In the outside world.
In the D/s world, full access, especially to places that had significantly heightened senses of vulnerability, was not only given, but toying with and manipulating them was entreated, yearned for, craved.
In fact, the foundation of their practice was losing control, or acquiring it, gaining access, exposing vulnerabilities, pushing boundaries, redefining comfort zones (repeatedly), leading, guiding, following, resisting your limits and then settling into understanding them.
For a sub, this boiled down to letting go.
For a submissive, letting go meant offering the gift of trust to their Dominant, a gift that was all the sweeter when you offered up your most guarded vulnerabilities and allowed another to exchange that gift with physical and emotional rewards that were beyond your comprehension.
For another moment, Amélie took him in. All of him. What she felt coming from him. The way he held himself. Harking back to his even tone, the matter-of-factness of confirming and sharing information. His easy acceptance of her mild remonstrations and quick corrections, adhering to her rules.
An untried or inexperienced sub would be a ball of nerves. Even with this powerhouse, he couldn’t hide it. The anxiety would be palpable.
And again, there was not a chance Aryas would have allowed him to be open to selection without at the very least putting a note in his profile.
But he simply wouldn’t do it. Aryas didn’t believe in the art, he practiced the religion of the Dominant/submissive world from neophyte to high priest and priestess.
She made her decision.
“Very well, Olivier. Take your clothes off, please.”
And it was a decision well made for there it was again. A flash in his blue eyes, there and gone, exposing his excitement, communicating his readiness, and if she had anything to do about it (and she was going to give it her all), an early indication of his need.
His need that would become her need.
His need that was not needy, it was just pure, flawless need.
His need that only she, in this moment, in this session, during this scene, could satisfy.
He shrugged off his suit jacket.
The revelation of his shoulders covered in nothing but his blue-black shirt made her mouth get dry.
She forced a swallow.
“Place your clothing on the hooks by the door,” she ordered. “Shoes with socks tucked inside lined up beside the door.”
She found herself curious when he turned immediately to the two hooks in the narrow area of wall by the frame of the door (most of the rest of the wall space that weren’t beams where useful implements were hung were windows).
Her curiosity was that she would assume with a man of his beauty, he’d at the very least display himself to her.
And during play, he would know she wished him to do that.
But more basically, any sub knew they didn’t turn their back on their Mistress, especially not in such close proximity and most especially not during a scene.
Instead, he’d done just that, moving to the hooks, putting his jacket there. His hands going to the buttons on his shirt, making light work of them.
Then, with a phenomenal shrug of his massive shoulders, the shirt was gone and Amélie didn’t care if she had his front, back, side, or he was undressing behind a screen.
She struggled to keep her legs from trembling as her pussy started clenching like his cock was driving into her.
This struggle continued after shoes came off, he did as instructed with them and his socks, and down came the pants with his underwear.
She saw his thighs.
She saw his ass.
He was a beast.
A brute.
An incomparable steed.
The dents at the sides of his ass carved into full bulging globes that made her fingers actually itch to drag her nails over them.
And do much, much more.
On that thought, he turned.
And when he did, she gathered everything she had to keep her legs and hands steady, her eyes impassive, her face mildly interested, even as her heart beat a tattoo so deep in her chest, it seemed to thrum in the room.
She’d been very right.
He was a brute, an incomparable steed.
Hung long and thick, his hard cock stood out proud, but heavy. The mammoth length of it hard weighted his erection down, so much it nearly blocked her view of his sac.
However, his sac was as impressive as his cock, hanging high and tight between his legs, nestled with his impressive phallus in a nest of burnished brown curls. But his balls were so big, they, too, hung tight but heavy.
It was instinct and training that made her voice strong when she took two steps backward and commanded, “Come here, Olivier. The middle of the room where the ring is in the floor. Stop there, please.”
The flash from his eyes again, the degree of heat emanating from it hotter, the length longer.
He moved as told and stopped where instructed.
“Lift your arms, hands clasped behind your head.”
As she’d ordered, his gaze came to hers.
No flash then.
He was gone.
He was hers.
Amélie knew this because the pure blue of his eyes had darkened considerably and she saw no rainbow.
All she saw was night.
She dropped her gaze and noted the angle of his cock had dropped considerably as well. It was longer, harder, heavier.
She noticed his movement and watched with extreme pleasure as he lifted up his arms and clasped his hands behind his head.
She took him in, in this pose, all of him. The bulge of his biceps that she was certain she could wrap both hands around and the tips of her fingers would not meet. The chest scattered with the same burnished brown hair as between his legs, a good deal of it, but it was short, blunt, almost like it had been shaved and growing back, but she suspected, even so far as hoped, it was natural. This gathered and thickened in a line just above the navel in his flat, ridged belly, the line opening, widening, melding into the hair that based his cock. The hair was longer on his legs, but still relatively short and blunt, decorating the trunks that nature had appropriately seen fit to support his bulk, providing perfect appendages to complement a package that was an overall thing of beauty.