by Raine Miller
A thrill went through her at the thought of Cal seeing BDSM and being turned on. Sure, he would be approached by all the subs at The Club, but why would he go for any of them when he had a sub already at home? She’d been so careful to be polite and friendly with him. She wanted to entice him, of course she did. It just wasn’t in her nature to bat her eyelashes and gaze adoringly at a Dom. Not to mention, that was really bad behavior from a sub. The dance between a sub and a Dom had many steps, but the sub couldn’t initiate it.
The trouble was, she barely knew what Cal thought of her. She was attracted to him—hell, he made her wet and horny pretty much just by walking barefoot through the house in his low-slung jeans and well-worn T-shirts—but she feared the attraction wasn’t mutual. Sure she knew he looked at her breasts sometimes, and maybe watched her ass as she left the room. Probably he was picturing her in some raunchy BDSM posture, an image that would revolt Cal. Only, when Sara imagined the same thing, the thought of it made her struggle not to drop to her knees and beg him to take her to the dungeon.
She raised her head when she heard a noise from the back of the house. He was back. Her nipples ached and her pussy spasmed at the sound of his footsteps.
“Sara?”
“In your office,” she called.
He walked in and stood still, his feet apart, his arms crossed. He had on black jeans, a navy T-shirt and a black leather jacket. Her sex throbbed.
“On your knees.”
Oh, God, did she hear that correctly? Please let him mean it. She put her book aside and slipped to her knees. She swiftly arranged her body in the proper presentation posture, her hands open on her thighs.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Red.” She didn’t want to use the word she’d had with Bruno.
“And yellow if you need me to slow down?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are you wearing panties?”
“No, Sir.” Thank God some habits had lingered.
“Show me.”
Oh, this was delicious. She’d missed this so much. She wished she could see Cal’s face, watch him as she lifted the hem of her nightgown.
“Take it off.”
Bliss. Sheer bliss. He was a Dom. The nightgown landed on the floor behind her. Thank you, Master Bruno.
“Touch your nipples.”
She put her hands on them.
“Pull on them, make them really hard.”
Sara wanted to moan, it felt so good. But silence was a present a slave gave her master. Bruno taught her that. She rolled and pulled her nipples until they were rigid and aching.
“Don’t stop.” Cal moved back until he was leaning against the desk. She couldn’t see his face, but she had an excellent view of the ridge of his erection. He seemed to ignore it, but she longed to caress it with her hands and mouth.
She hadn’t touched herself since Bruno’s death. At first, of course, she had no interest, but even after Cal arrived, she hadn’t wanted to. It felt wrong. Disrespectful. He might not want her but he’d inherited her, which meant he’d inherited control over her body and her orgasms. Thank God she hadn’t cheated, not even on those nights when she couldn’t sleep because she was so keyed up, picturing him naked in the shower or between the sheets in the master bedroom.
Now, with her fingertips tugging on her nipples and moisture pooling between her legs, she could tell she would find it hard to obey if he ordered her not to come. She really hoped Mac hadn’t taught him that yet.
“Spread your knees wider. Good. Take your hands and show me your clit.”
Sara nearly swooned with the desire to touch herself. Even the air on her swollen flesh was delicious torture.
“Have you masturbated recently?”
“No, Master.” It felt right to call him that.
“When was your last orgasm?”
“Two nights before your uncle died, Master.”
“Yeah, let’s lose the ‘Master’ crap. I have to earn that. Call me Cal.”
She wanted to argue—to tell him that she belonged to him and she was happy about it—but an order was an order. She continued to hold her sex open. She didn’t touch her clit.
“Yes, Cal.”
“Well, you’re going to have one tonight. More than one, if I have anything to say about it.” His voice was low and raspy. It sounded like he was biting the words off.
She didn’t answer him. She wanted to wriggle all over like a dog about to get a treat.
He moved around to the other side of the desk. She could just see his hands doing something to the laptop he kept open on the desk. He closed the lid and removed the computer. Then the keyboard went, and his notebook, and the desk blotter, and the pencil cup and desk lamp. In short order the desk was a flat surface of glossy wood.
“Come over here,” he said.
She stood and went to him, her arms at her sides. Her brain flooded with the possibilities. He could lean her over the desk and spank her. Or he could fuck her. Or bind her to the desk in some way. Everything she thought of sounded equally good. Thank God she didn’t have to pick.
“Get on the desk, on your back.”
“Yes, Cal,” she whispered, her voice quivering with excitement. She lay on the wood, cool and sleek against her skin.
“Reach back with your hands and grab the edge of the desktop.”
He was standing near her left shoulder so she still couldn’t see him. She hooked her fingers on the lip of the desktop behind her head.
“Pull yourself back until your head is almost level with your hands. That’s it. Now, lift your legs and place your feet flat against the desktop. Keep your legs spread.”
When she’d finished positioning herself, she was so aroused it was hard to think straight. Just his voice commanding her… It set her nerves skittering around her erogenous zones. That voice—almost as good as she’d imagined his touch would be.
Suddenly, he was there, framed between her knees. His face solemn and intense, his beautiful silky hair slightly rumpled, his eyes like dark roads on a moonlit night.
“Sara, here are your orders.”
“Yes, Cal.” Her voice had dropped to just a thread.
“You will not withhold your orgasms.”
“Yes, Cal.”
“And I want to hear every noise. No words, but don’t stifle yourself.”
“Yes, Cal.”
With that, he stripped off his jacket and stood tight against the edge of the desk. His hands, cool and strong, clasped her ankles. She thought he was going to move her feet, but he ran his hands up her shins, his fingers curving around her calves. He avoided the backs of her knees. He caressed the outside of her thighs, then shifted to the tender inner thighs. When his hands met at her cunt, he used his thumbs to part her folds. Then his head dipped. He flicked and nibbled his way from the bottom up to her clit.
Something about the way his thumbs exposed her clit so his tongue could go to work was so sexy that it nearly made her come. She wanted to wait—was that against the rules?—because she knew it was going to get better.
Then she felt his lips and teeth and it was too much. She could tell she was making noise but the rushing blood in her ears kept her from hearing what she sounded like. Her muscles jerked, flopped, and then caught tight like fishing line.
He prolonged her orgasm for what felt like forever, then the line snapped and she was gasping on the desktop. Cal moved around to the front of the desk, near her right hip. He pressed her right leg down so her foot dangled toward the floor. He pinched her nipples, both at the same time, then one, the other, twice on one side, once here, three times there. The pressure in Sara had barely abated before he was bringing it back, playing her like she was an instrument.
She whimpered, she could hear that, then changed to a low, keening moan. His fingers left her breasts but his mouth replaced them. His left hand stroked her forehead and tangled in her hair. His right hand went for her pussy. Two fingers in her cunt and his thumb at her
clit. He found her G-spot, his teeth worried at a nipple and he smoothed her hair.
Just like that, she was peaking again, hard. She heard her own scream. It was difficult to breathe, she’d been flung that far from sanity.
She could barely feel Cal’s hands as he pulled her arms down to her sides and dangled her left leg over the other side of the desk.
“What’s your safe word, Sara?”
“Red.”
“Good.”
She had trouble keeping her eyes open. Her clit felt like it was the size of her thumb, and it throbbed as though she’d hit it with a hammer. Her cunt kept squeezing on air and her nipples were so wonderfully sore and tender she couldn’t remember when they’d felt this good.
Then she heard the condom wrapper. And saw his T-shirt fall to the floor.
Cal pulled her down to the edge of the desk, parted her legs wide, grasped her hips and positioned his cock to fuck her. He looked huge—hell, he was huge—as he moved into her. But if she’d been expecting it hard and fast, she was wrong. He started slow, working his cock into her carefully.
She was tight—Bruno hadn’t liked straight fucking—and Cal was thick. As sources of pain went, this was one of Sara’s favorites. When he was all the way in, he pulled out and pushed back in almost as slowly. Again. And again.
Sara expected him to speed up, begin a hard thrusting that would propel her backwards. Didn’t happen.
“Sit up.” His look made it clear this was an order. She was fully impaled on his cock so the leverage was tricky, but she managed it. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She gasped when her breasts flattened against the dusting of hair on his chest. Oh, such sweet pain. Her cunt tightened on him and his hands on her hips flexed slightly. His facial expression didn’t crack at all. He hadn’t ordered her not to look at him, right? She bent her legs around his hips, her heels pressing against the black denim.
Their eyes locked. Sara had never known what that cliché meant before now, but she couldn’t have looked away from Cal’s dark gaze if the room was on fire. In fact, it was on fire. Or she was on fire. Or they were. Something certainly was burning.
He lifted her up and off his cock, then dropped her back. God, he was strong. And huge. She had to stretch to get her arms around his neck. He lifted her again. Again. Again. She held on tight. Again.
Oh, fuck, she was going to come. She implored him with her eyes. Say it’s okay, please. Give me permission.
His response—if he’d even gotten the message—was to kiss her.
Holy shit! He was still fucking her, lifting and dropping in a steady rhythm, but now his mouth consumed her completely. Lips, tongue, teeth, suction, soft, hard, gentle, compelling, demanding, dominating.
Her orgasm grabbed her like some giant beast, shaking her violently even as she clung to Cal and kissed him back and dug her heels into his ass. Their tempo sped up so he was fucking her faster and faster, pulling her up and dragging her back. Faster. He was really pumping now.
Sara managed one last climax, like a long, drawn-out throb rippling through her body. He’d buried his face into her neck, humming something against her skin. She felt it when he came, felt the shudders and tension pulsing through him.
He lowered her to the desk, put a hand to his cock to secure the condom and slowly disengaged.
“Stay there,” he said. His voice had lost some of that Dom quality, which was fine. All Sara wanted to do was curl up and fall asleep.
Cal returned, his shirt on and jeans zipped. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“C’mon, love, let’s get you upstairs.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, managing to flip the light switches with his elbow.
He got to the master bedroom and laid her on the bed.
Sara frowned. She shouldn’t be here.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped. I just need to get rid of my clothes, then we can fall asleep. Can I go get your toothbrush or something?”
Sara could feel the panic welling inside her. This was awful. She couldn’t leave but she really couldn’t stay. “Red,” she blurted out.
Cal stopped immediately. He was pulling the T-shirt off, so his head was swathed in navy cotton knit. He lowered the shirt to stare at her. “Did you just say ‘red’?”
She nodded. She felt miserable that she had to safeword.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head no.
“Then what. Tell me what I did wrong, Sara.”
Sara’s mouth quivered with misery. “I can’t sleep with you.”
CHAPTER 6
What the fuck—? Cal couldn’t believe his ears. He inherited a sex slave who let him fuck her but wouldn’t spend the night in his bed? What crazy messed-up shit was this BDSM business anyway?
He turned away, staring at the painting over the fireplace. It looked like a Frederic Church, a lush landscape that could well have been Eden. How fucking ironic.
Best sex of his life. Without a doubt. At the end, he’d been humming Bach against her throat as an extraordinary orgasm wracked his body.
Now this. He gave his head a tiny shake. He couldn’t look at her, didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what just happened.
“Go to bed, Sara.” He headed for his dressing room.
He kicked off his boots and left them in the middle of the floor. He tugged off his T-shirt and threw it, hard, at the hamper. His jeans and boxers followed.
When he came back from the bathroom, she was gone.
Lying in bed, the fourth Brandenburg Concerto running through his head, Cal tried to figure it out.
First, he now understood the pro-kink lecture from Mac. Cal knew that Mac wanted him to take over from Bruno, which was a tall order for a thirty-one-year-old composer with a pretty tepid track record with women. The analogy with conducting was a good start, but taking Cal to The Club had been a master stroke. No pun intended.
Sebastian was clearly an exhibitionist and showman. He’d reminded Cal of those old tapes of Leonard Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic, with his demonic good looks, sardonic demeanor, and massive ego backed by real talent. Sebastian enthralled the audience just as much as he controlled Marlie.
The revelation for Cal was seeing how Marlie had relaxed during the spanking but tensed up during the sex. It looked like she’d found it easier to receive pain than to contain her passion.
Cal wasn’t sold on the “don’t climax until I tell you to” routine, though he couldn’t deny it made for one hell of a conclusion to the show. Sebastian had been an artist, shaping Marlie’s sexual experience, the audience’s voyeurism, and his own orgasm in one giant production.
That’s when Cal had figured it out. He wanted that control. He wanted Sara to explode the way Marlie had. He wanted her screams and moans. He wanted her to come over and over in building crescendos of sound and sensation.
No question about it, controlling the sex had been extraordinary. Cal had never managed to give a lover more than two orgasms before, not without a lot of rest in between. Tonight, he’d felt invincible. It was like he knew exactly what Sara wanted, possibly even before she knew herself. So much better than the “regular” way.
He shifted onto his side. The Bach segued into Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.
Cal had nothing against modern women. He’d even loved a couple of the women he’d slept with. But when they talked in bed, saying what they liked and didn’t like, the “yes, do that” and “harder, right there” stuff—well, Mac had been right. That would be like having the first cello tell Cal what he needed to do as a conductor. Not the way to get the best performance from anyone.
Sex as a concert performance. What a brilliant analogy. Cal stared at the ceiling, washed on one side by the faint glow of the street lamps, their light bleeding in above the drapes. On the taxi ride back to Georgetown, Cal had worked out exactly what he wanted to do with Sara. Dominate her, sure. That was what she wanted too, if Mac was
to be believed. And apparently it was what Bruno had wanted for them both.
Win-win.
Critiquing his own performance, Cal thought it had gone well. The second movement was still a bit rough—he’d had to rearrange her limbs too many times—but having her hang off his neck. That had been inspired. He was already eager to work out another session.
Except, when it was time to go to bed, she had to use her safe word? He’d felt seventeen again—Cindy Harrison had politely told him that she couldn’t go to prom with him, even though they’d been dating for most of the school year, because Tony Franelli had asked her first. Like, now you need to dump me?
Shit. That had stung. Fourteen years later, and it still bothered Cal that Cindy would dump a guy she’d been going with simply because a jock came on the market.
Okay, that wasn’t quite what had happened with Sara. Only, Cal had no clue what had happened.
He flopped onto his back. The Prokofiev switched to Schoenberg.
Best sex of his life…followed by humiliation.
Well, that was the difference between being seventeen and being thirty-one. At thirty-one, he was entitled to answers.
Plus, she was his sex slave. He could order her to explain the rejection to him.
***
After sleeping badly, Sara got up to make coffee, wishing it was a weekday so she could hide in her office. She vaguely remembered dreaming about Bruno and the first few weeks of being his slave. They would have these profound sessions in the dungeon, then she’d go to bed and cry every night, homesick for a home she’d never had. Wow, she hadn’t thought about the early days in a long time.
While the coffee dripped, she stared out the kitchen windows to the courtyard garden. A wren hopped around looking for crumbs. The bird looked lonely as well as hungry.
Bruno had called her “little bird” in the beginning. Watching the wren, she could see why he thought the name appropriate. She’d been so scared and tentative.
