by Grant, Livia
The woman made a flustered face, and he let her sit in it for a moment, just to enjoy her emotional squirming. He stretched the bondage tape, spiraling it around her doubled leg. The stuff had a texture like window cling film, and only stuck to itself. It was a clean, efficient alternative to ropes, which, whether natural or synthetic, had way too many tiny crevices and porous surfaces for Anson’s comfort. Bacteria were everywhere, and no joke. Plus, the tape was disposable.
“I work for the IRS,” he told her at last, when he tore off the tape and pressed down the end to seal off the first leg.
A laugh sputtered out of his sub, and Anson raised a brow as he took the tape roll and moved around the table to her other side. He took off the next shoe. “Is something funny, Miss Pain?”
She made a gesture to include him and the table. “Breath,” she said, giggling. “Breath and Taxes.”
And his jokes were bad. Anson shook his head and gathered up her second ankle. “I don’t know if I should punish you for that, or not.” He tried to play the stern Dom but couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. “Would you like to share your line of work? Aside from smiling at strange men in elevators?” Glossy white tape began binding her other leg.
“I’m a document courier,” she said. “Mostly stuff around The Hill. Some real estate things, here and there. And I volunteer at a women’s shelter. Not that that part’s ‘a living,’ but…”
Anson snorted as he wrapped tape. “Would you believe I guessed that?” he said. “In the elevator? The document courier part at least. My other guess was that you had an art degree.”
She lifted her head off the table to look at him with suspicious eyes. “That is an oddly-specific guess,” she said, “and I do also have an art degree.” His sub cocked her head with a frown that looked like it wanted to add an Are you fucking with me?
He shook his head and sealed off the second leg. Now both sides shone with tape, from knee to ankle, the limbs doubled as though she were kneeling. “It’s a thing I do,” he said, setting the roll aside. “Years of classifying people. I can’t say it makes me popular. Can you sit up, Miss Pain?”
The woman shoved her torso upright with her arms, her bound legs butterflying out at the hip when she leaned on her palms. Anson pulled out his second pair of gloves for the night and began to wiggle his fingers into the first one.
“It’s not part of the kink is it?” she asked, and then added, “Sir.”
“What’s that?”
“The gloves.”
Ah. Yes. Now that they weren’t in the latex scene, there was no passing it off as fetish. Well, he wasn’t going to start lying, now. “People wear condoms,” Anson said, tugging on the next glove, “but we run around touching far dirtier surfaces all the time with our bare hands.” To his ears, the logic sounded obvious, but he knew plenty of people found his standards neurotic. “Do the gloves bother you?”
“I was just curious, Sir.” Her eyes were on his every move. “It’s… actually kinda hot.”
Some combination of relief and heat flooded his veins. She wasn’t just tolerating his quirks.
Anson moved alongside her and found the release tab that let him angle up the table’s backrest as high as it would go. In a concert of limbs, he brought himself to sit behind his sub on the padded surface. His knees splayed wide, feet dangling as though he rode a horse, and he lifted her braid over her shoulder so he wouldn’t trap and yank it when he pulled her by the hips to wedge between his thighs.
“The collar please, Miss Pain,” he said. “And the ball.”
Her spine curved as she leaned forward to retrieve the gear, and Anson took the posture collar once she sat up straight.
“Chin up.”
She obeyed, and he pulled the leather circle open to fit around her neck from behind, again moving her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the buckles. He fastened both of the leather-and-metal closures, and the need for further commands to keep her chin up disappeared. She would not be able to duck her head, and that would form the cornerstone of his methods for the scene. Much easier than a rebreather hood for an immediate halt, if she safe worded.
Plus, he could watch her lovely face.
And so could everyone else, apparently. Several clubgoers had collected at a respectable distance to sip drinks and watch. One Domme had her sub kneeling at her feet, a bit gag in his mouth while she stood behind him with a hand on his bare shoulder. Anson was beyond caring what any of them saw.
He let his spine go against the backrest. “If you’ll lean on me, Miss Pain.”
His sub put her shoulders on his chest, her head falling to the right side of his chin. The buckles of the collar dented in just above Anson’s ribs. He circled his right arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“Knees apart, please.”
She obeyed without question, and he knew a zing of thrill when her legs folded out to display her pussy. The view from over her shoulders was a tableau of pert breasts, the firm rise of her mound below the dip of her navel, the enticing half-girdle of bonsai branches, and a tuft of fox tail peeking from between her bound legs.
That last part added its own special contribution to the surge in blood flow below his belt. She was already plugged. Her body would be fighting sensation the second they started.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Pain?”
“Yes, Sir.” She tried to roll her eyes up to see his face, and her words came compressed because of the collar’s chin support. He indulged himself in smoothing his palm up her ribs to cup her breast.
“Then I would like you to put a hand between your legs and touch yourself,” he said. “And I am going to decide when you’re allowed to breathe.” Her ribs expanded at this, and his cock twitched in response. “I would like you to remember not to come, please. Not without permission. You’ll drop your ball if you’re at ‘yellow’ or ‘red.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes?” Her voice was a squeak. “Sir?”
“Very good,” he said. “Begin.”
Whatever fears she had, his sub did not balk. Her left hand had a grip on the red ball, but her right rose to smooth, palm down, over her belly. Fingers split off to trace the shape of her labia. To make a first, feather-light pass at exploring each little hill and valley. The dip of her entrance, the rise of her clit. It was enough to get her started.
“Deep breath,” he said.
Miss Pain inhaled. Anson brought a hand up over her mouth.
The heel of his palm pressed into the rim of the collar’s chin support while his thumb and forefinger closed together over the tip of her nose. Between his grip and the stiff leather restraint, her mouth would only open again at his mercy.
A ten count was all he gave her that first time. When Anson fanned his fingers away from her face, the woman puffed out air in a rush before sucking down a new lungful. “Oh, Sir.”
Oh yes. That was the sound of sudden comprehension. Miss Pain had discovered what she was up against in this scene, and he let her breath even out while she drew slow circles over the sensitive nub between her bound legs.
“Again,” he said. “Deep breath.”
She filled her lungs. He clamped her airways shut.
This time a count of fifteen, but she toyed with her pussy like he’d asked, the whole time. Near the end, her abs began to bunch, her body readying a response to buck and expel the air. He let her, and the breath shuddered out. Her taped legs fell wide atop the table.
Anson drew them into a cycle.
His warnings of ‘deep breath’ became simplified to a mere ‘now.’ She would fill her lungs with air. He would cover her mouth and nose. Her fingers would play in the valley between her thighs until those small grunts of protest strained at the back of her throat. Then her head would thrash back and forth—as much as it could in the collar—fighting the sensation, even as her left hand clutched tight to the ball.
And then he would let her go.
Her gasps each time had a musical ra
sping quality, like some hard object being drawn in a swift line over a taut stretch of canvas. The sound of them, every time, the pure, instinctual desperation of a body to keep a grip on that tether to survival, made his erection thump at the small of her back. The way she jerked in his grip, begging with her whole body for him to stop, all while holding back her safe word meant that somewhere within her struggles was a core of trust.
She trusted him. And the obscene swell of power this allowed Anson to feel was both addictive and terrifying. He wanted to fall on his knees and press his face to her hands and thank her for it. But he could do all that later.
Right now, he was making an entire mess of his sub.
Miss Pain sucked down air once again, this time like each before it requiring more wide-eyed gasps than the last, and her fingers slowed to haphazard swipes while she tried to gain function elsewhere. She’d be getting lightheaded. Heart rate erratic. He knew exactly where he was taking her and failed to regret it one bit.
“Do better than that,” he said over her shoulder. “You know how to touch yourself. Do it.”
His voice had gone gruff, and she let out a whine. Pulled her bound knees back to spread herself further. The movements of her hand tightened up to something that looked practiced, coordinated. She panted while he let her build up steam.
“Sir.” The word came out of her a moan, and the woman bit her lip.
“Now.”
She inhaled, quick, as he yanked her back into the cycle with a start. His hand clamped her mouth and nose, but Anson knew where she was, now. Too close. That’s where she was.
Her fingers worked, tight specific patterns over her clit. Her eyes squeezed closed. Head began to toss. Hips to buck.
Anson held her, his cock hard as stone against her frantic efforts.
When the sounds in her throat merged into a single, constricted scream, he let her go.
She gasped, a loud, upsetting caw and, as the new surge of oxygen hit her system… she came.
The heaving sub between his knees let out raw, feral sounds as her abs crunched and her fingers strummed pink flesh, shameless in front of the watching crowd. Someone off to Anson’s left let loose a knowing chuckle, but he let her ride it out. Let her breathe and quiver and melt back against him.
They’d both gotten what they’d wanted, in a way.
Anson moved a gloved palm down over her chest, past her navel to slip under her own slackening hand. He smeared a wet circle over her pussy with the flat of his fingers and earned himself a hum of satisfaction.
“Ohh, Miss Pain.” He brought the fingers up and pushed two of them into her mouth. Her tongue lapped at him, gloves and all, and her eyes rolled back. “I asked you so politely not to come.”
Pale eyes snapped open.
“Didn’t I.”
He savored the long seconds in which all she could do was catch her breath and stare at him, upside down. Her brows tilted up in the center, a little prayer against the implications of what she’d done.
“Y-yes? Sir?”
“Yes Sir, what?”
She swallowed. “You told me… not to come, Sir.”
Anson was enjoying her nerves too much. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Now put your hands behind your back.”
His sub chewed her lip but did it.
“I’d like to say I won’t enjoy punishing you”—his hand splayed back over her belly and lower, to cover her mound—“but we both know that’s not true.”
She cried out when his palm made its first, crisp contact with her pussy.
“Sir!”
A second spank, and then a third landed, and they’d be all needly sting, unlike the duller hits of the flogger.
“Yyynnh!”
“Hold still,” he said, firming his left arm up around her wiggling middle. “You will be still and accept what you’ve earned.”
Miss Pain grimaced but kept her knees wide, and Anson brought smack after smack down upon her swollen, sensitive flesh. Between them, he could feel one of her hands clutch at the front of his shirt, but he didn’t count his strokes. The threshold meter for Anson as a Dom was not some predefined number. The punishment could end when her face and body showed him actual regret.
It turned out to be quite a volley of impacts before she got there.
Somewhere in the relentless rhythm, her left knee whipped to center. She was all instinct now, broken outside of all reason other than pain avoidance.
“Sir. Sir! Please!” Her face was red above the white leather of the collar, and she sniffled between ragged pleas.
Anson turned his palm to her thigh and pushed it wide again, black nitrile sinister over white glossy tape. His fingers returned to cup and smear between her legs, where she had to be on fire.
“You think I should stop, Miss Pain?”
“No! Sir! Please, I need…” She’d slid down during her exertions and was now looking at the ceiling more than in his same direction. Her eyes shone wet and unfocused, however, pupils wide under the club’s neon.
But she hasn’t safe worded.
He jolted her with another smack. “What, Miss Pain. What do you need.”
Muscles in her body jerked, and his sub found his eyes. “I need your cock, Sir.” Her ribs heaved. “I can’t take it.”
Anson blinked at her, and his spine straightened.
This is no time to lose control.
“Only good girls get cock,” he said to the woman between his knees. The woman who hadn’t pulled her arms from behind her back.
“Sir!” The word was pure, tear-stained dismay. She rolled her hips under the cup of his palm, straining, and he took his touch away.
Anson wasn’t about to lie and say her distress didn’t have him about to burst through his slacks. But was it him she wanted, or just a relief from punishment?
“Explain to me why you deserve it,” he said, “after you came without permission.”
You’re going to be a sucker, aren’t you?
“I don’t deserve it, Sir.” The words flooded out of her at the slim opening he allowed. “But I only want to be a good girl for you, and I’m sorry I came. It came out of nowhere!”
Probably. Probably going to be a sucker. He let his hand drift back, and began to massage in wide, slow circles. “Hmm, and you’d probably come again ‘out of nowhere,’ if I kept doing this,” he said. “Wouldn’t you, Miss Pain.”
Her face made some small movements, as though she tried to nod, but the collar was there. The line of her mouth curved into a miserable frown, even as she spread her knees wider for his touch.
“Why did you come?”
Her voice was quieter, now, and Anson made an effort to hear her over the music. “I never had anyone control my breath before, Sir,” she said. “It was too much.”
A skeptical brow rose on his face. His hand stilled. “You came from me holding your breath for you?”
“And… and from imagining you, Sir.”
His erection was raging. The rest of him didn’t want to move. “Imagining me?”
“Inside me.” She let her eyes come open to find his again. “Fucking me.” That second one hit him like a punch in the gut, but she continued, “And your cock was against my back and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Her tongue dipped out to wet her lips. “I need it.”
The naked honesty had his internal landscape shifting.
“Go on.”
Miss Pain hesitated, and her shoulders shifted between his arms. “I… I think you need it, too. Sir.” She made a face as if to flinch, but when he didn’t contradict, she said, “I think I was the one restrained, but I think you might be more restrained all the time.” Those wide eyes cradled his, upside down, and her last words were her quietest, yet. “I think you need to fuck something until it screams.”
And he’d been observing her.
“Is that what you think?” Anson tried to play it cool, even dangerous, but the woman had his number.
“I’ll scream for you, Sir.�
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It wasn’t even a challenge, the way she said it. The way she waited, half-bound and half holding herself where he’d asked. It was the most patient of offers. Compassion, where others had shown exasperation. It was no one act or organ his sub wanted to fill herself with.
It was him.
“Yes, you will,” he said.
His sub shuddered a groan, but Anson was already extracting himself from behind her. Helping her to lie back while the table’s legs creaked under the shift in weight. The woman looked like a sacrifice and, when he came to stand at the end of the table, her bound legs fell open to him.
She gasped when he jerked her close by the thighs, and the fox tail dangled toward the floor from between the curve of her buttocks. The condom that had been in his pocket was in his hands.
Zipper down, cock out, latex snapping.
When he slid the length along her pussy, Miss Pain whined and splayed a palm low over her belly. Her other hand still held the red ball.
Anson leaned on a locked arm over his collared sub and fit himself at her entrance. At the place where he’d made her cry out in pain and release, and yet from which he’d somehow succeeded in keeping himself separate.
He needed to be part of it. That was the point. It was the separation that was breaking him down. Year over year. Moment after moment.
“Miss Pain,” he said. “This is a breath play scene. Take a deep one.”
Her eyes shimmered in that beautiful panic, ribs expanded. Anson cut off her air and impaled her on cock.
His fingers covered her mouth, pinched her nose as before, but now he could stare directly into the surging tide of surrender on her face. Now he was inside her, the grip hot like her mouth, but closer. Her face pinkened to red as he began to fuck.
Anson moved his hand and she gasped. Kept gasping while his hips kept moving between her glossy, bound thighs. The length of her braid trailed off the edge of the massage table and, through the thin places past which he worked his prick, he could feel the hard bulb of the plug in her ass, jostling with the motion.
She made so many sounds as he overloaded her senses, and there were some raised words of encouragement from onlookers, but Anson could hardly hear them, now. Miss Pain was a beautiful, inexplicable mess spread out underneath him; he who preferred everything so tidy and accounted for.
