"All right," he said, searching for the catch and placket on her skirt so as to slip it off and toss it to the floor with his shirt (mind the stone: it really is a bit chilly).
He sighed a little. "I've done so much, you know. I've played games with ropes and whips and knives. I've been the lover in a cuckolding. And you certainly know that I've been the third in bed with a pair of lovers." He shrugged a little. "It's a wonder that there's anything left to fantasize about at all."
"But..." and he leaned down near to her ear again, "I do think I'd like to have someone...in my thrall again. Someone who would hate me if they knew who and what I am--or at the very least fear me--and hate me all the more for what I'd do to them. But they'd be blissfully ignorant. And I would keep them that way, even while I kept them, even while I took them to my bed. I could keep them in my house, amused with a thousand different magical playthings, but eagerly awaiting my coming home again. They would be happy and they would be mine, body and heart and mind and soul, never knowing that everything they hated kept them. Perhaps they'd even love me--that would be a wonder--or think they love me, at least. So, with that, in such perfect love and perfect trust, then we could play all those games you're thinking of, with ropes and knives and things, or even with just the soft touches of two lovers together--I see some of those same ideas glittering in your eyes even now, all the things you expected me to say. I'll let you imagine them, everything from hiding on rooftops to sharp blows to sweet kisses. But they're only details, those games. They're the trappings of things, they're steps in a false dance. And when they're taken off, in the glow of fading pleasure, the game is over--or so one thinks. Because that would be my delight: to have this person who knows they hate me but thinks they love me chained to me by their own free will."
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He sighed a little. "I've done so much, you know. I've played games with ropes and whips and knives. I've been the lover in a cuckolding. And you certainly know that I've been the third in bed with a pair of lovers." He shrugged a little. "It's a wonder that there's anything left to fantasize about at all."
"But..." and he leaned down near to her ear again, "I do think I'd like to have someone...in my thrall again. Someone who would hate me if they knew who and what I am--or at the very least fear me--and hate me all the more for what I'd do to them. But they'd be blissfully ignorant. And I would keep them that way, even while I kept them, even while I took them to my bed. I could keep them in my house, amused with a thousand different magical playthings, but eagerly awaiting my coming home again. They would be happy and they would be mine, body and heart and mind and soul, never knowing that everything they hated kept them. Perhaps they'd even love me--that would be a wonder--or think they love me, at least. So, with that, in such perfect love and perfect trust, then we could play all those games you're thinking of, with ropes and knives and things, or even with just the soft touches of two lovers together--I see some of those same ideas glittering in your eyes even now, all the things you expected me to say. I'll let you imagine them, everything from hiding on rooftops to sharp blows to sweet kisses. But they're only details, those games. They're the trappings of things, they're steps in a false dance. And when they're taken off, in the glow of fading pleasure, the game is over--or so one thinks. Because that would be my delight: to have this person who knows they hate me but thinks they love me chained to me by their own free will."
Power. That was the truth of it. Now and always.
And he kissed her again.