Page 31 of Freddie

My chest warms knowing that he likes how hairy I am. Some don’t mind it as I’m a Dom, but others that haven’t been in the kink scene have asked me to shave my chest, trim my bush, or even shave my arms and hands. Which is just not for me. I love how hairy I am. I love it even more now that Freddie does too and calls me honey bear because of it. I hum in delight, and Freddie shoots me a smirk before clinking his bottle off of mine, but little does he know that I was making that noise towards my delight with him and not the Scottish national drink.

“Are your arms okay? Legs too?” I ask as I rub up and down them while we get ready to leave. Freddie throws his large tote bag over one shoulder and smiles up at me.

“I’m all good, big man. Scene today was so insanely hot that I’ll probably cum rubbing my cage on the bed later,” he winks. I grab his wrists and pull them behind him with one hand.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Not unless you video call me first and ask, baby,” I growl, then steal a long, hard kiss from him. We are both panting by the time we break apart.

Unsure how he will take the endearment, I kiss him once more softly, then we arrange to meet up again for another daytime scene in a few days. We part ways with nothing other than a quick wave goodbye, but I stay to watch him as he crosses the street, wishing more than anything to follow him.

Chapter 33

Simmons

After us both upgrading our memberships to unlimited, Freddie and I set a pace I didn’t think was possible. Once a week turned into three times a week when Freddie wasn’t travelling for work. Burt and Arnie welcomed us both to the club, pleased to see me back in my element in a place that used to bring me so much joy.

Freddie being the sole cause of it, and I can’t and won’t deny it. There was so much fun in the room when we had scenes. Even his full bratty form has me anticipating amazing sex. His first encounter with the aftercare didn’t deter him from how nurturing and caring I needed to be after the rough and fast sex.

It had been two months since that first night, and something I noticed after the first few times is that Freddie loved being caged. It was like an anchor for him. Except for the hand job I gave him at the expo, I had yet to touch his cock.

It was a shame, too, and I’ve yet to see it fully hard or even bared to me soft. I’m pretty sure he’s caging himself during daylight hours too and not just for the sexual factor. Torn between wanting to ask and knowing it isn’t really my business, I still want to know for the curiosity alone. Why does he do it? For how long at a time? There was also the question of whether he even masturbated in the traditional sense.

With the amount of cum that shoots from him in a scene, I’m confident the answer is no. I felt powerful with that knowledge, that I owned his orgasms, his pleasure. That not even the man who owned his own body could cum if I wasn’t present.

With other subs, there was never much of a care for power over orgasms unless they wanted it. I never enforced it as it wasn’t a part of my being as a Dom, but with Freddie, it’s clear that the cage symbolises more than just orgasm denial.

With a brief chat last night, we are both on the same page about monogamy within the D/s contract. Sharing is something I have always been okay with. When separating sex from connection as a life partner, it makes it an enjoyable experience for everyone involved.

Although Freddie claims he has never shared or been shared, he was more than honest with his fantasies of me watching him writhe against another sub, entangled and free to explore. That had me rock solid at just the thought. Would my little latex slut enjoy being fucked by another sub? Or would he want to be given the chance to prove himself worthy first with his hot, full-lipped mouth.

Shaking the thoughts away despite them already going too far and leaving me hot and bothered as I work from my office, I’m glad to be working from home today. I try to concentrate on anything other than my bratty sub. These days, though, I drift to our first encounters. The airport, the interview. How many missed chances we had. Back then, I believed the universe was sending me the perfect gift I had begged for during lonely nights.

Why did he have to be Scottish? As hot as his accent was and the way he cursed, being both scary and adorable, he wasn’t going to stay here forever. Not for a job, and definitely not for a middle aged professor. Pretty soon he would go home to his family and find a nice guy to marry who had the same roots. They’d have a tartan wedding with tartan cakes and a tartan-themed honeymoon. Okay, I was being ridiculous, but it was as if life itself was shafting me by making the one man I wanted unattainable.

I had to get this idea out of my head that there was some way to keep him. To wake up every day to his cheeky smile. His natural sugary scent and quick-wittedness. There wouldn’t be any lazy sunny Sundays where he placed his head in my lap and we listened to music in my library.

No drinks with friends who were sometimes lovers. No bratty tricks that would have me more amused than angry. And definitely no happy ever after. As I sink further out of work mode and into self-pity, the doorbell rings. Pushing away from my computer, which is now asleep anyway, I pad through the narrow hall.

The front door has a stained-glass window that takes up half the size of the door. From here I can see someone dressed up holding a large box. Shit. Praying that Arnie hasn’t sent me a singing telegram for my birthday, I sigh, resigned to what is on the other side, and pull open the heavy door.

Chapter 34

Freddie

Flinging the door open with quite a lot of force, I see Simmons go from what looks like frustration to confusion to shock, then back to confusion.

“Freddie?”

“I. Am. A singing telegram,” I belt out on his doorstep. Gaping, he just stares at me. Then the next thing I know, I’m being dragged into his house by two bear paws and the door is banging shut behind me.

“Get off my porch looking like that! Anyone could have seen you with your ass hanging out,” he growls, but it’s not anger; no, it’s definitely jealousy that others might have seen my tight little arse in a dogtooth rubber skirt with matching bra and glitter pink chunky boots.

Simmons continues to drag me down a narrow, quaint-looking hallway. It’s darker than royal blue on the walls, with art dotted around. The carpet runner my glittered boots are marching on is a pale pink Victorian style rug. The kind my granny had in 1998. Oh, how I miss her. She made a fucking fab clootie dumpling. Arriving at our destination, Simmons lets me go and eyes me with curiosity.

“So, a little birdie told me it was your birthday today! Happy Birthday!” I chime with a genuine grin.

“Who told you?” Simmons asks with a sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Who?”