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Hebrew Version
The ballroom at the Holiday Inn & Suites Farmington Hills Detroit NW buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the DJ spinning all those late-’90s songs we grew up on. Michigan’s crisp autumn air pressed against the windows, but inside it felt like stepping into 1996—blue-and-gold streamers, old yearbook photos scattered across the tables, everyone laughing a little too loud as they tried to pretend thirty years hadn’t passed. I smoothed the front of my little black dress, feeling the fabric hug my curves, and took a slow breath. At forty-eight I still felt like that same shy goy girl from the sidelines, heart fluttering the way it used to when I walked past the popular crowd in the hallways.
Then I saw him.
Moshe Cohen. Dr. Moshe Cohen, the elegant name tag announced. His dark brown hair was threaded with distinguished silver at the temples now, but those sharp green eyes were exactly the same—intense, warm, impossible to look away from. They found me across the crowded room and held. Back in high school he’d been the ultimate ladies’ man: charming, quick with Yiddish jokes that had everyone cracking up, always surrounded by a flock of girls hanging on his every word. I’d sat two rows behind him in English class, stealing glances, too shy to ever say more than a mumbled “hi.”
He started across the floor, that familiar crooked smile spreading. My stomach did the same little flip it used to at seventeen.
“Elizabeth,” he said, voice warm and rich. He pulled me into a hug that lasted a beat too long, his cologne mixing with that deep masculine scent that made my knees weak. When he stepped back, those green eyes sparkled. “Oy vey iz mir, look at you. Still the most shayna woman in any room after all these years. You haven’t changed a bit.”
I felt my cheeks heat up, that old shyness rushing back. “Moshe—Doctor Cohen now, I hear. Saving hearts all over Detroit. It’s… really good to see you.”
He laughed softly, not letting go of my hand. “Please, just Moshe tonight. And yeah, cardiology keeps me busy, but coming back here? This feels more important.” He studied me with open appreciation. “You know, I used to look for you in the hallways. You were always so quiet, so focused—sitting there in English with your books, never making a fuss. I thought you were the prettiest girl in our class. Still do.”
I blinked, surprised. “Me? I was just the shy goy girl trying not to trip over my own feet. You were the one with all the attention. I figured you barely noticed me.”
His green eyes darkened with heat and something like regret. “Oh, I noticed. More than you know. I had the biggest crush on you, Elizabeth. Used to wonder what it would be like to talk to you properly, to cross that line. But I was young and stupid—surrounded by noise, and you seemed so… untouchable. Like you had this quiet strength I didn’t know how to approach.” He squeezed my hand gently. “Guess I’m making up for lost time tonight.”
We found a quieter table and talked for hours. The music faded as we caught up on divorces, careers, kids, and all the what-ifs. He kept brushing my hand, teasing me with old memories.
“Remember reading Shakespeare in English?” he asked, leaning in, his knee brushing mine. “You read Juliet so softly it gave me chills. I kept volunteering to be Romeo just hoping I’d get paired with you.”
I laughed, blushing. “I was mortified. You made everything look easy with your charm and Yiddish jokes. Half the girls were in love with you.”
“And the other half were pretending not to be,” he said with a wink. “But none of them were you. I always had a thing for the quiet ones who saw everything. You had this way of looking at the world… it made me want to be better. To be seen by you.”
His flirting grew bolder, laced with three decades of tension. He admitted asking mutual friends about me after graduation. I confessed my own crush, never imagining the popular Jewish guy would look twice at the non-Jewish bookworm.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, voice low, green eyes flicking to my lips, “I looked more than twice. Tonight I’m not wasting another thirty years.”
The air crackled. As the DJ announced last call, he leaned close, breath warm against my ear. “Come back to my room with me. I’ve had thirty years to think about this. I have… restraint in mind for you.”
My pulse thundered. “What kind of restraint?”
He smiled, mysterious. “You’ll see.”
I said yes.
The elevator ride hummed with tension. The moment the suite door clicked shut, Farmington Hills lights sparkled through the wide windows. Moshe poured red wine, watching me with those green eyes.
He has restraint in mind for me.
It was when I invoked the name of the Almighty repeatedly that he realised how much I wanted that last vestige of control stripped away. It was when I confessed I’d had to change my panties – because the thought of him bringing four lengths of cotton rope with him to bind me to the bed by my wrists and ankles had left me sodden – that he understood I was waiting for someone to propel me out of my comfort zone.
That’s when he decided. That’s when he purchased the restraint.
It’s fashioned from cool, black leather. The collar is three inches high; sufficient to make me lift my chin imperiously when it’s locked in place about my slender neck. The strap that runs down the centre of my back is thinner, its purpose merely to provide a suitable anchor for the two cuffs below. When fastened about my wrists, they’ll keep my forearms at right angles to the line of my body. Once all three of the small, brass padlocks have snapped shut, I’ll be quite helpless.
That’s when he’ll begin in earnest.
Before I feel that first, shiver-inducing kiss of leather against my skin, though, he prepares me. He kisses me slowly, intensely; softly, fervently, until we’re both panting with animal desire. He won’t allow me to touch him, though. Not yet. That’s to be saved for later. Instead, standing behind me, he places a folded silk scarf across my eyes and knots it amongst my luxuriant tresses. Then, cloaked in my own private darkness, he leads me towards the centre of the hotel room, and I hear the first of two distinctive noises: the swish of the heavy curtains being drawn apart, unveiling the floor-to-ceiling windows.
That’s when he begins to undress me.
He takes his time, removing each layer carefully, prissily. I hear him folding each garment, draping it over the back of the room’s solitary chair. I feel his fingers brush my body as he peels away my lacy lingerie, the warmth of his form radiating against me as he stands inches away, the ragged whisper of his breath against my skin. And throughout, I understand that my disrobing might be seen by any number of licentious voyeurs – knowledge that both tortures and tantalises me. It’s difficult to discern where my foreboding ends and my fever begins. But it’s impossible for me to stop myself quivering in anticipation.
And once I’m naked except for my gleaming stilettos, I hear the second of those distinctive noises: the slow unzipping of the leather holdall he brought with him.
That’s when I feel the leather.
Bound in hide, sealed in darkness, I’m guided to the king-size bed, bade to kneel down upon its firm-yet-yielding mattress. He takes me by the shoulders and presses my upper body gently down, until my forehead rests against the welcoming counterpane.
Head bowed, buttocks raised, I wait, knowing that the gazes of my lover and the night world that lies beyond the tall glass are likely transfixed by the sight of my helpless, naked form. I listen to the sounds of him disrobing somewhere behind me … and then I hear him approach, sense him close by, feel his strong hands settle upon my taut arse. I feel the pads of his fingers drawing abstract patterns over my skin, feel his nails draw parallels of fire across my nerve endings. I feel him crouch behind me, and as he does, he eases my cheeks apart, opening my sex to his rapacious gaze.
That’s when I feel his tongue.
Lapping at the backs of my thighs … painting glistening lines across the womanly curves of my behind … and all the time, circling closer and closer to the centre of my fire as his strong hands mould my yielding flesh to his grasp. I want to speak, to urge him onwards with a tremulous voice: Don’t tease me. Go faster, faster. Let me feel your tongue on my clit. Let me have you plunging it inside me, fucking me with it. Oh, let me tremble and come against your mouth. But don’t tease me. Don’t make me wait. Please. And yet … I ache for him to make me wait; I yearn for him to continue his patient exploration of my flesh, of my burning desire … the flames being coaxed higher, hotter, with every second.
And when he finally comes to extinguish them….
I test the strength of the leather restraining me. My rational mind knows that it’s pointless, but I do it anyway, because it’s my nature not to surrender without a fight, even when I want to lose.
The straps don’t offer the merest hint of yielding to my strength.
My lover pauses, moves away from me. Something cool and damp, slightly viscous in its consistency, is smeared against my anus. I shudder, knowing what is to come. He’s teased me with the promise of this illicit game, and now I’m about to play; helpless to stop him, too far gone – if I’m honest with myself – to even consider saying no.
Le jeux sont fait.
The first of the beads – metal, given its chill weight and firmness – kisses my rosebud’s seal. Gradually, it’s pressed against my flesh, and then I feel myself starting to yield before it. The sensation is alien, slightly disconcerting … and yet … there is some minor pleasure at the stimulus, but what affects me most is the excitement at being taken somewhere new, somewhere previously forbidden.
The bead passes through the twin rings of muscle. He strokes my buttocks, kisses the backs of my thighs. The second bead nuzzles at my rosebud. Again, there is that vague mixture of discomfort and pleasure, underscored by the thrill of the taboo, as it’s pressed inside me. The action is repeated three more times. After each bead, he spends a few seconds caressing my body, allowing me to become accustomed to the intrusion, to the experience.
Inside me, the beads feel neither good nor bad; but knowing they are there … that thrills me blackly.
He eases my thighs apart and his tongue suddenly rakes my sodden cleft. I cry out into the bed, smearing my lips against the softness. I wish that his hard cock was before me now, ready to slip inside my mouth. I can almost taste the warm musk of his flesh, the salty-sweetness of his precum. His tongue travels the valley of my cunt again, more slowly this time, so I have the chance to measure every millimetre of his exploration. It’s difficult given my position, but I try to force myself back against his mouth. His fingers sink gently into the plumpness of my labia, and I feel him drawing me open, feel his warm breath against the pink tenderness of my sex. For a time, the tip of his tongue traces the very edges of my quim, and then it slips inside me, pressing deep, firmly, into the silken flesh. He grips my waist and pulls me back towards him so that I can’t escape, and the bristles of his beard – which I plan to lick and suck clean of every trace of my lust – make my vulva tingle wickedly.
I cry out into the bed.
Then – somehow – his face is underneath me, and he’s pulling my loins down to meet his clever, greedy mouth. His tongue flickers against the growing pearl of my clitoris, and I bite down hard on the counterpane to still cries of pleasure I fear will be audible in the adjacent rooms. As he licks me, he slips two fingers deep into my wetness, fucking me in accompaniment to the dancing of his tongue.
My body is awash with pleasure. The memory of all the days and weeks and months of waiting and fantasising … it’s just a shadow now: ephemeral; powerless. My ache for fulfilment was consuming, at times almost too much to bear … and yet now … now, the pain and the hunger are gone. Obliterated. Finally.
The realisation of my wantonness means that little time passes before his flickering tongue and thrusting fingers have me quivering on the brink of my first climax. As I start to come, he reaches upwards, over the curve of my hip. At once, there’s a new tension inside me, the sensation of something hard and smooth pulling insistently against the inside of my sphincter. As the bead is drawn through both rings of muscle, I shiver deliciously, and the waves of my orgasm increase their height. I can’t stop myself from turning my face to one side and letting the room – and my neighbours, perhaps – hear my delight.
One by one, the beads are drawn from me; each time one slips from my flesh, its passage triggers a minor explosion of ecstasy that prolongs the intensity of my climax. When the last of the beads has been freed, I am panting, sobbing against the bed.
He moves again, slipping from beneath my loins, moving to stand behind me. One hand cups the left side of my waist, his fingers curling around to clutch at the softness of my abdomen. The unmistakable sensation of his glans being drawn down through my cleft rips my breath away again as I’ve barely begun to reclaim it.
“Yes,” I gasp, as he draws the tip of his cock up and down the sodden chink in my loins.
Deprived of sight, I focus in on the sound of his flesh moving wetly within mine. “Yes. Oh yes.” When he eases his full length inside me in one, flowing impulse, it’s as though someone has fired off a flash within the blackness of my blindfold.
The after image lingers before my eyes as he begins to fuck me. His warm, strong hands seize me about my waist, forcing me back to meet each thrust, just like he did when he fucked me with his tongue. It feels exquisite when his thick shaft is embedded to the hilt within me, so much so that there’s a bitter moment of regret when he withdraws, when he eases himself back until only the very tip of his cockhead still touches my sex.
But when he thrusts back into me….
In the darkness that he’s fashioned for me, it’s easy to lose myself in the reciprocal rhythms of my lust. My cunt measures the advance and retreat of his cock like some shameless scientist, gripping at his prick, reluctant to accede to its recoil, avaricious in its welcoming of his return. The oiled friction of his thrusts soothes and satisfies and startles all at once. The unmistakable aroma of fucking fills my nostrils and I welcome its piquancy like an old friend.
I don’t know how long he fucks me before his control of pace starts to fray, before his strokes begin to lose their sinuous smoothness. By then, he’s fucked me to another orgasm, the fingers of one hand strumming my clitoris as he plunges his cock into my depths. His free hand cups one of my swinging breasts, and I bite down hard on my bottom lip when he pulls upon the stiff nipple, when he rolls its thickness between his fingers and thumb.
I sense his body tautening behind me; I can feel it in his hands, in his loins, most of all in his cock. His length twitches inside my velvet sheath, and he draws back with a gasp that would sound like agony to the unaccustomed. A man at the point of no return. For a moment, I fear that he intends to part his flesh from mine, to spurt his seed across the cheeks of my arse, along the shallow curve of my spine. But then he drives back into me, hard enough to force a shameless cry of triumph from between my lips, and as his shaft throbs and pulses inside me, as I feel the flood of warm semen within my most sacred flesh, the final part of my triumvirate of ecstasy erupts.
Spent, I collapse forward upon the crumpled bed. He comes with me, his cock still embedded within my flesh. Tenderly, he kisses my ear, then my neck above the edge of the leather collar. His fingers busy themselves with the trio of padlocks, and soon he’s peeling the leather harness away from my body, freeing me, returning my control.
I barely hear him when he whispers, “Enjoy?”
That’s what he had in mind for me when he thought of ‘restraint’, when he made the purchase. That’s what he thought of when the package arrived, when he unwrapped it, ran his eyes and then his fingers over the contents. That’s what he thought of when he tested the softness and the strength of the leather.
That’s what he’s thinking of now.
The next morning we lingered over coffee and bagels from room service. Moshe traced lazy circles on my thigh, his green eyes warm. “Thirty years, Elizabeth. And you’re still the one who makes me want to take control… and watch you lose it.”
I laughed softly, deliciously sore in all the best ways. “Next reunion we skip the small talk.”
He grinned, that charming Yiddish lilt returning. “Bist du meshuggah? We’re just getting started—for the next thirty years, if you’ll have me.”
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