels more loved than he ever has. ada's hand is so soft, so warm, and when she caresses his cheek and runs delicate fingertips down his bare chest, he lurches up in a mighty shiver, desperately craving her touch.
she smiles. it's small and sweet, curling up at the edges, dimples on her round cheeks. he loves it when she smiles. the hair that frames her face makes her look like a painting, he thinks.
"miss ada," he whines and shifts beneath her, because he knows she likes it when he calls her miss and ma'am and mistress when they're doing this, "please, please.."
when she hooks a finger through the metal bit on his collar and yanks him forward, he trembles and leans into the kiss she offers, always needing her, wanting her, ready and willing to take what she wants to give him. he thinks, somehow, through the shroud of fog encasing his mind as her hand goes lower, lower, about the initials she sewed into the collar.
when she put it on him for the first time, in front of her, their, vanity, running her hands down his bare shoulders and kissing the side of his head, she'd called it cute. called him cute. it made his heart flip, and the memory makes his head swim, too.
all the world falls away when ada takes him into their bed, and for hours, he can forget about having to be a person--having to be anything other than hers, her pet, her good boy, her love. it's a relief he didn't understand he needed until he felt it. and it's so, so good, to feel it, to have such an option, to be utterly and entirely hers in every way one could fathom.
outside, they are husband and wife, hand in hand until the end, soul-bound lovers who will never part. he likes that. inside, though, sometimes, he is her pet, and she is his mistress, and he will follow every command and obey and be good and make her feel good, and he likes that, too.
he belongs to her. he wants, more than anything, to be owned by her forever, and he knows that as long as he is willing, she will have him. he knows it with certainty when her hand finally, finally grips his aching cock, and he arches up into her touch with a whimpering, desperate moan of her name.
"good boy," she whispers, kissing his cheek, "good puppy."
they'd called him a puppy, too--but it's better, when she says it. it's not a bad thing when it comes from her pretty, pretty lips, in her songbird voice. but all of his swimming, jumbled thoughts are quickly ushered from his head when she kisses his throat, down his chest, and lower, lower...