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He doesn't get to see her as often as he'd like. Their schedules really don't match up that often. He gets maybe a couple of weekends a month, sometimes more, but in some ways that just makes the time they do have together so much more important.
Martin's tired when he gets to her door that evening. Bone-deep exhausted. Money's tight, it always is, but it's worse than usual right now and the red numbers in his bank account match the red colour of his bills to the point where the worry is like a constant buzzing in the back of his head. It's a nagging, unrelenting anxiety that just won't stop and he knows he should be out working in the van every spare moment he gets, but he just can't.
He's never liked admitting weakness but this time it's too much and too hard on top of everything else that's wrong with his life. He's spent every night for the last week huddled in his miserable attic room, listening to the students downstairs drink and party to mark the end of finals, sitting alone while feeling like he can't even breathe properly any more. He needs this, sometimes more than he's comfortable admitting, because he knows that it's probably pathetic. He knows that people would mock him if they knew. But right now the only thing making his hands tremble is honest, sweet anticipation and that knowledge alone is enough to banish any remaining doubt.
The doorbell is wet from recent rain, cold and smooth beneath his fingers. There's a pause as the repeating chime echoes faintly somewhere inside and then a long moment of hush before the door finally swings open. The woman who answers stares at Martin in surprise, her face open and startled before her lips lift into a brilliant smile. She is breathtaking in that initial glance, genuinely happy, and she pulls him swiftly into a tight hug right there on the front step.
She breathes his name like she's pleased to be saying it, her arms squeezing him reassuringly hard. The stiffness in his movement must be obvious though because she makes a tiny noise of concern as he almost pitches forward into her embrace. She has rounded, soft hands that rub at his back and she accepts it willingly when Martin hides his face desperately against her neck. She knows him, sometimes better than he knows himself, but despite that she's still the only person who ever greets him like she's actually missed his company.
Martin clings on to the warmth of her shirt as she holds him closer, his eyes shut as he lets the contact overwhelm him.
"Are you ok?" she asks quietly and Martin shakes his head, making a noncommittal sound against her shoulder. Her fingers fan out across his spine comfortingly, letting him clutch at her for a second before she peels him off and steps back.
"Is it really that bad?" she says. Martin doesn't respond and she purses her lips in concern. "You'd better come in," she offers. "Do you want to go straight through?"
Martin nods and slides past her, cradling his overnight bag protectively against his chest. It's a big house, far more tasteful than he can afford for himself, but despite the faint edge of austerity it's clean and warm and familiar. He's been in his rented room for nine years and it still doesn't feel as much like home as this does.
He hears the door close behind him and listens as her footsteps move away, the sound receding as she tactfully removes herself to the kitchen. Every brush of his shoes on the carpet is like a weight being lifted, the tightness in his chest just starting to recede as he lets himself into the living room. It's dimly lit, lamps in the corner, the central heating starting to creak faintly in deference to the autumn chill as Martin steps out of his shoes and carefully begins to strip.
It's a familiar ritual, calming and strangely repetitive, each garment peeling away like a layer of duty from his shoulders. He sheds the loose edges of himself along with it, separating from his daily life like a snakeskin. He doesn't stop until he is pink and naked, lost amid the domestic normality, standing awkwardly in his own flesh as one hand traces down the faintly concave dip of his stomach.
The house is quiet, the carpet soft under his toes and after Martin has folded his clothes neatly he tucks them all into the small bag he brought with him. He doesn't bring much at times like these, he doesn't need to. Kept bare, the whole lot is tucked into the cupboard by the stairs where it will remain until Monday.
His task completed Martin kneels on the cushion she keeps by her favourite chair. He folds his hands loosely in his lap, and waits.
Minutes tick by, easy stillness settling over him as Martin rests comfortably on his heels. He doesn't move when he hears her come in, but it seems to spread something warm and comforting through his limbs just to know that she's there. He waits until she's right in front of him before he dares a quick glance upwards, and his heart squirms pleasantly in his chest when he finally sees what she is carrying.
His collar is soft and light, a band of supple brown suede hanging loosely from her grasp. It's a collar she keeps just for him and he knows how it feels around his neck almost as well as he knows the feel of Gertie's controls under his fingers. It should be strange that something so simple can feel like the first rush of a brilliant, soaring take-off, but it does. It's an almost inconsequential item physically, but it's loaded heavily with symbolism and he knows innately that if he was forced to choose between this and the flying it would irreparably break his heart.
In her other hand she is holding a cup of tea with a foil-covered plate balanced on top. She drapes the collar over the arm of the chair before putting the tea and plate on the small table to one side, safely out of the way.
Martin can almost feel himself swaying towards her as she sits, drawn to her presence. She leans forward attentively, resting her elbows on her knees, face so close he can feel her breath on his lips. An inch more and her forehead would be resting against his own. An inch more than that and she would be kissing him.
"I've missed you," she says quietly. "My sweet, clever boy."
Martin swallows roughly, lips parting as if to speak but there are no words left inside him for how this feels, just the soft gust of a trembling sigh and the low, engulfing need he has to be near her.
"Do you remember your rules?" she asks. Her voice is gentle, intimate, and Martin's response is barely more than a whisper in the fraction of space between them.
"Yes, Mistress."
She smiles, something longing and affectionate in her gaze as she closes the distance, softly kissing his forehead, then his cheeks, her thumb dragging lightly across his full bottom lip before he feels the warm snug of his collar being drawn around his throat. His chest aches in relief as the ends are pulled and buckled closed, not tight but firm enough to feel the pressure of it and Martin's eyes slide shut in a surge of pure, euphoric release.
"Such a good boy," she says to him. Her fingers trail up over his ear to stroke through his hair as she tilts his head back a little, just enough that she can press a brief, chaste kiss against his lips.
"No talking unless you must," she reminds him and Martin feels an answering smile flicker drowsily across his mouth.
There's a delicious, heavy lassitude that swells inside his bones as she caresses him, muscles that were taut with stress finally unwinding. The dull ache in his spine eases with every glancing brush of her fingers and he feels impossibly cosseted, his cheek leaning into her palm for every morsel of affection. When she finally leans back to rest her hands on the arm of the chair Martin blinks up at her dazedly as if waking from a strange, half-dreaming slumber.
"The tea and the sandwich are for you," she says. "I want you to finish them both."
The tea has cooled enough to be drinkable, made the way she knows he likes it, and the sandwich beneath the foil is cool and fresh. It's filled with designer salad, meat and expensive cheese, the bread generously cut with crusts that are crisp and buttery. It's better than anything Martin's eaten in weeks and he looks up at her gratefully through demurely lowered lashes, almost moaning in pleasure at the intensity of the bright, raw flavours.
He eats hungrily and by the time he's finished his stomach is pleasantly full, sated in a way it rarely is when he's not here with her. She touches his exposed belly lightly and kisses the top of his head, Martin soaking in her approval like a sponge. The feeling of it expands and fills him in a way that is wholly different from the food but a hundred times more tempting.
"Go and wait for me by the sofa," she says a moment later and Martin drops forward onto his hands, crawling away from her obediently. He knows she likes to watch and he has learned to do this well, his fingertips alive with the feeling of soft wool underneath him, body arched and perfectly displayed. He hears her indrawn breath as he crosses the room and he waits with his head bowed, patient as she steps out into the hall. She returns a few moments later with a book and drops down onto the sofa with a lazy smile before patting the space at her side.
"Up," she says. "Come and lay here."
Martin slides shyly onto the furniture, curling up on his side as she guides his head to rest in her lap. He ends up facing out across the living room as his bare feet flex sinuously against the upholstered end of the couch, arms draped limply on the seat cushion in front of him. Her hand presses against his temple as he lays there, fingers dragging idly across his scalp as her nails graze lightly behind his ear. She half-heartedly finger-combs his hair as she reads, easing out a few wayward knots before cupping her palm loosely around his throat.
Martin stills, eyelids fluttering as he swallows reflexively. It's innately, primitively controlling, her thumb resting over his pulse point before carefully tracing the angle of his jaw. There is ownership heavy in the gesture, something deeply and forcefully possessive and he submits to it without question, without even thinking about it really, passively accepting the grip at his neck.
He tilts his head back lazily, deferentially exposing his collar and long seconds pass perfectly motionless, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl before she finally releases him. She switches to dragging her knuckles across the back of his shoulder instead, petting him casually with one hand while turning pages of her book with the other. As she reads Martin lets the vacant silence consume him, his mind quietly beginning to drift.
It's hypnotic being touched so intimately. He misses it desperately when he's not here and the feel of her dragging her fingers in long, shivery trails between his shoulder blades creates delicious goosebumps on his bare flesh. Martin would wallow in it adoringly, forever if she would let him, but his touch-starved body hums just from this and his lips tremble as he gusts out a juddering sigh against her lap.
When she pauses a moment later, momentarily distracted by the words on the page, Martin can't help but twist greedily, arching like a cat trying to goad its owner back into motion. She glances down at him in amusement, expression fond and slightly exasperated as she draws her hand up his chest, thumbing heavily over one of his nipples until he settles again. Martin bites his lip and lets out a soft moan, hips pressing forward into the sofa cushions as she rubs and flicks back and forth across his breastbone, idly squeezing and tugging on the soft nubs until they are warm and swollen beneath her fingertips.
Martin smiles even as his eyes close in concentration. The pull and the pinch is raw and meditative, sensation building on sensation until it's the only thing he can think about, tenderness welling in sweetly abused flashes. He's more than half-hard, has been since the collar went on, but even now it's neither pressing nor urgent. It's mostly just a low hum in the pit of his belly, ignorable for the most part when compared to the feeling of being touched so attentively after so long without. He wants this, and her, achingly so and the fleeting thought of being cut adrift again on Monday it is strangely terrifying. It must make his fingers clench without him realising because she abandons his chest a moment later and grips his upper arm instead, quieting him with a soft command to be still before reaching down to fold her fingers over his wrists.
"I want you to sleep," she says. "Just for a little while. Can you do that?"
Martin inhales tremulously, nodding against the warm pillow of her lap before letting out a muffled, forlorn little sigh. He wills his brain to cease prattling about the end even before it's really begun, his body more than ready to yield to the exhaustion that has been nagging at him for days. He's loathe to waste the preciously limited time he has, but her hand around his wrists squeezes warningly and that's all that it takes.
He eventually drifts off as instructed, warm and lovingly restrained, and he wakes a little over an hour later to the rhythmic pressure of her dragging soft, un-callused fingers across his cheek.
"There's my good boy," she murmurs. "Time to wake up."
Martin blinks owlishly as he surfaces, tensing and temporarily disorientated until she slides a finger under the soft line of his collar. The light tug reminds him where he is quicker than words and he slumps bonelessly against her once more, collapsing drowsily as she puts away her book.
He doesn't want to move but his bladder is a pressing irritation, one that Martin resents, and he squirms at the feeling as he fights the encroaching awareness. He moans as he stretches, still sleepy, torn between the need to relieve himself and his disinclination to actually stay awake.
"Mistress?" he murmurs. Her fingers pause to linger just at the nape of his neck and he forges ahead reluctantly. "May I use your bathroom, please?"
She lets out a faint laugh and pats him on the shoulder. "Of course." A nod of the head dismisses him and he grudgingly slides off her lap and then down off the sofa. "Take a shower too," she adds. "Leave the door open."
He already knows about the door, it's one of her basic rules, but it always sends a frisson of awareness down his spine to hear it said again. There is no lock he is allowed to use when he is here, no door he may close, nothing of him to be hidden if she should wish it to be seen. Because he is hers, all of him, even that.
It's almost enough to make him pause but the press of his bladder is increasingly acute and he crawls meekly into the hall and across to the small bathroom by the stairs. Martin gets to his feet at the threshold, her preferred soap and a towel already laid out and waiting.
It's peculiar, leaving the door open. He doesn't do it even when he's alone in his own home and despite the fact that she's seen him naked so many times it shouldn't matter, there's still something deeply exposing about urinating, and showering, with no barrier between himself and the world. He trusts her not to use it to humiliate him, but he feels strangely vulnerable none the less; on display even when there's no one to see.
Despite his reservations there's something alluring about it too, something forbidden, and Martin lingers for a moment after he finishes in the shower. Standing dripping and naked in front of the sink, awareness of his own body thrums in his veins. Even the shower curtain is clear plastic and it makes heat swell low in his stomach, cock growing firm and erect as he glances at himself in the mirror.
The collar is the first thing he sees, the suede slick and wet, a dark stripe at his pale throat and it makes his eyes look huge and guileless by comparison. He looks claimed, he thinks... peaceful. He runs his fingers across the damp line around his neck and he feels wanted because of it, the deep, secure calm settling over him like a thick, warm blanket. She keeps this only for him, lets nobody else wear it but him, and in this moment he is the only one that she wants to do this for.
For a man like Martin, who's spent most of his life not being wanted by anyone, it feels ridiculously like a miracle and he loves her all the more for it.
Clean and dried he finally crawls back out into the hall. She's standing by the dining room door and twists the handle to let him through, waiting for him take his position once more on a cushion beside her chair. The table is laid, steam rising off a pot of rich, dark casserole. It smells mellow and savoury, heady with meat and wine and as she sits Martin lets his cheek lean comfortably against her hip.
A hand rests briefly on his head before she turns her attention to filling the plate in front of her. Martin stares idly at the dark space beneath the table as she eats, his mind blank and silent until a light tug on the hair at his crown pulls his attention back. A succulent morsel is slid between his lips, an unspoken command to eat and he does so.
He chews slowly, for the pleasure of savouring the taste rather than out of need to sate any particular sense of hunger. His belly is still full from earlier and he's not especially used to rich food. She knows that too much makes him sluggish and a little sick, but he nibbles obediently at the occasional dainty mouthful as it's fed to him, his earlier arousal mellowing out into a low, warm glow that hangs heavy between his legs.
When she's finished she leans back with a satisfied hum and sips from a half-filled glass of wine. Her gaze on him is like a caress and he blinks up at her devotedly, preening a little under the unblinking scrutiny.
"Are you feeling better?" she asks.
Martin nods. The tension has dropped from his painfully rigid shoulders and the nap earlier went a long way towards fending off the ragged, desperate edge he'd arrived with.
"In that case, I want you to tell me what happened on your last trip."
Martin's eyes widen in surprise and she stares down at him meaningfully.
"You're my boy, I know you too well for that," she says. "Something happened to make you need your collar, and I need you to tell me what it was."
Martin looks away, a faint pinch of embarrassment warming his cheeks.
"I... made a mistake," he admits, "And messed up the landing in Cadiz." He scrunches his eyes shut and the words after that tumble from his mouth almost before he can think about them. "There was a heavy tail-wind, I almost overshot the runway, we ended up skidding into the grass and Douglas was really, really furious with me..."
She cups his jaw lightly, thumb brushing the edge of his lip and Martin turns towards her touch a little desperately.
"Why was he angry?" she asks.
Martin swallows. "Because..." There's a pause while he tries to order his thoughts, an uncomfortable moment of honesty. "Because it was supposed to be his landing, and he thought he would have done it better."
"Would he?" she says and Martin winces, dipping his head to stare at the floor before nodding.
"Then why didn't you let him land?"
"Because I'm the Captain," Martin whispers forlornly. "I'm the most senior officer, it was my duty to make that landing."
He knows the answer is wrong even as he says it but the withdrawal of her touch still makes him whimper, eyes darting up to find her staring at him with a look of intense disappointment on her face.
"At least you're honest," she says, "But from the way you said it you knew it was the wrong decision, didn't you? Even as you did it." Her mouth tightens into an unhappy line. "Have you forgotten everything you were asked to remember last time?"
Martin bites his lip, shame-faced, unable to answer. The longer he goes between visits the harder it is to remember all the things she makes him feel while he's here. Her voice had been almost gone from his consciousness, Douglas's teasing hitting the sharpest edge of a stupidly raw nerve and he'd had to take the landing. He'd had to prove... something...
He can't even remember what it was now, and the lack of justification somehow just makes it all worse.
"Tell me what we talked about last time you were here," she says. There's an edge of pity in her tone, as if he's too stubbornly slow to earn her praise and Martin cast his eyes down again, bowing his head in apology.
"The traits of a good Captain," he mumbles.
"And what were those?" she says. Martin's eyes search a little desperately across the carpet by her feet, hunting for an answer he knows he won't find.
"I don't-" He hesitates, face creasing unhappily. "I don't remember," he admits quietly.
She sighs, the chagrin evident enough that it sinks through Martin's lungs, making his chest tight and his fingers twist together awkwardly in his lap.
"You are the Captain," she concedes at length, "And you are a good one. I don't want you to doubt that. But we have discussed this so many times I'm starting to wonder if you're even really trying."
Martin jerks his head up, eyes wide and pleading and she shakes her head, silencing him before he can speak.
"I don't know how else to help you remember that some things are not your duty." The expression on her face shifts into something peevish and analytical, frowning as she considers the sight of him humbled dejectedly at her feet.
"Stroke your cock," she says at last.
Martin blinks at her a little stupidly, somewhat thrown by the non-sequitur.
"What?"
"Don't make me repeat myself," she barks. "Put your hand around your cock, boy, and wank yourself. You will not pause and you will not come. I want you hard for this."
Martin's heart flutters in his chest, something hot and anxious setting up low in his abdomen, but he trusts her and he closes his fist obediently around his semi-limp penis. His eyes never leave her as he sets up a slow, slightly hesitant rhythm.
"I have tried," she says. "I truly have, but I can't think of any way to make it stick other than making you come up with the answer for yourself. So you will keep stroking until you can prove to me that you've really understood this time. You're a clever boy despite your behaviour; you'll work it out."
Martin's shoulders sag a little in defeat, mournful expression on his face as she crosses her legs and leans back in the chair to watch him. The un-lubricated friction of his palm is hot and a little rough. It's not entirely comfortable but his body responds regardless, cock filling and hardening, his cheeks pinking as her unflinching stare follows the movement of his hand. For a moment there is nothing but the rough susurrus of skin on skin, the dry rub of his palm filling the empty silence with lewd, humiliating intent.
Martin's tongue peeks out to moisten his lower lip even as he cringes. There is an urge somewhere in the back of his mind to rush headlong into long-denied pleasure and he loosens his grip slightly, fighting the impulse down again. There is always a pull to just let go and wrap himself up in a quick, glorious wank, but he can feel her eyes on him and feel the ghost of her fingers around his throat and he knows he can't do it.
He doesn't like disappointing her, he absolutely hates it, and doing so was never his intention because it's cold and lonely and miserable being denied her affection. If she wants him to stay hard then he will do everything he can to obey. It's going to be agony soon but he is a good boy. He can prove it. He can do anything she demands of him, as long as he knows it will please her.
When she speaks again her voice is low and serious and Martin can't make himself meet her gaze.
"Your duty," she says, "Is to make sure that every job on that plane is done by the most suitable person. Your duty is to run the safest, smoothest flight you can, using every tool at your disposal."
She pins him with her stare, eyes hard and serious.
"If that means asking someone else to take a landing you can't manage alone, it is your duty to do so, do you understand? Asking a more experienced pilot for help does not diminish you. It does not make you a failure, it makes you a better Captain."
Martin's lip wobbles at her chastisement, shame churning in his belly and as if reading his thoughts regret flashes briefly in her expression. She looks away before it settles though and instead stares down at his cock.
"Faster," she demands quietly and Martin's hand trembles unsteadily as he complies.
It isn't easy. He's been aroused for a while but there was respite in varying the pace to find a balance. He'd been hovering somewhere between enjoying it and ignoring the feel of his hand around his cock, keeping the rhythm slow enough to stave off the increasingly urgent need to come. Forcing him to go faster feels a little like riding the crest of an almost painfully sharp wave of desperation, and he can taste the sweat that's starting to prickle on his upper lip in response.
Pre-come begins to bead at the head of his cock and Martin grips himself tighter. The slickness wells there for a moment before a squeeze at the base of his shaft forces the droplet forward, wetness rolling down his flesh before being caught by his steadily pumping fist. The moisture slicks him in slow, fractional increments, never quite enough, though the edge of discomfort at least gives him something other than mindless gratification to focus on.
The problem is that it's been a long time since he's felt any kind of release and his whole body feels tight and swollen with the want of it. He generally doesn't masturbate when he's away; she asked him not to do it without permission, months ago now, and he promised that he wouldn't. He hasn't betrayed that trust, but as a result he hasn't taken himself in hand and purposefully had a wank in weeks.
It makes it all the more difficult to keep going like this and he has to force his hand to stop despite her earlier orders, kneading his balls roughly with the heel of his palm to try and quell the tension boiling up inside him. The barest hint of a smile flickers over her lips as Martin pants a little anxiously, the fingers of his other hand digging into his thigh as the muscles in his stomach and abdomen tense.
She leans forward and presses her lips against his forehead, cradling his flushed cheeks between her hands as he whimpers, mouth falling open, pliant and hers for the taking. She has been sipping red wine and she still tastes of it as she kisses him deeply, an edge of fruit and musty darkness washing over his tongue as she licks between his lips.
"Good boy," she urges. "Keep going."
Martin's hand flexes unsteadily as he drags it down his cock once more. The tip leaks with every caress and the added slickness means he manages barely half a dozen more strokes before he has to pause again, gasping frantically. He bends forward to press his head into her lap this time, shoulders heaving, trying to ground himself. Martin swallows dryly, eyes closed, focus narrowed as he forces his hand back into motion. He's trembling, he knows he is, sweat-pricked and desperate and it's too easy, too tempting to just keep going; to push himself over the edge that is right there because he can't stop... he can't do this... he...
He snatches his hand away from himself, clinging onto her thighs as he struggles for breath. His cock is an aching, deep point of heat, his balls drawn up hard and tight underneath, primed for a release he knows he doesn't have the strength to deny himself.
"No stopping, boy," she warns him and Martin shudders.
"I can't," he begs. "Please, I can't..."
Her hands tighten against his sweat-damp biceps, holding him down as he twitches and heaves for breath. His fingers press hard into her legs, clinging on as she lets him pant against her lap.
"You were doing so well," she murmurs. "But I haven't told you to stop yet."
Martin whimpers and shakes his head, curling around her tighter.
"Boy," she warns. "I told you not to let go of your cock. If you can't do it for yourself, tell me what you need."
Martin's lips part tremblingly, his eyes fever-bright and luminous as he forces himself to look up at her and suddenly he knows what he has to say.
"Help me..." he pleads. "I need you to- ...I won't be able to stop..."
Her expression is proud and edged with satisfaction as she slides down onto the floor in front of him, pulling him closer to rest his head on her shoulder.
"My clever boy," she murmurs. "You finally worked it out, I knew you would."
Her cool hand wraps firmly around his viciously hard cock and Martin jerks into the touch, unable to halt his reaction as she strokes him with slow, controlling surety. His body tenses and hitches against her, face buried against her jaw as she brings him unerringly to the edge. It's almost enough to spill him over before she eases off again, torturing him with the spectre of orgasm before denying it.
She does it twice, and then a third time and it's too much, he thinks blindly. It's both brilliant and terrifying, painful and perfect, like freefall and turbulence and sunshine above the clouds and he can't breathe... he can't...
"Please," he's gasping. "Please..."
His words are cut off by her pulling hard around a fistful of his hair, silent chastisement and he mewls helplessly.
"No," she says firmly. "One more. You're my beautiful, clever boy, you won't come, not yet..."
Martin's chest heaves, almost sobbing as he grasps her shirt, muscles in his abdomen tightening as he battles the fierce urge for release. The edge feels like it's burning up inside him, deep and painful and he cries out when her hand squeezes him tight, pinching off his release before pulling away, his cock twitching and obscenely hard, leaking pathetically as orgasm slips just out of reach.
"That's it, that's it..." She whispers into his hair. He clings to her like a drowning man. "All done now, I promise. So good, I'm so proud of you. Look how much you can do when you let someone help. So much more than you thought..."
Her praise is almost more overwhelming than the denied pleasure of orgasm and he struggles when she eases him backwards, his hands grabbing blindly at her arms as she examines his heat-flushed face. She presses a cool glass of water to his lips and he drinks in sloppy desperate sucks, more thirsty than he realised, collapsing forward onto her shoulder again as soon as he can.
He is still hard, the need barely beginning to ease as she rocks him. Her voice coos nonsense against his ear, Martin draped over her brokenly and it's minutes, or maybe hours, before he is really aware of her speaking. When he finally hears it, the order is thick with warmth and affection.
"I think my boy, you've had enough for this evening. It's time for you to go to your room."
Martin somehow makes himself raise his head and he must seem dewy-eyed and shattered because her expression softens at the sight of him. She makes sure his cheeks are lovingly caressed and the bridge of his nose kissed before she tells him anything more.
"I know you're still hard, boy, but I want you to go to bed-" she swipes a finger over his wet, tender prick, making him flinch, "-like this."
He pouts at her a little reproachfully, plushly bitten lips pushed out in a soft moue of distress and she smiles in carefully hidden amusement. "Don't look at me like that," she murmurs. "It pleases me to know you have so much self-control. I like knowing that you learn your lessons even when they're difficult. And I know I can trust you not to touch it." She kisses his face again, dotingly. "I can trust you, can't I?"
He nods a little despondently, expression sliding into subdued acceptance and he sways unsteadily for a moment as she disentangles herself.
She rises gracefully to her feet, fingers coming to rest on the back of Martin's neck to pull at his collar. The firm tug drags him forward, his hands hitting the floor, obliged to crawl behind her as she leads.
"Bed time," she reminds him. "I'll come and check on you in a little while."
She ushers him towards the stairs, releasing her grip as he begins to make his way up the first thickly carpeted step. His cock is heavy and tender, aching between his thighs but Martin doesn't think to do anything other than crawl as he's told to.
The guest room is clean and freshly aired, and Martin puts himself to bed without even really noticing. The sheets are soft and the mattress is so much more comfortable than his own, but as he slides beneath the warm duvet his erection drags accidentally against the linen and he bites down instinctively on the moan that tries to escape him.
He's sore and unsatisfied, almost unbearably so. The ache of it nags as he lies there in the dark but he doesn't move to do anything about it. The discomfort is a point of pride; there because she believes he's strong enough to resist it, and the last thing he wants to do is fail her again. It isn't even a temptation.
He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, utterly exhausted, his hands determinedly wedged beneath the pillow.
Martin doesn't stir when she creeps though the open door a few minutes later and crouches by the bed to check on him. Lifting the edge of the duvet she finds him only partially wilted and it fills her with a desperately profound swell of affection, making her yearn to hold him closer. She kisses his head and strokes a thumb across his exhausted face, and wishes not for the first time that she didn't have to give him up for such long periods in between.
She hurts for him, her poor unhappy boy. She'd protect him from the world if she could, and teach him how to be proud, and trade anything just to know that he's aware of his own worth. It's just unfortunate that obligations from outside always seem to conspire to make it so much more difficult.
But tomorrow, she thinks... Tomorrow he has earned nothing but rewards.
---
Martin wakes to birdsong and the vaguely wafting smell of coffee, his head thick and warm from deep, restorative sleep. He lingers under the soft blankets, free from obligation and it feels like nothing less than the most indulgent of luxuries to while away the morning so indolently. It's ridiculously liberating knowing that if he needed to be awake she would have woken him, and it's utterly freeing that she hasn't. Rather than get up he contentedly rolls over and dozes until the need to relieve himself finally becomes too demanding to ignore. He ultimately slides out of bed only because it's getting uncomfortable to even think about sleeping any longer.
Martin washes and shaves at a leisurely pace in the adjoining en-suite before finally heading downstairs. Still naked his knees meet the hall carpet like it's where they belong and he slinks through to the kitchen, waiting patiently in the doorway until she looks up from her place at the table and greets him with a welcoming smile.
"Oh, there you are, sleepyhead. Come and sit with me." She's in her pyjamas, light cotton trousers and a soft jersey top, the outline of her breasts just visible through the fabric and Martin blushes even as he tries not to stare too blatantly.
She nudges out the kitchen chair next to her and he slides into the seat, the table already set with a plate and cutlery waiting for him. She pours from the cafetiere, coffee freshly made and still hot, then gets up to pull gently warming pastries out of the oven.
Breakfast is quiet, undemandingly domestic, and she interrupts him repeatedly purely for the pleasure of stealing jam-sweetened kisses over butter and croissants. Radio 4 murmurs to itself in the background as Martin eats his fill and when he's done she wipes the crumbs from his lip with the tip of her thumb before thoughtfully straightening his collar.
"Go and wait for me," she says. "I'll be with you in a minute."
Martin gives her a shy little grin and slides back down to his knees, hearing her tidy up the remains of the breakfast things as he slinks back into the living room. He waits there patiently, kneeling in the centre of the floor, head bowed and perfectly still as he listens for her approach. There's the faint jingle of metal links that precedes her footsteps in the hall and Martin inhales once, deeply, feeling something sharp and thrilling surge through him with the certain knowledge of what she's carrying.
"Hands behind your back," she prompts and Martin obeys unquestioningly, eyes growing unfocused as he licks at suddenly dry lips.
The cuffs are wide, thick leather, fleece-lined and connected by a length of cold metal links that make goosebumps shiver to the surface when they brush against the small of his back. She secures his wrists carefully, not too tight, but the leather and chain is heavy enough for him to feel its weight, solid and grounding, a mark of ownership tenderly stripping him of obligation.
It's not about pain, it never has been. He doesn't like being hit, or degraded. But there's freedom in the sense of restriction, and relaxation in being safely powerless. And ropes... God, he's learned to love the feel of rope, the embracing pressure and the primitive endorphin rush of being unable to move; the mind-blanking intensity of being so completely owned that his body can be moulded and bound purely on the whims of another. She takes sad clay and fashions him into something better, shaping his limbs, positioning him in a way that makes him desirable. It is an immeasurable relief to know that in those moments nothing he can do is ever wrong.
She lets his hands drop, chain sharply cold against the top of his buttocks, her fingers running across his chest and upper back before she presses a warm kiss against the nape of his neck. Satisfied that he's comfortable she wraps her arms around his body, hugging him from behind, pressing her cheek against his ear before she speaks again.
"Come and lie down," she murmurs. She guides Martin onto the sofa, long limbs sprawled down the length of it, his back to the rear cushions as she crowds him in from the front. The seat's barely big enough to hold them both laying down like this, but it doesn't matter because she's so very close, cradling his face as she steals sweet, yielding kisses, his body melting like butter in her arms.
His lips part against the tender onslaught, pliant and receptive as she licks the soft, accepting warmth of his tongue. She coaxes him into response, sucking low, fevered moans from his throat, teasing him for long, unmeasured minutes and pausing only when his lips are reddened and numb. He looks beautifully debauched that way, scarlet mouthed and eyes glazed with desire, her thumb dragging down his throat to circle over a nipple in a way that makes him sigh audibly with need.
He is almost pathetically hard just from this, his cock pressing against the loose fabric of her pyjamas, insistent and blood-hot. She wraps her hand around him carefully, stroking with only the loosest grip as the muscles in his thighs tense and quiver in reaction. Martin grits his teeth, almost mewling as she strokes the jutting flesh between his thighs.
"Love you," she murmurs against his lips. "So beautiful seeing you like this." He tenses wordlessly, barely restraining himself from thrusting into her palm and she breathes her praise hotly against his half-open mouth. "You can come today, as often as you want-" she kisses him, "-whenever you want-" another, "-I want you to let go..."
He barely even moans in reply, a faint little noise escaping his lungs, high-pitched and frantic as he bucks into her tightening grasp. Long-denied orgasm flashes bright and fast through his body, head tilting back as he strains at the sudden intensity of it. She squeezes him, massaging the length of his cock as he shivers, copious spurts of thick, wet come soaking the fabric over her leg as he arches and ruts against her.
It is almost pathetically fast, hair-trigger burning sharp and unexpected after the torture of the night before and he gasps breathlessly as he finishes, done before he even quite realised it was happening. He would be embarrassed by the speed of it and the intensity of his own reaction, but cradled in her arms he is so ridiculously thankful just to ease the ache in his groin that gratitude glows like fresh embers stoked up around his heart.
"Thank you," he manages. "Oh, thank you..."
She holds him closer, bussing her lips against the top of his head as he sags bonelessly against her chest. He feels nothing but loved and wanted and simplistically content, and in that moment it is everything.
He would worship her if she wished it, debase himself if needed just to feel the warmth of her approval wrapped around him like this all the time. He rubs his face against her collarbone, nuzzling adoringly, pressing kisses to the soft space where her neck meets her shoulder. She tastes of home to him, human and natural, a hint of salt and soft soap. She responds to his advances with an indulgent murmur, cradling his head with one hand as she drags her nails lightly down his back with the other.
His head feels syrupy and muted, hungry but not for food. He can feel her leg pushed between his thighs, something urging and wanton clamouring in the back of his mind. He wants more of her, more of this, the feel of her wrapped around him naked and smooth, laid bare beneath his tongue.
"May I lick you?" he purrs. "Your boy wants to please you, may I use my mouth?"
Her fingers tighten a little where they're buried in his hair, tilting his face up so she can take possession of his parted lips, stroking his tongue with her own.
"Of course..." she breathes her answer against his lushly swollen mouth. "On your knees, my beautiful boy..."
She slides more comfortably across the cushions, letting him drop once more onto the carpet. His eyes are hungry as she pulls the sticky, wet pyjamas over her hips and discards them. A firm grip on his jaw holds him back, her legs parting wantonly around his shoulders and Martin moans in desire before she lets go, letting him bury his face eagerly against the soft, open flesh of her sex.
It's a sweet, hot shock when his tongue pushes out to taste her, the first drag like electricity through them both. Martin all but purrs in pleasure as he licks a heavy, luxurious stripe over the length of her opening, her palm curling around the back of his head demandingly. It's what he wanted, the taste of her filling his mouth, the feel of her slick and open, indulging him, praise breathy on her lips as he kisses her cunt reverently.
He's good at this, he knows he is. She's wet and responsive against his lips, growing hot and a little musky as he laps devotedly between her thighs. He is enveloped in her, surrounded, every pleasured moan making him glow with pride, every hitched breath spurring him on. He works his mouth until his jaw aches and then pushes further, making her arch and squirm. He desperately wants to make her come; desperately needs to please her.
Martin points his tongue, flicking it against the soft nub of her clitoris before wrapping his lips around it. His nose presses against her mound, every exhale hot on her skin as he sucks gently on the tender flesh, releasing it only to thrust his tongue deeply into the hot, eager opening of her sex instead.
She looks down at the tousled auburn hair between her thighs, at the look of rapturous bliss on his face as he works so attentively, eyes closed in concentration as he does his best to pleasure her. She can't stop herself tightening her hands in his beautiful hair, tugging his curls roughly and making him moan as he drags his tongue tirelessly against her sex. The low hum vibrates between her legs as if hitting the resonant frequency of something deep and tight inside her and she throws her head back as she gasps.
The pleasure is sharp and swelling and she holds him flush against her, his diligent mouth hot and eager. His lips are soft and pillowy between her spread thighs, cupid's bow nudging her clit until she can't help but rut against him, her thighs tense around his head. He doesn't stop, letting her ride his face until she comes with a fast, flurrying clench deep inside her core, voice breaking on a sharp, bitten-off cry of ecstasy.
Chest heaving she moans and holds him down, keeping him captive, her boy working diligently to lick her clean as she drags heavy fingers through his hair. His perfect lips kiss her slick, swollen opening before she finally lets him pull back. She moans lazily in appreciation, sensitised and flushed as he lets his face rest against her bare inner thigh. His chin and lips are glistening from the evidence of her orgasm and her eyes flash with desire at the sight of him so delightfully despoiled, petting him clumsily as he basks in the glow of her satisfaction.
"Oh, my good boy..." she breathes unsteadily, and when he looks up at her through softly curling lashes his expression is both dutiful and deliciously unfocused. He is hard again, still easily primed after such repeated denial and it doesn't take long before she has him back on the sofa, fucking him with almost vicious relish, straddling his lap as he moans shamelessly under her grinding hips.
The rest of the day he spends curled up next to her in warm, passive obedience. She dresses eventually and returns to the book she was enjoying the night before, but she alternates between reading and openly admiring his naked body sprawled pliantly across the sofa. His hands remain cuffed and while he can't reciprocate she touches and fondles him as she pleases, treating him as a favoured pet, docile and sensuously receptive to her exploration of his body.
She amuses herself stroking the elegant length of his torso, waiting until he is dreamy and half asleep before tormenting his nipples until they grow pink and over-sensitive. She indulges him when he gets hard enough to be worth her attention, pausing to bring him off with her hand before returning to idly scratching his scalp or twirling those auburn curls through her fingers. From time to time she reads aloud parts of the novel she thinks he will enjoy, and later she feeds him choice morsels from her fingertips just for the pleasure of watching him eat. His stomach never feels anything other than pleasantly full all day, and she leads him to her own bed that night, removing the cuffs only so he can sleep curled around her, biddable and adored.
On Sunday she brings up breakfast and the morning papers, waking him with intimate caresses and sleepy endearments. They lie together for a long time, his head pillowed on her chest as they read the broadsheets and they end up making love part way through the morning, languid and slow amid the scattered newsprint. She calls him Martin when she comes and they only get out of bed because they run out of breakfast treats some time around noon.
---
The weekend goes too quickly. Monday dawns bright and sunny and Martin wakes to find his collar gone and the bedroom door tactfully shut. His overnight bag is waiting for him at the end of the bed, and though he knows this means he belongs to himself once again it isn't the jarring terror that it seemed on Friday night. He's relaxed, well-rested, and in the bright summer sunshine the hours before he has to leave still seem filled with potential.
Martin washes and dresses carefully. The uniform that has spent the last few days meticulously folded flat feels like a strangely bulky and unnecessary second skin, but that's ok too. It's nice; a part of him that he dons gladly now it doesn't seem to weigh as much as it did on Friday.
He takes a while assembling himself, but when he finally emerges he finds her standing in the kitchen, wrapped in her dressing gown. She's making coffee for them both and Martin clears his throat a little shyly, depositing his bag on one of the chairs by the breakfast table.
She looks up and smiles at him, and even now Martin knows that he is quite hopelessly in love with her.
"Hey," she says. Her hand reaches out to urge him closer and Martin goes willingly, dipping his head to press his mouth warmly against hers.
They meet this time as equals, the kiss lazy and sweet, his hands curling around her waist as he enjoys the simple pleasure of contact; nothing more complicated than genuine affection.
"Do you have time to eat before you leave?" she asks and Martin shakes his head a little sadly.
"I have to be at the field in an hour," he says. "Munich for two days." He tightens his grip anxiously. "When will I see you again?"
She looks away, a little uncertain, eyes lowered and if he didn't know her better he'd think that she was nervous.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "I only found out for certain this morning..."
There's a pause, a moment of indecision before she speaks again. "The project I was working on is finishing soon. I'm going to be home, here, permanently when it does."
Martin's eyes widen hopefully, his heart twisting and flopping around in his chest, wiggling like a landed fish behind his breastbone.
"I was wondering if..." she hesitates, a blush creeping slowly up her cheeks. "If you'd maybe... want to think about moving in with me."
Martin's surprise must show on his face because the moment it's said she starts to look worried.
"I mean," she clarifies, "Not completely like this, not all the time. Not just as a live-in sub or something, but... I mean properly. Everything. Living together. You and me..." She presses her palm tentatively against the front of his perfectly ironed shirt.
His shocked silence deepens the lines of worry between her brows and she swallows dryly. "It's ok if you don't want to, I mean we can still carry on how we've been if you prefer. That doesn't have to change. But..." She hesitates. "I love you. I really do, and I miss you so much when you're not here."
She looks up at him and he must still appear completely startled because she tugs at his shirt apprehensively, fingers fidgeting with his tie. "Martin? Say something...?"
Martin doesn't say a word. He leans down and kisses her instead and this time it's hungry and desperate, a passionate meeting of lips and tongue that pushes her off balance until he can feel her clinging to his shoulders, breathless and confused.
"Does this mean we can turn the spare bedroom into a playroom?" Martin growls between kisses.
It's her turn to look stunned then and Martin laughs, kissing her harder, and then again, and then repeatedly until she's certain that absolutely every answer is unquestionably a yes.
The morning started bright and perfect, but when he ultimately winds up shoving her against the kitchen table, dressing gown hiked up and bare legs splayed around his hips, Martin finds he couldn't possibly care less about the weather.
---
Martin makes it to the airfield on time. (Almost.) But his hair is a mess and his uniform is ridiculously crumpled. Carolyn thrusts the flight plan down on the table in the portacabin, eyeing Martin's vaguely dishevelled state suspiciously before finally choosing to tactfully ignore it.
"Martin," she barks, "You'll operate out, Douglas you operate back, your alternate is Stuttgart. But you won't need an alternate because we are not going to cock this up, are we?" she says. "No? Good. Onwards, then."
Martin looks down at the charts scattered across the table, eyebrows creasing as he compares them to the passenger information.
"Carolyn?" he says.
"Oh, God, what is it?" she replies. "If you tell me the runway's too short I'm quite possibly going to throttle you."
Martin pouts a little, slightly stung. "Of course the runway's not too short," he huffs defensively. "I was just going to say that... well... your passenger is an Olympic-level athlete. He's paying you thousands to fly him to Germany for a knee operation, but there are heavy cross-winds in Munich. If he's already in pain he's not going to appreciate being bounced across the tarmac. Douglas can land better in a cross-wind than I can so Douglas should operate out."
Carolyn glances at him suspiciously. "Have you been drinking?" she asks. "You're being suspiciously... cheerful..."
"What? NO!" Martin says. He turns to find Douglas staring blankly at him, jaw hanging open in surprise. "What? What is it?" Martin starts. "I was just saying it makes more sense. If the landing back into Fitton is bumpy he's not going to care because he'll be dosed up to the eyeballs with painkillers already... why's everybody looking at me?"
"You're giving me the landing?" Douglas says disbelievingly.
"Yes. Is that a problem?" Martin asks.
"No... Sir..." Douglas replies, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Well, good," Martin says. "That's... good. All settled then."
"Yes..." says Douglas slowly. "I think you may have made a..." he pauses, chewing on the words like a bulldog chewing a wasp. "Unexpectedly appropriate decision."
Douglas still looks more than a little wary, but if there is a gratifying lack of sarcasm in his tone for once, Martin definitely isn't going to mention it.
Then again he isn't going to mention a lot of things, not if he doesn't have to. Like his upcoming change of address or the new details for his emergency contact. He's not mentioning either of those until he's absolutely ready. He's kept that part of his life close to his chest for far longer than any of them would have thought him capable, not because he's ashamed but because for once it's too important to be misunderstood. He doesn't want it cheapened by salacious assumption and although he knows they would ultimately accept it just like they do everything else, he rather likes having something in the world which is purely just his.
Of course he also isn't going to mention the brand new acrylic chastity belt locked securely around his cock right now either, or how it makes him feel ridiculously happy to be so lovingly owned. But that's mostly because it's absolutely none of their business.