12 comments/ 13859 views/ 28 favorites I Like Your Eyes Wide Ch. 01 By: I_Am_Yours His eyes move from my lashes to my collarbone and downwards, ever downwards, and I wish I could tell him to look at my eyes but I can't. If I could have, I would have already. In all my life, I've never seen such violent lust. "I like your eyes wide," he says. "They haven't seen danger enough to close, to squint, not yet." He touches my cheek. Softly. "I like your skin smooth," he says. "It hasn't seen needles or bruises or hands like mine. "Not yet." --- I was freshly 23. Like every other 23 year old girl I knew, my mouth was dry for a drink and the youthful electricity running through my bones had a single remedy: Movement. Touch. Men. I'd recently moved to a new city. I was filled with the promise of newness and overnight, I changed. I had never been quiet, but now, I was energized, alert, and present. I was easygoing. Friendly. Would talk with anyone, flirt with anyone, and surprise them later with my intelligence and wit. When I talked at the bar, people listened. When I walked down the street, people looked - and looked again. I wielded a subtle, soft power that I hadn't realized before. I was beautiful, but not exceptionally so. Trim frame, wide hips, big breasts, bright green eyes and easy curls. I wore sundresses in the summer, big sweaters and tight pants in the winter. I loved easily - people, fun, the outdoors - and made every attempt to show it. Run-and-jump hugs for greetings; easy, light-hearted dancing at the bar; happy, deep laughter at my friends' jokes. To me, there was very little worth being upset about, and so much to be thankful for. I was told I had a certain innocence about me. A good girl essence that men assumed to be true. They didn't know that, behind the understanding eyes and the unassuming body, I was restless and eager to shed my innocence. To get as in touch with my desires as I was with the world around me. Since I was young, I'd been fascinated by sex - by passionate, rough, lose-control sex. I'd had dreams of nameless, strong men grabbing me roughly by the shoulders and having their way with me. Tender kisses and sweeping romantic gestures touched my heart, but with every encounter, my primal desire grew deeper. I wanted - needed - to be fucked. To be owned. It terrified me - the idea of relinquishing my power, of putting myself at the whims of someone else's pleasure - but only because I'd never done it before. In public, I was an easy leader; a decider; a focal point. The moment I entered a bedroom, I wanted nothing more than to shed my skin, drop to my knees, and embrace the part of my body that wanted to give - give touch, give pleasure, give myself away. The same way a person knows they like their favorite food - the same way a person knows their middle name - I knew I was meant to be a submissive. I had told my partners of my preferences before, but none seemed to understand. Some simply weren't interested and preferred mild, tender sex. Some assumed the dominant role, but it was clear that their hearts weren't in it; their words were too staged and their touches too uncertain. They tried to want to control me and own me, but in doing so, they gave their control away. I've been told that, if you are a dominant or a submissive, the moment your opposite enters the room, you know it. Beneath the pleasantries, there is a lingering, pulsing, unavoidable energy. I've been told that a true dominant can spot a true submissive from across a room, with a single glance. I never believed it till him. -- I was at a bar with my friends Jessie and Mara. We were laughing, heads close together over our beers, music playing loudly in the background. I wore a flowing white sun dress that hugged my chest and flowed easily down my thighs with tall, black boots. My cheeks were red with the glow of the music and the beer. "Come on," Jessie said, putting on her jacket. "Let's go have a smoke." We topped our beers with cardboard coasters and hopped down from our barstools. I reached under my seat for my purse, and when I looked up toward the door, I saw him. The first thing I noticed was his eyes. He stood near the door, his face half-masked with dim barlight shadow, but even still I saw his eyes. Deep, threatening gold, wildly alive, and staring straight at me. He was tall, but not too tall. Dark, short, brown hair and a firm body. Five foot eleven. He must have been about 30. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans. If it weren't for his eyes, he could have faded easily into the crowd, but something about his stare captured me. "Let's go," said Jessie, tugging me gently by the arm. Dazed, I followed her, squeezing between barstools and bodies. I looked up again. He was still looking at me. By the time I reached the door, I was close enough to sense his height, almost close enough to brush against him as Jessie reached for the handle. A swift chill blew into the bar. I felt a hand on my back. I turned. Lifted my face to meet his eyes, certain, golden. Their intensity spoke volumes. I could hear it in the noisy bar. "It's cold out, now," he said, and held out a jacket. His voice was gravel, liquid, depth. My friends turned, seeing the exchange and smiling at one another, as they continued outside and shut the door behind them. I smiled nervously. "It's not really not so bad," I said, surprised by how quiet and uncertain my voice sounded, as I reached up to pull a curl behind my ear - a nervous habit. He watched my hand as it traversed across the air. The movement seemed to take hours. He watched my hand fall to my side and smiled a slow half smile. He watched my eyes meet his, drop to the floor, meet his. We stood so close to each other in the small bar that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Take it." His voice was low, quiet, and sure, and without thinking I reached out and took the jacket. "Thanks," I said softly, and slipped my arms into the too-big sleeves. I swam in it. His eyes took in my form, dwarfed by the jacket that dropped past my white dress, boots turned inwards and knees close together. Eyes peering up at him from below my lashes. He dragged his gaze upwards to meet mine. In an instant, his eyes burned with the heat of a solar flare. He had decided something. "Go on," he said, his voice suddenly without thickness or weight. "I'm sure your friends are waiting for you." He kept his eyes on mine for a moment longer before crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from me. -- When my friends and I walked back inside after a hearty smoke, our hands clasped against the chill, he was gone. I scanned the bar twice, eying every barstool and lingering body, but he was nowhere to be found. My heart sank dangerously. "Who was that cutie?" Mara asked me as we returned to our seats. I smiled coyly, pulling his jacket tighter around me. "Honestly - I don't know," I replied, "but it looks like he's not getting his jacket back." My friends smiled at one another. "He looked a little old, don't you think?" teased Mara. I scowled. "Old? Honestly? He was 30 years old, tops." She made a face. "Yeah, that's old." We laughed, both of us thinking the other was out of her mind. As the three of us turned to face the band, I slipped my hands, still cold from the chill, into the jacket pockets. I felt a piece of paper and removed it eagerly, hoping it was a business card with my stranger's name. Disappointed, I squinted at it the dim light. It was a simple piece of white paper, folded in two. When I opened it, I could barely make out the single sentence scrawled boldly in his hand. "If you felt what I felt, meet me at 6 Harris Street at 11." My breath caught in my chest. I heard my heartbeat, thick in my ears. Mara and Jessie were still facing the band as I discreetly slipped the note back into my pocket. Hands clammy, mind racing, I debated the sensibility of chasing after this nameless stranger. I knew I'd felt a connection just looking at him, just staring into those haunted eyes. His hold over me in a single gaze was absolute. To obey his note would be reckless. Absolute insanity. To meet him at his place - I assumed 6 Harris Street was his address - would be a move straight out of How Not To Be Safe 101. But, behind his dangerous gaze and commanding presence, I sensed a strange and nameless safety. A tenderness that could only come from deep physical attraction and ownership. Something about our twenty-second exchange had moved me, terrified me and calmed me, and I instantly knew that I would be at Harris Street before the night was over. Reckless insanity or not. --- An hour later, Mara, Jessie and I stood on the street corner exchanging goodbyes. When they had both departed for their cars, I turned in the opposite direction. Harris Street was nearby - a five minute walk, at most - and as my boots echoed loudly in the quiet night, I wished it were farther so I'd have more time for a pep talk. I couldn't decide if it was my free-spirited nature or deep, certain passion for this stranger that propelled me towards him. A combination of both, I assumed. I played back our short exchange in my mind over and over, heated despite the chill of the night, and before I knew it, I was at 9 Harris. 8 Harris. 7 Harris. 6 Harris. I drew in a deep breath as I walked up the front path and ascended the stairs. There was a single flickering light, buried deep inside the house, casting a warm orange glow through the upstairs window. The front porch was unassuming - an old wicker bench, a pair of running shoes, a potted plant. Taking a strange solace in the presence of the plant - what sort of serial killer keeps plants? - I tried to quell my trembling as I touched the door bell. The bell rang. Silence. I looked around me and pressed the bell again, my foot tapping in nervous anticipation. I didn't hear a sound from the house. Beginning to think I'd been scammed, I nervously turned and began walking back down the stairs. The door creaked. "Are you going somewhere?" His voice, richly quiet, stopped me in my tracks. I turned to face him. He stood against the doorframe. Wearing the same black t-shirt, the same jeans, but seeming grander somehow. As if standing here, on his porch, gave him the full space his presence demanded. I blinked, suddenly self-conscious in the outfit I'd donned with confidence only hours before. I felt small, infinitesimally small, as I cautiously walked back up the stairs. I stopped two feet from him. He suddenly smiled, mildly but certainly, and I felt the same trace of inexplicable safety I'd felt before. He reached up and touched the side of my face. "You're all right, you know. I will never hurt you," he said softly. I closed my eyes, reveling in his touch, as I nodded and exhaled. I believed him. He stood back, the smile gone and replaced with a trace of something darker, and held his arm to the entrance, inviting me inside. Living room. Kitchen. Stairs. Hallway. Door. Bedroom. Candle. Bed. -- His eyes move from my lashes to my collarbone and downwards, ever downwards, and I wish I could tell him to look at my eyes but I can't. If I could have, I would have already. In all my life, I've never seen such violent lust. "I like your eyes wide," he says. "They haven't seen danger enough to close, to squint, not yet." He touches my cheek. Softly. "I like your skin smooth," he says. "It hasn't seen needles or bruises or hands like mine. "Not yet." He walks toward me in the half light. When his chest is inches from my chin, his chin inches from my forehead, I shrink into my skin with eyes cast downwards. I am half teen and half woman and here, in this space, I have never felt more like both. He reaches fingers-first and cups my jawline in his palm, pulling me out of my skin. "Look at me," he says. I drag my eyes to meet his for an instant before they flutter clumsily to the floor. To look into his eyes is an agreement. A contract. An acknowledgment of this room and the bodies inside of it. "Look at me," he commands. He raises my chin with one hand as the other drifts to my collar bone. His jacket falls heavily off my shoulders to the floor. My skin heats instantly under his firm touch and my eyes rise automatically to his. I can just barely see his golden irises, smothered so thoroughly with warm, dark black. He is eager to touch me, I know, but this moment is his entirely. His desire is certain, controlled, channeled. When he uses the pad of his thumb to push my dress down my left shoulder and lets it lie, exposing my fragile skin to the cool air, my knees weaken dangerously. My hesitance dances on the tip of my tongue but I know it will never leave my lips. I'd sooner swallow every doubt than abandon this thrilling, reckless moment. He traces my tender skin earlobe to shoulder. His eyes never leave mine and I don't dare blink. In a swift, certain motion, he tugs both straps sidewards and my dress billows gracefully to the floor and pools at my toes. I stand in my boots, my white lace panties, and nothing more. A low and threatening hiss escapes his lips. Goosebumps flock to my exposed breasts, stomach, and thighs. I feel as though I've never been looked at before, never been seen, and now, as his eyes traverse the planes and curves of my skin, I feel more exposed than I ever have. I've had boyfriends and desperate, greedy onlookers whose stares have felt more physical than a lovers' touch. But my experiences have been rushed and awkward. Disingenuous. With every inexperienced touch I've craved a firm caress and absolution from a knowing hand. Like his. His feather fingers float down my chest and my nipples harden under his touch. I feel wetness between my legs, musky and immediate, and his eyes narrow in smug, quiet acknowledgement. I still cannot look away. Suddenly, he reaches into my hair with a full hand and pulls me roughly into his chest. I whimper as my hands pad my fall and my breasts push deeply into the fabric of his shirt. He turns my head and whispers roughly into my ear, "You are mine tonight." My breath catches in my chest. I'm wetter still. "This," he says, cupping my ass. He pulls my face up to meet his. "This," he whispers, reaching slowly behind and under me and gently, certainly, tracing my wetness with his finger. "And these," he says, bringing his finger to my half-parted lips and painting them with my own juices. I moan and instinctively lick myself from my lips. "Do you like the sound of that?" he asks me. I breathe heavily and nod. He tugs my hair sharply. "Yes!" I cry. The word said. The contract signed. A dark smile passes across his beautifully haunting face and he kisses me tenderly, roughly, owning my body with the slightest touch. "Get on your knees," he whispers. I Like Your Eyes Wide Ch. 02 *A dark smile passes across his beautifully haunting face and he kisses me tenderly, roughly, owning my body with the slightest touch. "Get on your knees," he whispers.* **Chapter Two** I do as I'm told. The carpet is soft beneath my knees as I sit on my heels with eyes to the floor, my hands behind my back. I see the faded cuffs of his jeans, his bare feet beneath. It's a scene from my deepest fantasy, my farthest dream, but I'm living it here, in this bedroom, with him. He paces in a circle around me. "Someone knows how to beg properly," he chuckles, patting my hair with a heavy hand. I keep my eyes to the floor. I am dangerously wet. He gets on one knee before me and uses his finger to lift my chin. "I want you to tell me, sweetheart," he growls, "have you ever been anyone's little slave?" Bashfully I look away. "No." My nervous reply carries the weight of my fear - and my hope. He grabs my chin roughly. "No sir," he chastises, his face inches from mine. I gulp. "No, sir," I whisper. He nods approvingly. "But you've wanted to. Haven't you, sweetheart?" he asks. He knows. My eyes widen, as do his, when I say the words we've both been dying to hear. "Yes, more than anything. I've always wanted to." "Yes, of course you have," he murmurs, stroking my cheek. "I can see it in your eyes. I can tell just by looking at you, in that dress... With that smile... With your every movement. You beg to be owned." As he speaks, he takes the palm of his hand and traces my side, down to my hip, to my thigh. "You're going to be my little slave tonight," he promises. I drop my eyes properly, the command implicit in his words. "Spread your legs, slave." I do. My legs flicker in the candlelight, my boots and legs coated with the juices that have escaped my panties. When he reaches between my legs and traces my thigh, I jump with pleasure at his touch. My eyes downcast, I see his sturdy hand and the dark hair on his forearm disappear between my smooth white thigh, beneath my white lace panties. He begins to stroke my slit slowly, tracing up to my clit and back again. His touch is so slight that I could be imagining it. My breathing quickens. The slightest moan escapes my lips. "Do you like this?" he whispers in my ear. "Yes, sir," I moan softly. My chest rises and falls rapidly. "Look at me, slave" he commands. I raise my head. He holds my gaze as he strokes me back and forth, tantalizing me. His eyes are pitch black in the flickering candlelight. He suddenly slips a finger deep inside of me and I gasp. "Good girl," he whispers, moving his finger masterfully inside of me, grazing my g-spot with every motion. I am breathing heavily now, and the sound of my panting melds with the sound of my juices as he moves inside of me. I still don't look away. "This body is mine, little slave," he says. "Do you feel this pleasure? This is just a taste of what I'm going to do to you." I moan. He smiles. "Your little body has so much to learn about being owned. Your tight little pussy has so much to learn..." He slips another finger inside of me and I cry out. "You've never been touched like this before, have you slave?" he whispers. I bite my lip and shake my head. He begins to finger me harder, and my legs tremble beneath my weight. His eyes are absolutely glaring, daring me to look away, but I know I can't, my body can't handle the sensation - "Beg me to come, slave," he commands, his hand again picking up speed. "Beg me to come." My pants have turned into one continuous moan. I quiver furiously, perched upon my heels. "Please, sir," I moan, "please..." "Please what?" "Please sir, please let me come!" I am dangerously close to the edge. I feel tingling in my calves, in my abdomen, and my pussy begins to tighten around his fingers. "You want to come, little slave?" he asks. I groan in response. His fingers move rapidly. "Come. Come for me," he commands. I cry out as my entire body clenches. My pelvis arches forward as I toss my head back in ecstasy, my pussy clamped tightly around his fingers in waves of electric pleasure. The fierce sensations wrack every muscle in my body. What feels like hours later, my body relinquishes its tired fight. My head and shoulders drop before me and my moans have died to a steady, deep, heavy panting. His fingers are inside of me still. I can feel his satisfaction. "Look at me," he says. I drag my eyes to meet his, breathing deeply. A bead of sweat drips from my brow. He casually removes his sopping fingers and brings them to my lips. "Open," he orders. "This is what it tastes like when you come for me." I open my mouth and he shoves his fingers inside. Somehow, even in my exhaustion, I am ravenous for the taste of my arousal. I suck at his fingers until they are clean, my tongue coated with my own sweet taste. I hardly realize how quickly my legs are shaking until he lays his free hand on my thigh. "Stand, sweetheart," he says. Knees quaking, I help myself up from the ground. The room is quiet and calm, the only movement coming from the same, burning candle. I'm surprised by its stillness, surprised that, if he and I weren't standing here right now, someone could walk into this room and never know what took place. My panties are pulled slightly down to the left, my inner thighs gleaming with the sheen of my wetness. I'm shivering. I look at him cautiously, fully clothed in his jeans, his t-shirt, his dark eyes, half in wonder and half in fear. Unsure what, if anything, to say. My nipples stand pert, hard as stone. I returned to my feet a different person than when I left them - and he knows it. He eyes me up and down approvingly, taking in the sight of my body, used and flush with pleasure. I see the heat in his eyes again - that solar flare - and know that he has, again, decided something. He bends down and scoops my white dress off the floor. Nonchalantly, he hands it to me. I look into his eyes, utterly confused. "Put it on," he instructs. I cock my head, uncertain. He nods. I take the dress from him and slip it over my head. I wonder if I did something to upset him, something wrong. Did I spoil everything by approaching him too eagerly? Did I fail a test I didn't realize I was taking? I adjust the dress properly around my thighs, embarrassed of my nakedness and of my presence here. I suddenly feel naive, like a child wearing her prettiest dress for the wrong occasion. I don't know where to look, unwilling to meet him in his eyes, that dark familiar place. Sensing my doubt, he suddenly reaches to me, pulling me into his chest, as his heavy arms envelop me completely. The warmth of his embrace is all-consuming. He puts his hand behind my head, holding me close. I close my eyes. He gently pushes my hair behind my ear. "You are mine now," he says darkly, softly. "You know that, don't you?" he asks. I pause. Were I elsewhere, with anyone else, his words would have jarred me. The prospect of owning another person in body or in soul - a concept that would ordinarily revolt me - sounds positively intoxicating coming from his lips. Even after only one exchange - one complete submission of power and total physical pleasure - I feel a devoted loyalty to this stranger. I feel his dangerous and beautiful hold over me in this moment. I release a breath, my own decision fortified. "I know, sir," I respond, my voice but a whisper. He takes me by the shoulders, staring forcefully into my eyes. "You're so young, and there is so much you have to learn," he says. As if I could ever forget. He holds me at arm's length, his strong, rugged hands clasping my shoulders entirely, and I'm astounded by how small I feel. "Can you teach me?" I ask. He nods and motions toward the bed. We sit on the edge, not quite close enough to touch. The mattress is soft beneath me and I wonder, fleetingly, how familiar this bed will become in the days and weeks to follow. "I can teach you," he offers seriously, "but there are rules." I nod. I've read enough stories to expect this. "The first rule is honesty," he explains, eying me closely. "I need to know, with absolutely certainty, that you have never given yourself to anyone like this before." I clear my throat. "I haven't," I say. "I've had boyfriends, and... Not boyfriends... But they never - Well, sometimes I asked them to, but they never really... you know...did what you just did to me..." I trail off into the quiet. My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment as I look to the floor. Obeying his commands are easy. Describing my sex life is harder. "So you've never given yourself away to someone the way you just gave yourself to me," he interprets. His words, assured and direct, release a cascade of shivers down my spine. "I mean - I've been touched before," I stammer. "I've - you know, had sex before, of course -" He discards my words with a wave of his hand. "No," he says. "Sex with boyfriends, hook-ups with strangers, none of them matter here. The experiences are not the same. The way you have given yourself to me - in body and in spirit - is different, from all of that. You agree." I nod. "And you've never done that before." I shake my head. He's right; comparing the two experiences seems ludicrous, so vastly they differ in pleasure, in intimacy, in passion. I gave myself to him physically, but it was more than that - and that is the root of my passion and my trust. That deeper something. "Good. It's important to me that I'm your first. That innocence - it is important to me it is offered to me, and only me, completely." I understand. I feel like a virgin again; this world is so unfamiliar to me. The idea is terrifying and overwhelmingly arousing. As I look at him from beneath my lashes, I know I could never find another person better to introduce me to my submission. "The second rule," he continues seriously, "is you." He meets my eyes and lifts his hand to trace my collarbone. "If you are to be mine, there can be no doubts. No second thoughts. You will trust me entirely in this bedroom and beyond. You will willingly give yourself to me, in mind and in body, completely." His hand moves to my neck, to my chest. "And, most importantly, you will give yourself to the moment. You will relinquish all insecurity, all hesitation, all thoughts of past and future, and be only in this moment, with me, as I ask." I blink, unable to imagine how I could ever think of anything else in his presence. The moment I walked up his stairs, the outside world faded into nothing. Here, thoughts of the bar - of my friends - of anything beyond these doors - feel irrelevant. All I can see is him, the silhouette of his shadowed face in the flickering candlelight. "You will be mine when I pleasure you, as before." I feel a deep twinge of arousal. "When I punish you, as your teaching will demand." Another twinge, deeper. "And when I push your boundaries, more than you thought you could stand, to my pleasure and to satisfaction of your deepest desires," he concludes. My mind races. I consider all the stories I've read, all the curiosities I've never been bold enough to entertain. I wonder the breadth of his desires; what he will have me do, what he will do to me. My blush escalating, I hold his gaze. "I will give myself to you and to the moment, every time," I promise breathlessly. He allows himself a small smile. "Good," he says, standing. He walks to the door and I take the invitation to follow. Our movements have a sense of open-ended conclusion as we make our way down the hallway, down the stairs. "You work?" he asks. I nod. "But you're free tomorrow evening," he says certainly, opening the front door and turning to face me. I reply automatically, unwilling to even consider the contents of my mental calendar: "Yes." "Good girl," he says, handing over another small piece of paper with his phone number. "We're going to dinner. I'll get you at seven. You will send me your address," he says. I take the paper, already mystified by the whirlwind he has introduced to my life. Lifting my chin in the way that is already so familiar, his eyes assume a commanding glow as he adds, "At dinner, you will wear nothing under your dress. And you will not touch yourself - tonight or tomorrow." My cheeks burn; I wonder if his order is perfunctory, or if he sensed my desire to quell my insatiable arousal. "Your command makes it even harder to obey," I retort in a murmur. He smirks, then suddenly pushes me roughly by the neck back inside the dark hallway, against the wall. I breath heavily, strained, staring helplessly at him, standing tip-toe. "You will not touch yourself tonight or tomorrow," he repeats, his voice a warning. "Your body is mine at all times. Do you understand?" His voice is calm, unwavering, but his eyes are wild with heat and control. I nod quickly, submissively. This is the essence of him, of us. He releases me as I return, panting, to flat ground. "You'll send me your address," he reminds me, gesturing to the paper still clasped in my hand, as he walks me again to the door. "I will, sir," I reply, his title reinstated. He smiles knowingly and bends to kiss me lightly on the cheek. "Goodnight," he whispers, his hand leaving fire on the small of my back. "Goodnight, sir," I reply softly as I walk out the door in a daze, into the glow of the night. I don't turn back to watch him, and I don't hear the door close until I am safely down the path and on the street again. It's hard to tell how much the time has passed. The sky is still black with a smattering of stars and the world is still quiet, bearing silent witness to my walk home. 7 Harris. 8 Harris. 9 Harris. Obediently, I reach for my cell phone and reference the number on the small, folded sheet of paper.