He twisted the cords against her body, looping them against each other in all the right places, the crimson of the rope bringing out the peach tone to her bare skin, making art out of her naked form. So much of his knotwork in his life hadn’t been this delightful: as a boy learning all the important knots he found in a book, as a Watcher, tying up demons and, well, Spike. But the soft hemp rope, rope that he kept oiled so it would be just the perfect softness, that was a different story.
Anya moaned in frustration, and he really did have to admit that she had shown delightful restraint as he restrained her.
“Am I beautiful, yet, Rupert?” she asked, seductively as she could through her impatience.
He smiled at her, not one of his full out smiles, but one of his adoringly patient smiles mixed with a small smirk. “Take a look,” he said, holding up a mirror so she could see herself, see the ropes wrapped around her middle, see her pert breasts squeezed against the rope binding, the way the column ties on her wrists held her legs aloft at just the perfect angle. “You were always beautiful. But I’ve made you art.”
Anya marveled at herself in the mirror. She had never seen herself in a position that was simultaneously so powerless and so powerful. She felt a surge of warmth go through her body. This was the sensation she was looking for when she had tried to initiate all those trite role playing games with Xander. She was looking for something more. She had found it.
Just then, her phone rang at the bedside.
“It’s all right. Let the machine pick it up,” she said, sighing as he removed the mirror. She would have to look into getting a mirror on the ceiling. Why had she never considered that, before?
Rupert smirked at her. “Anya’s phone,” he said, answering it.
She rolled her eyes at him. Why couldn’t he get to the part where he was giving her many intense pleasure moments with his tongue? She had waited long enough for him to get the ropes just right. Now he was just messing with her.
“Sure. Anya can’t come to the phone right now. She’s...a bit tied up. Might I take a message?” And he reached over to a pad of paper and wrote something down. “Got it. I’ll make sure she gets back to you when she’s...less tied up.” And he hung up the phone.
“I thought it was quite amusing. You see, it’s usually a metaphor meaning busy, but you actually can’t hold a phone due to the fact that I’ve tied you up so beautifully.”
“I got the metaphor, Rupert. I’m rolling my eyes because you did that just to amuse yourself.”
“Well if I hadn’t learned how to amuse myself with clever wordplay that went over the heads of others, I wouldn’t have made it through years of spending time with teenagers, would I have?”
“I wasn’t a teenager.”
“Thank God you weren’t. Because I’d much rather amuse myself doing other things to you,” he said, as he prostrated himself between her legs, letting his tongue dance between her folds, making it unclear who was the submissive in this situation.