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Canicula Sua

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Tom had known from the beginning what he would be to her, Tilda had made it very clear; it was only now that he truly understood what he was, what she had made him.

“Is it too tight?”  Her voice was as light as her fingers fussing with the leather and metal at his throat.  He swallowed and fought the urge to feel the collar with his own hands, but did not reply.  She had trained him better than that.

“The young lady who sold it to me recommended I leave enough room to slip a finger underneath.” She wormed a sharp-tipped digit between the back of his neck and the leather, then yanked hard, driving the air from him in a cough as the collar dug into his flesh.  “But I think you’d prefer it if I ignored her well-meaning advice, wouldn’t you, pet?”

The warm rush of arousal from her words and actions would have made Tom gasp if he’d had the breath for it.  He was no longer surprised at her almost frightening ability to read him, to prise desires from the darkest corners of his mind.  It was his own reactions that shocked him still; each newly-revealed kink left him as hard and desperate as the first time a hand not his own had touched his cock.  It was fitting then that Tilda had taken his virginity in a way he had never thought to experience.  Or at least could never admit to himself that he wanted.

Tilda had no time or sympathy for any of Tom’s hang-ups and had not taken a gentle approach to ease him into her world. She claimed to have known what he was from the moment they met and thought it a crime for him to have been ignorant of it for so long.  It was her responsibility to educate him, she had said, to make him whole.  To fill what had been empty his entire life.

She had been very thorough so far.

The pace at which she had stripped him bare, physically and mentally, had left him reeling.  Just a few months in her masterful hands had changed him irrevocably, twisted him into something unrecognizable to himself.  Though maybe that twisted self has always been there and only needed Tilda’s all-seeing eyes and artist’s hands to recognize and free it, like Michelangelo standing before the block of marble that would become his David.  Similarly, despite whatever Tilda protested otherwise, Tom’s transformation was as much about her vision as his own deviant needs.  

Needs she had awoken in him and he knew would refuse to be silenced again.  He was like an addict: thoughts of what she could and would do to him itching beneath the surface of his skin,  invading even his focus at work.  He did his best not to let their private relationship color their public or fictional ones.   Although it had been a night under Tilda’s merciless, white leather-clad hands that had inspired the welcoming ritual in the film.  The reverence in the kisses he bestowed to each finger as he peeled the gloves from her was not acting.  Their director had been full of praise for the scene, not knowing that Tilda’s attitude of regal indulgence and Tom’s eager worship did not come from collaborative insight of their characters.  Tom did not think he had ever given a more personal performance.

And here he was kneeling before her now, accepting her collar and what it entailed.  Temporary their arrangement may be, but Tilda never did anything by halves and the ability to commit in full was something she did not have to teach Tom.

“I wouldn’t want to leave your neck bruised, though, at least not before filming ends. You’ve already scandalized the makeup girl enough.” Tom blushed at the memory of being scolded by Elena for the fading bitemarks around his nipples and the arousal he was helpless to stop at her delicate application of concealer to hide them.  It had made an already difficult scene worse, especially as Tilda had used every opportunity to tease him under the watchful eyes of the crew.

“What would she think to see you now at my feet, so patient and pliable?”  Tilda released his collar and turned to remove something else from the expensive box it had come in. He heard the sound of metal clinking and then she was facing him again, holding a long leash of silver-plated chain with a leather handle.  The heavy, thick links rippled and gleamed as she wound them through her hand like a beautiful threat.  She bent down to clip the lead to the D-ring of his collar, lifting his chin up as she did so.  

Tom’s eyes fluttered shut when she tilted her head to speak soft and low in his ear. “The shop girl asked me what sort of dog I had.  I told her I owned the prettiest little bitch, a darling collie pup, all long legs, sharp nose, and sweet eyes.  ‘Beggar’s eyes?’ she asked, and I had to agree. I thought it a wonderful description for you, so perfect.”  She nipped at his ear, rolling the fleshy lobe between her teeth before rocking back to stand up.

“Look at me,” her voice compelled Tom to open his eyes and allow her past his last line of defense.  His gaze followed the shiny length of the leash up to the curved jut of her hip, lingering for a moment on the hand resting there, the hand tethering him to her.  The black loop of leather was gripped loosely, but he imagined it digging redly into her pale skin if she used it to yank him into place, force him to heel.  It was such a deliciously humiliating thought that he had trouble dragging his eyes up to meet hers.  Once he had, her stare pinned him in place more than any physical bondage ever could.

“Yes, you have such pathetic, pleading eyes.  Beggar’s eyes.”  She held his head at the temples, tipping it back further and sweeping her thumbs along the slant of his eyebrows. The cool metal of the leash felt like ice as it brushed against the flushed ridge of one cheekbone. “Dangerous eyes, they give so much of you away,” she mused, quieter now. “There’s many who’d take all you’re offering and leave nothing behind.  You should guard yourself better, Tom.  Not everyone has the restraint I do.”

He wrinkled his forehead and eyebrows up in question at her change in demeanor.  She gave a tight smile in reply and patted his cheeks before dropping her hands from his head. “But that’s a discussion for another time.  Would you like to see how the collar looks on you? You may speak.”

Tom licked his dry lips, “Please, yes, Ma’am.”

“Come along then,” she tugged on the leash and gestured towards the full-length mirror attached to one of the double doors of her wardrobe.  Tom nodded and began to crawl on all fours as gracefully as possible, just like she had trained him.  A section of the leash curled up his neck to rest in a cold weight on the back of his shoulder as they moved together at a measured pace.  He didn’t dare glance up at her, instead trusting her to walk patiently beside him and not choke or drag him.  After this, he knew that hearing the slow click of stilettos on a wood floor would forever hold an erotic appeal.

Although it was unnecessary to do so - Tom had already begun to stop - Tilda snapped the leash to halt him once they were a few feet from the mirror.  It was just another reminder that as much as he needed to be owned, she wanted to own him and together they were enjoying her present to him equally.   

“Sit,” she commanded and moved to stand behind him as he knelt back on his heels, legs spread wide and hands resting palm up on his thighs.  “Good puppy, very good.”  He pushed his head up into the hand petting through his hair, luxuriating in her praise for a moment before looking into the mirror.

Tom had glimpsed the collar briefly before she had wrapped it around his neck, so he knew it was made of dark, navy blue leather.  He hadn’t realized how wide it was or that the D-ring at the front was so fat and shiny.  He let his eyes blur a bit, rendering his reflection a faceless stranger.  The man in the mirror was the picture of disciplined submission, his posture so still and obedient that it made the collar and leash gratuitous accessories, and all the more erotic for it.  He focused his eyes again and watched his head swivel to the right and tilt his chin up, stretching the muscles in his neck and sharpening the outline of his clavicle.  The collar sat heavily at the base of his throat no matter how he turned, like a weight keeping him in his place.

A laugh from Tilda stopped his preening.  He watched her reflection grin at him while she chided fondly, “Vain little bitch.”  His half-hard cock twitched between his thighs, drawing his attention back to himself in time to see his cheeks pinkening with shame and arousal.  She ruffled his hair in amusement then stepped in closer to his back, her stance wide to frame his hips with her legs, the pointed toes of her heels scraping alongside his thighs and calves.

“I’ll forgive your vanity if you do a proper job of thanking me for your lovely presents.  Now turn around  like the well-trained slut you are and we’ll both have a treat.”

Tom pivoted about clumsily, holding onto her legs for balance as he nuzzled against the zip of her trousers. He fumbled with her belt and buttons before they finally came undone causing her to laugh again at his eagerness.  He carefully helped her step out of each trouser leg and she kicked the bunched material aside.  She had shrugged out of her suit jacket while he was working and now was clad in nothing but a thin, sleeveless silk camisole that stopped just past her waist, above a pair of sheer nude knickers.

He hugged her to him by the back of her slim legs and bent his head to lick along the edge of her knickers, darting his tongue underneath once he had reached the apex of her inner thigh.  His hands made their way up to snag the waistband of her lingerie; he slid it down her thighs to reveal the short and wiry dark auburn hair that covered her mons and lined the outside of her cleft.   He took in the scent of her arousal, rubbing his nose and closed lips across the little mound like a cat marking its owner.  Her breath hitched when his stubble tickled her hair and burned the sensitive skin there.

She pulled him back sharply by the hair and he froze obediently.  “I think it’s time to put your leash to good use.  Hands behind your head, pet.”  He obeyed and clasped his hands at the base of his neck.  She looped the chain around each of his wrists, then both of them together, weaving the leash end between them to hold his bonds in place.  She wrapped the leather handle around her right hand and jerked it towards her, pulling Tom’s hands and subsequently his head forward.  A yank away from her and he tipped backwards.   He let out a breathy moan at her demonstration of control and his cock rose heavily to curve up and back towards his belly.  

Standing straight, she took hold of his chin so he was forced to look up the long, pale line of her body.  Her head cocked to the side and her thin lips were as sharp and curved as a scythe when she smiled cruelly down at him. He let her eyes possess him, drink in every nuance of his submissive position and the frustrated want that was close to driving him to tears.  “Beggar’s eyes,” she reminded him.  

They stayed like this for a moment, the anticipation of what came next too sweet not to savor. Then Tilda let go of his chin and guided his head down, using the leash to bully him into place. Tom shut his eyes and began pressing sweet kisses and grateful licks where his owner wanted them most, like the good little puppy she always knew he could be.