He could feel her eyes darting to his, as if seeking reassurance, but he was minding the road quite deliberately. She would have to decide whether or not she was going to submit entirely on her own.
Seconds later, her knees began to part very slowly, and he found himself wondering how long it had really been since any man but her husband had had her, so he asked, still not looking at her as he did so, although his hand remained high up on her left thigh.
"I—uh—" His hand began to move as she spoke, creeping ever closer to the center of her desire.
"Keep opening your legs, Arden. I'll tell you when to stop."
His tone with her was so different from what she'd ever experienced in this realm. Her husband might have been her dom, but he was very loving about it—everything he did was because he loved her and wanted the best for her. Loch had no such things on his mind whatsoever, and his voice reflected it.
As a result, her mind was occupied trying to obey him in that, and she received a sharp swat on her thigh for her slow response.
"I expect you to answer while you open yourself for me."
Panting with nervousness, which only added to her uncoordinated efforts, she responded, her voice trembling, "W-well, we were t-together…" The word rose several octaves in pitch as his fingers found the elastic of her panties. And when one knee was resting against the gearshift and the other leaning against the car door, he finally told her to stop. But she knew better than to stop answering him. "…f-for fifteen years, it's—ahhhh—ummmmm," Without preamble, his fingertips plunged between her folds to find the source of her pleasure and began stroking it knowingly, as if he'd already made a study of how to bring her pleasure. "…been f-four y-years since h-he died, but I was in a pretty s-s-serious…" Arden had to swallow hard, her hands gripping the edges of the seat for dear life as she sat quietly in her seat and allowed him to molest her at will, fervently wishing she could say that she was sticking to her resolve and wasn't enjoying it in the least. But she absolutely was, and he was just about to encounter irrefutable evidence of that fact.
"…relationship b-b-before I met him, so, uh, so—nnnnggg—umm, about tuh-went-ty years or so."
"Jesus Christ," he spat, not at what she was saying, although that was astonishing enough, but much more because he hadn't expected he would be able to bring dripping wet fingers from her wide-open crotch to his mouth, closing his eyes for a short second as he suckled them clean as if they were covered in manna from Heaven instead of just her juices.
"Close your legs, or I'm going to wrap us around the nearest tree, I swear," came his clipped vow.
Grateful for the respite, she did exactly as she was told, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead of her.
The rest of the ride had been conducted in a tense silence as Loch wrestled with his own impulses and Arden did her best to clear her mind so that she wouldn't either run screaming from him or break down and cry in front of him.
She truly couldn't decide which outcome might have been worse. Except that she wasn't considering the actual outcome while she was pondering, the one where she was alone with him, in his house, and he was leaning back against the door, his fists clenched at his sides as the breath literally bellowed out of him while leveling that terribly intense look at her, and her alone. Then, suddenly, she watched him relax, bit by bit, and she knew he was forcing himself to do so through sheer strength of will.
Eventually, he levered himself away from the door and walked past her. "Follow me."
She ended up in the largest bedroom she'd ever seen.
Loch had already crossed to a credenza of sorts, on which there was apparently a bar, because he returned to her with about four fingers of whiskey in a beautiful cut glass rocks glass that she wouldn't have been at all surprised to discover was Waterford crystal.
"Drink it. All of it."
She opened her mouth to question him. That was a lot of alcohol for her. Arden didn't usually drink much—or hadn't recently, anyway—and she didn't have much food in her stomach to absorb it, either, since her dinner had been quite rudely interrupted.
But she thought better of that impulse, closed her mouth again and took a large, inelegant gulp, forcing herself not to cough or balk at it in any way.
She finished it in four gulps, while he watched, and handed the glass back to him.
He again found himself impressed by her. She'd obeyed him; she'd stopped herself from what he thought was probably going to be arguing with him, and she'd bolted downed a hefty amount of some pretty stiff whiskey in less than a minute.
Now was the time that he was going to see whether her talk of a hollow leg in regards to alcohol was the truth or just bluffing. He'd unintentionally given her a larger drink than he should have, pouring as if he was making it for himself rather than adjusting it down to what he would normally have given her. He might well not have as much time with her as he'd like if it turned out that she couldn't hold her liquor.
But what the hell? If she fell asleep, he'd have her in the morning before she left. It would be a good exercise in denial.
He'd become an expert at dealing with various aspects of that practice at an early age, and by now, he'd pretty much perfected it.
Except, it seemed, when it came to her, or he never would have succumbed to that insistent feeling of curiosity and intrigue her ethereal reticence had always inspired in him during their brief, public encounters and put himself in the way of temptation by switching seats to be closer to her as he had that night.
But that was all said and done now. There was no going back, and he could hardly argue with the way things had turned out since she was standing here in his bedroom, looking just shy of terrified, although she was standing her ground and he couldn't see any signs that she was looking to bolt.
He wondered errantly—for him—if she would regret not having done so in the morning, if she'd dress calmly and leave him—probably asleep—take an Uber to her car and head home to dissolve into tears, where no one would be able to see her pain or console her about it. The thought of her sobbing, alone, with no one to comfort her, disturbed him much more than he wanted it to.
Wanting to divert his mind from wandering into that unfamiliar morass of emotion, Loch stepped up behind her, feeling her start as his arms crept around her waist and neck—not ungently—his hands finding their way beneath her dress, knowing it would feel somehow dirtier to the proper Ms. Valenti to be groped like this, as if he was copping a feel somewhere where they could be discovered, than if she was actually naked.
And he was right.
She squirmed slightly against him as Loch tucked the fingers of his left hand into the waistband of her undies while his other hand roamed freely over her beneath her dress, those big fingers nonetheless expertly unhooking the front closure of her bra, loosing breasts that were just as firm and full and high as any he'd ever cupped, while he felt her continue to try to squelch the urge to wiggle away from his touch or wiggle because of his touch. It didn't really matter which one. He thoroughly enjoyed her struggle to remain still beneath his touch, regardless, and applauded her assumption that that was what he might prefer she do, having been given no guidance about it by him.
Someone had trained her well. The twitches and squirming that got past her control could definitely be attributed to the fact that she hadn't been touched in a while by anyone, a fact which he found entirely unacceptable. A woman like Arden was meant to be used by her dom on a daily basis, in one way or the other. She needed constant supervision and stimulation, strict and swift punishment, along with rewards that were at least as fierce and ferocious, if less frequent. She needed to be touched, intimately, as often as possible, and by someone who knew how to handle her, in particular—what she liked, what she hated—which wasn't necessarily to be avoided—what her limits were and how to test them without losing her carefully won trust.
And he intended to do it all—not as her husband had, by winning her heart first, but by cultivating
what he believed would be an even more powerful connection with both her mind and her body.
He was more eager than he wanted to admit to be exactly that kind of man for her and to her, although he was pretty sure he'd never be able to accomplish all that in the mere span of twenty-five nights with her, no matter how skillful he considered himself. But at the moment, although he firmly believed that one should begin as one meant to continue, he knew that he was getting ahead of himself.
So, he clamped down on his own desires—and plans he wish his mind would stop making as he wasn't at all sure they would ever be fulfilled—and gathered her dress into his hands, lifting it inexorably up and over her head, slipping her bra straps off her shoulders and letting it fall to the ground as she stood there before him in just her panties. And in very nearly all of her natural glory. She might not have been model gorgeous, but she had a pretty face and an amazing body.
So much so that his own mouth went suddenly very dry as he looked at her, taking in the sometimes-dusky pink of her blushing cheeks as well as the places where it flared into a brighter pink, all the way down from her cheeks to her neck and into her chest, as if it was a sex flush rather than a blush, the color rivaling the beauty of her delicate, mauve nipples.
It intrigued him to no end that she still blushed like that, as if it was her first time and he was her first man.
The thought struck him that he would give ninety-nine percent of what he owned for that little scenario to be true, but he brushed the fanciful thought off in favor of dealing with the real world, as was always his preference.
"Cup your breasts. Offer them to me."
He began to walk around her slowly, counting the seconds it took her to obey him and delivering the corresponding number of searing smacks to her behind as he made his way back to stand in front of her.
She was biting her lip, having tried to stifle her groans as he spanked her after an uncontrollable moan made it past them at the first swat. Her hands were really too small to properly cup the bounty that was her breasts, but he loved seeing them overflow as they did, hardened nipples bobbing as she tried to lift them towards him enticingly.
When he did finally latch onto one of those tight, hard buds, his desire was fueled again—very nearly out of his control—by the mere sound of her stuttering sigh, one he didn't even think she realized she'd emitted. His other hand, which was more than large enough to cradle every bit of her goodness, took over from hers, and she didn't try to interfere with him in any way, but rather removed her hands to let them hang at her sides. He might teach her later to fold her arms behind her back at a time like this, but he appreciated the docility of her action, as he felt he was pretty aware of what it probably cost her to do it.
By the time he left off, each little mouthful of a berry was at least twice the size it had been, plumped out fully, wet and hot and straining for more. But he'd already gone on to stand behind her, slipping one finger into the crack of her bottom and feeling her jump, then correct herself at the unexpected intimacy, rudely cracking his palm across cheeks that he had suddenly bared as he tugged her panties down far enough let them drop to her ankles while he continued to watch what had been the pristine white skin of her surprisingly generous ass pinken prettily, then darken into an angry red.
Each swat sent her arching forward—not necessarily because she was trying to avoid the pain of it—although he could hardly blame her if she was—but rather more, he suspected, because of the strength with which he was applying them, causing him to reach around to seize her sparsely haired cunny in order to hold her in place, forcing her to part her legs in order to accommodate his presence between them.
He preferred to give her the benefit of the doubt about that, at least, at first. The truth will come out, as this would hardly be her last spanking. It might well not even be the last one she'd receive tonight, for that matter. She had the perfect bottom for it, firm and rounded just like her breasts, every wonderfully feminine bit of her fairly begging to be stringently tended to on a frequent and ongoing basis.
Only when those cringing cheeks had attained the color he preferred, and he could hear that she was genuinely crying—although she hadn't broken position once—did he issue a command with a last, crisp smack. "Over there, kneel on the little table."
He wasn't exaggerating. It was a very little table, even for someone of her size. There was barely enough room for her to do as he asked, but apparently, that was exactly how he wanted it.
Her knees fit on, as well as the heels of her hands, her fingers naturally wrapping around the underside of the table.
"No, reach down and grab hold of the bottom of the legs." He paused for effect before finishing with what sounded like an offhand comment, but it made her blood run cold. "And hold on for dear life, because, believe me, you do not want to let go during this."
The result of the awkward, humiliating position she found herself in was that her quim was presented to him at just about at the perfect crotch level for him, but the rest of her faced awkwardly and acutely downward, as if all he was interested in about her was her privates and what she was sure was that viciously red frame of recently punished flesh he'd created around them.
For long, tense moments, during which her anxiety reached new heights about what he was going to do to her, he was quiet, neither moving nor saying anything, that she heard, anyway.
Nothing could prepare her for being filled so abruptly, so forcefully—all at once, to the hilt. Not only was she long out of service, but her knees were clamped very closely together, which just made her that much tighter, and she couldn't help the yelp that left her mouth before she could get ahold of herself, nor could she in any way prevent the way her head jerked up in surprise as she had no choice but to yield her most intimate self to his abrupt invasion.
"Down."
It sounded uncomfortably like a command one would give a dog, but she obeyed it instantly.
Not that that saved her from another spanking, this one that much worse because of the intimacy of the situation and the sensitivity of the territory, and it lasted all the way through the hardest fucking she'd ever received in her life. It had her biting her lip against crying out with every heavy thrust of that enormous weapon he repeatedly, ruthlessly forced her open with. So, not only was she trying to cope with the sheer size of him dragging against her long untried walls, but also the strength and vigor with which he was wielding himself.
At first, it had out and out hurt, even though she mentally thanked him for the liquor, which was probably the only thing that allowed her to accept him at all and kept her from screaming out loud with every thrust, although she studiously avoided considering that part of that might well have been her own slickness. But, though uncomfortable, it did provide a bit of a distraction from the frighteningly methodical way in which he was making her bottom burn. But the longer he kept at her, the more those feelings abated, to be replaced by even less welcome ones—of a breathtaking pleasure, one that threatened to overtake her, but that she began to dedicate herself to ignoring, preferring, instead to concentrating on the misery of the spanking she was being subjected to.
In the end, though, as she had been worried might happen because she'd experienced the phenomenon in the past, the two blended together within her mind and her body, feeding off each other and easily destroying the fantasy of her control. If he'd kept it all up just another minute or two, nothing on the planet could have stopped her from coming.
Even as he—finally—exploded inside her, he continued to scourge her bottom, until he could move no more, either to violate or punish her.
But he didn't move away immediately, and she knew better than to get out of position without permission, so she waited, quietly, patiently for him to issue that permission.
With a surprisingly gentle sweep of his hand down her spine, he came to her head and offered his hand, helping her up and making sure that she was steady on her feet before he disappeared into the bathroom, retu
rning while he was still washing himself with a damp cloth that he then had her bend over in front of him so that he could apply it to her well used parts—although keeping it scrupulously away from her backside so as to offer no ease whatsoever there.
After tossing the cloth into the hamper, he downed a glass of water, himself, and brought her one, before getting them each about half again the amount of whiskey he had given her previously.
Arden looked surprised, but dutifully downed all of it.
Loch smiled. "I didn't necessarily mean for you to gun the whiskey, but I should have been more forthcoming. The water will help prevent dehydration, and I'm hoping that this might help you to sleep a little."
She nodded, biting her lip and wishing she had a robe or something. For some reason, standing there naked with him, she felt even more exposed than she had been moments ago, which she knew was ridiculous, but there it was. "It might well, at that. I haven't had much to drink in the past few years."
"Good—not that I'm going to allow you to sleep long. I'm not one of those selfish doms who doesn't believe in pleasuring his submissive."
"Oh, that's okay. You don't have to do that," she remarked casually, slipping beneath the incredibly soft sheets. She stopped herself short of saying that she preferred that he didn't.
He got into the opposite side of the bed and gave her a considering look. "It's not something that's up for debate. I intend to watch you come, Arden. I have a feeling—considering how wet you were in the car and just now—that you put on quite a show, and I like to get my money's worth."
He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it was out of his mouth. Loch watched her stiffen and pause almost imperceptibly at his words in the act of arranging the covers around her.
On impulse, he reached out and pulled her to him. Arden offered no resistance at all, although he could literally feel the distance she was doing her best to maintain from him—and he wasn't usually the type to notice that kind of thing. "Are you all right?"
She knew he meant it as an overall question about her physical state and that he was definitely not referring to what he'd just said to her. "Fine, thank you."
The Supplicant Page 5
