RASHID: HER RUTHLESS BOSS: 50 Loving States, Hawaii

by Taylor, Theodora

  But he captures my wrist when I reach down and try to pull him out.

  “Remember the consent agreement. Never touch me without permission.” He pushes my hand away like I’m a very bad pet who’s misbehaved.

  No dignity, I immediately ask, “Can I touch y—”

  “No,” he just as immediately answers. “You don’t have consent.”

  I’m not sure what to do here. My pussy is pulsing, begging to be filled.

  As if sensing my dilemma, he reaches down and parts my folds with those long elegant fingers. “Is she still hungry?”

  I nod helplessly, pushing into his exploratory hand. My clit is engorged again. And, I’ve never thought of myself as a multi-orgasmic person, but I want this again. I want him to keep touching me. Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream. More, I need more….

  “Good.”

  He withdraws his fingers and holds them up to my mouth. “Suck.”

  Throbbing down below, I once again suck at my own essence, hoping this will be enough.

  But in the end, it isn’t. He withdraws his fingers. Kisses me again, but this time, only for a little bit. After too few seconds, he rips his lips away from me, with a “No, Mika.” Like I’m some kind of trap.

  “Go make us something for dinner,” he tells me. “It is going to be a long night.”

  24

  MIKA

  Ugh! And to think I used to take a perverse joy out of cooking delicious meals for Rashid that I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  But now I burn resentful as I stand at the stove, dressed in nothing but an apron. (He said that was all I’m allowed). Squirming and trying not to touch myself. (He also warned me, “I will have to start my punishment all over again if you provide yourself relief.”)

  And just in case I think I can do it on the sly, he comes out to the kitchen with me. Watching from his wheelchair as I throw together some shredded chicken to smother in barbecue sauce and eat on rolls.

  Somehow I make it through dinner, and then a possibly good movie that I only half watch. Every time I calm down enough to get even a little bit into the plot, Rashid reaches over and starts lightly playing with my breasts or some other part of me.

  At one point he leaves me alone for nearly half an hour. But just when I go cold, he pushes me back on to the couch and flips himself on to his stomach. The sight of his face above my crotch, his tongue flattening against my clit, as he pulls me hard into his mouth is enough to instantly heat me right back up. Soon I’m squirming and whimpering, right back where I started before dinner, but even worse.

  Yet, it all comes to an end when I reach up to bury my fingers in his hair.

  “What did I tell you about touching me?” he intones, his voice low and husky. “This won’t progress the way you wish it to if you do not learn to play by my rules.”

  “What if I wanted to add touching you to my list of fantasies?”

  “You could add it, but my answer would be no,” he answers with a smile. A totally evil mocking smile. “To be clear, my little rulebreaker, you will not get consent.”

  My little rulebreaker. That’s what he calls me for the rest of the night. When he’s pushing me away, when he’s pulling me to him and especially when he’s somehow burning my body up with just a look, even though he’s not touching me at all.

  When he tells me it’s time for bed, I don’t know whether to leap under the covers with him or run screaming back to my own room upstairs.

  I immediately regret not choosing the latter.

  Rashid doesn’t just pull my naked body into his still fully clothed one, this evil son of a bitch has the nerve to place the back of my pussy right against his erection. So close, but so far away. My vagina throbs.

  “That hard-on of yours feels like it’s painful,” I grumble. “You should totally put us both out of our misery.”

  “Not yet, my little rulebreaker. Not yet…,” he answers.

  His hands graze over my hot skin. One thumb finds my nipples and lightly circles, while the other one finds the top of my pulsing clit and does the same. At the same time he oh-so-softly licks at the side of my neck.

  Have you ever had anyone rub light circles or only softly lick at your most erogenous zones? Suddenly, I understand the term death by a thousand pinpricks. It’s both wretchedly stimulating and hopelessly not enough.

  “Please,” I cry out plaintively. “Please let me come.”

  “You’re already begging,” he observes behind me. “Good.”

  With that he suddenly withdraws, moving to the other side of the bed. “Don’t touch yourself tonight, and I’ll have a gift for you in the morning.”

  “Is the gift an end to this torture? Because that’s all I want right now.”

  “No,” he answers, his voice simple and direct.

  I lie there in the dark. Naked and throbbing. Too scared to put even a sheet on top of me, because even that could make me come.

  But somehow I do it. I calm myself down enough to fall asleep.

  And then I wake up the next morning to find him tying me up.

  What the…

  I try to reach down to stop him, but my right arm moves just a little bit before what feels like silken rope bites into my wrist, refusing to let me go any further. I try the other one. Same thing.

  Rashid watches my struggle with dark, keen eyes. “Congratulations, you’ve made it to phase two.”

  “How many phases are there?” I demand. One of my ankles is already tied up and I watch helplessly as he does the same to the other one.

  “Just three,” he answers. “Phase one was learning how to not let yourself come, even when you could touch yourself.”

  “And what’s phase two?” I ask.

  His eyes gleam wickedly. “Simply not coming.”

  Simply, he says.

  But it turns out not to be simple at all.

  Did I call Rashid evil before? Make that evil on top of sadistic.

  He starts out with his hand, fingering me too lightly again until I find myself right back at begging him to let me come.

  He doesn’t let me do that but he does untie me. “We’ll take a break now to empty your bladder.”

  He’s right, I discover as soon as I stand up. My bladder is full, but I can barely pee when I get to his toilet, I’m so turned on.

  I wipe myself and even that sends shivers through me. My clit’s begging for relief. Any sort of relief. I think about it. God, do I think about it. A lot of me wants to come, but even more of me can’t bring myself to miss out on whatever comes next. In the end, I return to the room, even though it feels like my entire body is one long pussy throb.

  Rashid reads the misery on my face correctly. “You did not touch yourself. Good.”

  Yet, what do I get as a reward? An even nastier rope tie-up.

  Showing off his formidable arm and core strength, Rashid ties my forearms to my calves and wraps the rope around my shoulders and breasts. In the end I’m not just spread eagle, I’m lying on my back with my legs bent in wide open invitation and my breasts bulging through the rope.

  With the state of my dripping pussy, I can only imagine what I look like. And for some reason, that shame only makes the wanting worse.

  “Please fuck me,” I gasp, even before he reaches out both hands to thumb my nipples. I think he knows even breast play would be enough to make me come at this point. He does that light grazing thing again, just enough to make my pussy clench with aching need but not go over the edge.

  “If I fuck you right now, you would come,” he points out.

  Yes, yes, I would. That’s the point, you sadistic asshole! But somehow I manage to keep a pleasant tone as I say, “Please…please let me come.”

  “Not yet,” he answers, right before he does the most ruthless thing yet. Blankets me with his body, using his body weight to pin me down.

  So he’s right there, but I can’t move. I know, because when I try, he adjusts his upper torso so that part of me is pinned, too.
And who knew just having a guy lay on top of you without moving could be so erotic.

  No fancy moves, but soon I’m not asking, I’m begging. Begging him desperately to let me come.

  “Not yet,” he says, his voice firm but gentle.

  Then he holds me when I break down crying.

  “I know this is hard, but you’re doing so well,” he croons in my ear. He tells me how beautiful I look tied up, even better than he envisioned. He tells me how he has thought of little else since the day we met. This moment, he tells me, eclipses all others, including the first successful test-run of Future Legs.

  He invites me to use my safe word. “It is there if you need it.”

  “What happens if I say it?” I ask. My pussy aches so bad it feels like the heaviest thing on my body.

  “Then I allow you to make yourself come and we try again tomorrow.”

  “You wouldn’t just fuck me?” I can tell he’s suffering, too. His erection feels like a stone against my thigh.

  “No, little rulebreaker, I will never just fuck you. When we make it to phase three. I’ll claim you. As mine.”

  Mine.

  I had never been anyone’s mine. Even when I thought I was.

  An image of Alberto in the crate flashes across my mind. Seeing that split-second decision to end his wife’s life in his eyes. Realizing in an instant that everything I’d believed about us was a lie. He’d kill me. He’d kill me without a second thought for his job.

  “Do you want me to stop. Let you go? If so, you’ll need to say the safe word,” he whispers in my ear.

  “No,” I answer and decide at the same time.

  “Is this always how it goes?” I ask inside his arms.

  “No, usually, the tying up is enough with other women.”

  “Then why not with me?” I ask. “Why are you doing this to me? I feel so desperate right now, so broken, but I can’t bring myself to say the safe word. So please, please tell me why.”

  Instead of answering, he suddenly lifts himself up. I hated the weight, yet I miss it as soon as it’s gone.

  However, what comes next more than makes up for his latest torture tactic. His hand moves between our bodies, then he drops back over me. Bracing on his arms, he rocks his entire body forward and…Oh God, he’s inside of me. Filling me up.

  “Please, don’t do this,” I find myself begging. “I can’t not come.”

  “It’s okay.” I feel his hand in my sweat-dampened hair, stroking it back. “Come, sayonee. Come right now. Do that for me.”

  I start coming before the words are even out of his mouth. And I keep on coming as he moves on top of me. There’s no hip action, just his strong body rocking back and forth, powered only by his arms.

  I’ve never in my whole life been fucked like this. It wouldn’t have even occurred to me until this very moment. But it feels more amazing than anything I’ve ever known.

  The ropes tug erotically and my exposed breasts and pussy thrill as he rocks back and forth. His skin rubs—not grazes too lightly, but rubs at the nubs of my breast and my needy clit on every stroke…every single stroke.

  I come once. Then I come a second time, like back-to-back ocean breaks. Suddenly I’m crying again. Not with shame and confusion, but with gratitude and elation as he takes me surfing beyond the stars.

  I understand now. The difference between fucking and claiming. In those moments, tied up in his ropes and helpless, as the orgasm consumes me, I’m his. I’m totally his.

  Somewhere in the distance, I hear someone speaking a foreign language that only slightly sounds like Arabic. It’s Rashid. He rocks forward one last time, his face tightening with ecstasy. And then I feel his release rush into me. We stare at each other, breathing together. Ragged and smiling stupid.

  Then he’s suddenly back on the move.

  I don’t expect him to untie me, but he does. Flipping onto his back and undoing all the ropes with frenzied motions, like getting me out of his binds is even more important than getting me into them in the first place.

  Maybe my body experiences some relief after so long tied up. I wouldn’t know. I’m still trembling from that epic orgasm, and everything feels like jelly when he pulls me into his arms.

  “You did well, sayonee,” he whispers and kisses the top of my head, before placing it on his chest. “So well.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur. And I wonder what sayonee means as I drift off to sleep.

  25

  MIKA

  I wake up to the sight of a yellow post-it note stuck on the front of the nightstand’s clock.

  “Take a shower, and join me in the kitchen for lunch. No clothes.”

  I’m more than happy to follow the first part of his command. That jelly feeling is gone, and now everything aches. So the warm water in his retrofitted shower feels great on my overworked muscles, a few of which I wasn’t even aware I had until they got commandeered into rope play.

  Memories of the morning rush over me as I rub myself down with a body wash brand I’ve never seen in stores, but remember from cleaning Rashid’s bathroom last summer.

  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such emotional whiplash. The wanting, the hating…him and myself. All the crying, and then the calm after the claiming. He’d rushed to get me out of those ropes, but the truth is I’ve never felt so safe.

  In the shower, I wait for the weirdness to hit me. Shame, humiliation, all the WTF that should come with getting tied up by your boss and so thoroughly taken. But strangely, I only feel satisfied. Like the best meal ever just leveled up. And I ate every single bite.

  My nipples pebble under my palms as I handwash myself, and my pussy clenches when I rub in the soap that smells like him over it. Wanting more. Wanting him.

  Which worries me.

  Like I told him, this can only be temporary. But just a few hours after the most mind-melting sex I’ve ever had, I already want more.

  That can’t be good.

  RASHID

  Mika looks surprised when she walks out to the kitchen to find me at the table, cutting a few rounds of pita bread into triangles to add to the rest of the platter I made.

  “What?” I ask when she sits down across from me. “Did you think me incapable of making us lunch?”

  “Yes,” she answers, her voice one part amused and many parts frank. “I asked Zahir where the palace kitchen was when we were in Jahwar, and he had no idea.”

  I laugh, sure that’s not a story she’s making up. Zahir is better than most of the UAK royals, but I don’t think it would ever occur to him to do anything as pedestrian as making his own lunch.

  “I had a job and a life in the U.S. before moving back to Jahwar,” I let Mika know. “Before my marriage, I often made lunches like this for myself. It is quite simple actually. Just pita and a few staples that feel like home. I found the suggestions on the internet.”

  She laughs, and I have to concentrate on cutting the last of the pita, so as not to rise again in my pants. Strange how everything she does turns me back into a beast. From her fiercest defiance to her lightest chuckles.

  “What made you stop cooking for yourself?” she asks.

  I try to never talk about Mahirah. If you can’t say anything nice of the dead, why say anything at all? But because Mika is the one asking, I confess, “After my marriage, I had to make some drastic lifestyle changes and eventually give up my career. But before that, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment. No attendants, no bodyguards. The only luxuries I indulged in was treating everyone on my Future Bionics staff to the first round when I took my team out for beers.”

  She hmms and looks at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time. “So you were a totally different person before you got married and moved back to Jahwar?”

  “Yes, and I’m yet another different man, now that I’m widowed and have lost a child.”

  Not totally different, a voice points out inside my head. You liked her in Jahwar, and you’re obsessed with her now.

  �
�I feel like a totally different person too,” Mika tells me. “After growing up in Hawaii with so many other military families, I used to take for granted my life would be like that too. I’d meet somebody and get married, and as long as he didn’t get killed on deployment, everything would work out. Just like it did for my parents…”

  “But it didn’t,” I say when she trails off.

  “No…it didn’t. He died.”

  I search her face for any sadness. But just like when I search my soul to feel anything about Mahirah’s passing, I find none.

  Good.

  It’s a callous thing to think, I’m aware. But unlike her, I know what we have won’t be temporary. Unlike her, I know she’s mine.

  “Do you make Indian food too?” she asks, obviously looking to change the subject from her dead husband.

  I inwardly frown…it feels as if Mika is keeping secrets from me and I don’t like it. But in the interest of this baseline setting period for our relationship, I decide to let her get away with it and make a mental note to come back to the subject of her dead husband when our six weeks are up.

  “I tried,” I answer. “But I wasn’t any good at it. The internet, I found, wasn’t as good a place for those types of recipes.”

  “Some kinds of cooking you have to learn standing next to a stove with somebody who knows how,” she says with a wry nod. “If you want I can teach you how to make adobo and some other Filipino dishes. Make you feel like that twenty-something you used to be.”

  I regard her fondly. Little does she know, she’s already done that. Even though I’m over a decade older now and broken, she makes me feel young again, the opposite of weary.

  “Yes, I would like that very much,” I say anyway.

  And this time when she smiles, I can no longer resist her.

  “Come here,” I tell her, my voice becoming low and rough.

  She looks to both sides. “But we’re not in the bedroom.”

  “Come here anyway,” I insist.

  She starts to get up to do what I say but then sits back down with a mischievous smile. “And what happens if I say no?”