Red Is The Color Of Our Lives (And Red Is The Color Of Our Blood)

Thanksgiving Update Special

This update has no connection to the main component of the story but is just a small little bundle of something of sugar and a lot of spice for everything nice for your, my readers.
Warning; smut; bondage, hand job.
Enjoy<3
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de·vo·tion
/dəˈvōSH(ə)n/
noun
-love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity, or cause.

-religious worship or observance.
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"Is it too tight?"

Your voice calls in a cooing gentle recurve of a snark hidden in your tone.
A tease of a question that holds some resemblance of respect in its vocally foundered and fathered down stone set ways of a life you've led.

It's a simple question.
With an arrange of awnsers that burned in the frontal cortex of Königs gut and burned belly that scorched aflame in his joints. His body practically buzzing beneath your gaze as you allowed your eyes to roam against the red  rope restricting his visage just barely to the wooden chair.
Barely able to withold his mere sheer size let alone the way his muscles tense and bulge against his movements.

You love it.

Even more the stark contrast between the harsh appearance of his black uniform and the red rope.
Accentuated by the red rope that defined his frame like a sore thumb, like a stale mate between you both as his emerald gaze still reveled you to quiver at your knees so easily..
You digress and almost chuckle at the puppy look in his gaze, impatient even.
Almost.

Pure submission was never an option for the Colonel.
Not even now.
He always held a power of a bite in the room, but this time; this time you had a say to bite back and not except to be punished for it in his own ways of hours of denied orgasms on your own end.
And yet; he still makes you weak at your knees as he remains tied to the chair and pampered down to noth8ng more then red hemp and discouraged lines of beginnings and ends.

"Colonel. I asked you a question."

His eyes sharpen as they snap and focus on you; tilting his head to lift slightly to meet you gaze. His eyes, those piercing emerald orbs of a detained praises of years of life ebbing behind them scours into glassy; fuzzy clouds: as if he's somewhere else.

Your face ticks into a small frown, teeth gritting ever so slightly at the distance of the look in his eyes; you didn't like the taste his eyes gaze left in your mouth.
Your fingers danced around the red hemp like a tease and reveled to tickling covered skin like a bored caress; feathered even.

Before you pulled the rope of his thighs, and waist to pull him back down from where he may be devoted to; and not you.
It's a small look of jealously, greened by the prepped and primed time it took for you to cup his frame do well in the hemp, only for him to be snapped out of it.

It's perfect.
He looks perfect.

It makes a warmth bloom in your belly and swoon you into a small smirk at the corner of your lips, pleased at your own meticulous work as your gaze rakes him in deliciously slow.

His arms restricted barely behind the chair, he legs and thighs held fast and tight, spread wide for you own imprinted manners of dealing with him on your own according.
Crotch free.

His pants, a growing tent with no way for him to touch.

It's perfect .
And it's pretty.
He is so..so pretty.

Like a kiss of aphrodite muddled it's way on the Austrians life as a blessing even as he aged like marbled oils of old and minerals of aged wine; so ..so pretty..
And all yours.