by L. DuBois
She was right where he'd left her—not surprising since he'd bound her in place. She sat on the spanking bench, her arms above her head. Her breasts were lovely—large and full, with small, tight nipples. The purple panties she wore looked darker at the crotch, like she was so wet and aroused she’d soaked her underwear, but maybe that was a trick of the light.
When he entered she shifted, bending her elbows and pulling down on the bar. The spring-loaded restraint bar was something that they had only in the rooms of the Iron Court.
Unlike a fixed tie, the spring-loaded bar moved if the sub pulled down hard enough, but had a constant upward tension that would keep their hands pulled above their head unless they consciously pulled down. He wondered if Sejal knew that they were meant to be used for particularly harsh impact play, so that subs could drop to their knees, or dance away from the whip, flogger, or cane.
She seemed relaxed, and despite the bondage, noble. She sat atop the torso piece of spanking bench as if it were a throne, her feet on one of the long sidepieces meant for a sub’s knees. Her own knees were spread, not lewdly, but enough that he could clearly see the purple satin over her pussy.
He stepped into the room and shut the door. The warm, heated air washed over him, and his skin, which had been pebbled from the cool night air, relaxed.
Her dark eyes tracked him as he walked towards her, the envelope containing her checklist in his hand.
As he passed it, he grabbed a straight-backed chair, and carried it with him, setting it in front of her. Rather then sit, which would put his head slightly lower than hers, he stepped onto the seat, then carefully rested his ass on the back. Now they were at eye level. He took his time opening the flap and pulling the sheaf of papers out from within. He shuffled them, putting the top sheet bearing the picture that didn't really look like her, at the back.
He flipped a few pages until he reached the letter G. He'd reviewed the list plenty of times since he'd first gotten his assignment in the Conclave, but he made a point of looking it over again.
He hid his smile when she made a small, frustrated noise. He looked up, face stern. "Feeling impatient?"
She nodded. "I dislike waiting."
“Ah, so if I tied you up and left the room, left you wondering when I’d come back…”
She shook her head, her long hair lashing her upper arms. “No. I don’t mean that I dislike it in the way people dislike a spanking. I mean that waiting irritates me.”
He nodded in acknowledgement.
Her face took on a pinched expression. “I know this isn’t how it’s done, but I’d like to ask that you not use my dislike of waiting against me. I promise you it won’t make me feel more submissive, won’t help me accept your dominance.”
He frowned, considering her. “I get it. I’m not going to do something to you that you hate.”
She relaxed, the lines in her face smoothing away.
The need to protect her from whatever, whomever, had hurt her gripped him.
"I want to know you." He spoke softly. "Not so I can use anything I learn against you. That's not how I top. Hell, that's not how anyone should top. If you said waiting makes you frustrated and takes you out of your submission, then I'll do my best not to make you wait."
She nodded once. "Thank you."
"That being said..." He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile. "I think there's a difference between waiting and delayed gratification."
She met his smile with one of her own, but it was tempered with hunger, with need. He'd been a Dom long enough that he knew the signs—she spread her knees a fraction of an inch wider. She relaxed her arms, which meant the spring pulled her wrists up towards the ceiling, her body now stretched and vulnerable.
Cort climbed off the chair. He walked around her tapping the sheaf of papers against his leg as he did, a rhythmic staccato sound that echoed slightly. When he'd completed the circle around the spanking bench and stood in front of her once more he used the papers to tap the inside of each knee. She spread her legs open wider, the balls of her feet braced on the knee-rest that, on this particular spanking bench, ran the whole length of the device.
"We already know one of the items on the list," he began. "Given away to another Dom." He checked the paper, frowned.
"How did...how did I answer, Sir?"
"You marked ‘willing to try' which is why you’re here.”
He stepped closer, and then ran two fingers up the inside of her thigh, stopping just before he would have touched her satin covered pussy. "That means you're mine for the weekend."
"Yes, Sir."
"And while you're mine, we have a few more things to take care of." He looked at the list. "I'm glad we're talking now, because I'm afraid you're not going to be doing much of that from here on out."
She whipped her head up, gaze searching his face. He saw her swallow, but then she relaxed. "Gags?" she asked
"Gags," he agreed. "All different kinds of gags."
Gags.
Had she agreed to gags? She must have, because in that first year Hach had used a few ball gags, though he'd preferred to order her to keep silent.
"All different kinds, Sir?" she asked
"Yes. Let's see, you agreed to..." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "All of them except tape gags."
All of them? How many different kinds were there? She frowned and tried to think of a few, but her brain was stuck and all she could think of were ball gags.
"I agree with you on that," he was saying. "Tape gags are a bit too realistic. I'm not kidnapping you."
The idea of being kidnapped by Master Dowell made her blood heat. He'd proven that he was certainly strong enough to throw her over his shoulder and haul her off.
"What are the other gags, Sir?"
He leaned down and nipped her bare breast, then flicked a nipple with his tongue. "Where would the fun be if I told you?"
Sejal tipped her head back, felt the ends of her hair dance against the small of her back. She inhaled, raising her breasts, offering them to him. He accepted her invitation, flicking her other nipple with his tongue. She closed her eyes, anticipating more.
Nothing.
He'd taken a seat on the wooden chair, this time keeping his feet on the ground. He braced his elbows on his knees and glanced at the papers he held again. "Let's see, what else? Gas Masks. You indicated 'willing to try.' I will admit for me it was a not interested, but if we have time, I'm happy to give it a go."
"Gas masks?" Now that he said it, she had a vague memory of looking up gas mask porn while filling out the checklist.
"Next up is 'gates of hell' but that's for men. Doesn't apply here, though I'm going to guess that's what Khan is going to do to Hachiro."
Maybe Hach had looked at the list, seen a toy he wanted used on him, and decided to seek out another Dom, rather than ordering her to top.
She felt…she wasn’t sure how that made her feel, and she didn’t particularly want to parse out those feelings now, not while her nipples ached to feel Master Dowell’s lips and teeth again. Not while her pussy throbbed with need and she suspected there was a damp mark on the satin.
He glanced at the paper, then at her, shifted in his chair, and then cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, but didn't speak. Rather, he shook his head, then lifted the top page, glancing at what was written on the page behind it, and then lowered the top page.
He seemed...nervous.
What was on there that was making him nervous?
"Garters," he said finally. "You said you're interested in wearing garters."
There was no way 'garters' was the item that had made him nervous. "Yes, Sir. Though I'm not sure I have any with me."
"We can figure that out." The residual tension from a moment ago faded as he looked up at her and grinned. His smile made her nervous, but in a very good way. "Glider."
"Glider?" she asked.
"Mmm hmmm."
She wracked her brain but couldn't remember what that was.
"Did I say I was willing to try it?"
"Better than that, you said yes."
"I don't know what that is."
"You forgot since you filled out the checklist?"
Sejal pulled down on the cuffs, until there was enough slack for her to shrug. "I must have, though I don't normally do things on impulse."
"Well maybe you just forgot this is called a glider. Sometimes it's called a rocker. Or a self-fucker."
Sejal forgot to keep tension in her arms. The cuffs jerked up as she relaxed, her upper arms pulled alongside her ears. His grin widened.
"Know what we're talking about now?"
Oh yes, she knew all about what she called a "rocking chair."
"Yes, Sir." Her voice came out as a meek little sound.
"I know we've got to have some somewhere. I'll ask the overseers." He leaned back and adjusted his cock inside the tight leathers. Her gaze dropped to the bulge there. She wanted to see him. Wanted to know if his cock was as beautiful and perfectly made as the rest of him.
"G spot." His voice was lower than it had been a moment ago, and there was an edge to it. Again she got the impression she was seeing his savage self beneath the surface. "Have you ever had a g-spot orgasm?"
“No, Sir. I mostly need direct clitoral stimulation."
His gaze dropped to her pussy. She fought the urge to close her knees, to hide her pussy, and the damp crotch of her panties. To hide how aroused she was, how needy.
She wanted him to know how much she wanted him. Wanted him to touch her.
Very deliberately, she spread her legs wider, offering herself without words.
Master Dowell stood, his muscled chest catching the light, his cock a large, hard bulge behind the leather and lacing of his pants. He was a fantasy made flesh, an incubus come to drain the life from her body.
He came close and she arched towards him, offering herself, too aroused, too in need of his touch, to care what might become of her after a weekend submitting to Master Dowell.
6
He cupped her breasts, lifting and kneading them as he looked down at her. His thumbs rubbed her nipples, and her pussy clenched in response. Fresh moisture dampened her sex. His hand slid from her breasts down her sides until he reached the waistband of her satin panties. He traced his fingers along the fabric—over her hips and across her lower abdomen to her aching, wet pussy. He traced a line down the center of her sex, then back up. With each vertical stroke he pressed in a bit harder. Within the prison of her underwear her pussy lips were spreading open. She held perfectly still, eyes closed, focused on that single, repetitive touch. Finally, he pressed hard enough, opened her enough that the next pass had his fingers skimming over her clit.
She couldn't hold still after that. She jumped and twitched.
He paused, his finger reversing course to skim over her clit again. He explored her though the barrier of the now-wet cloth, which clung to every fold of her vulva. As he pushed on the fabric, it was pressed into the valley of her pussy, her hairless labia increasingly exposed on either side of the panties.
He curled his fingers and scraped his nail over her clit. The fabric muted the touch, but it was still hard and precise. Totally different than the broad, smooth feel of a finger or tongue, his nail on her clit made the hair on her scalp tingle and her teeth clench.
"Do you like that?" he asked lowly.
"Yes. Yes, Sir."
He repeated the caress, nail gliding over her clit again, and she arched back so hard she almost lost her balance. She would have tipped back—though her bound wrists would have prevented her from falling—but like a romance novel hero he reached out and grabbed her, saving her. He had one knee braced on the sidepiece, between her feet, and his right arm hooked around her waist.
"Let's get you someplace safer," he murmured.
He switched arms, so his left was around her waist, and then reached up with his right hand to unbuckle the cuffs. Another impressive physical feat, though this one was more about dexterity than strength.
The instant he released the second cuff, the lever snapped into position with a clang. The sound echoed menacingly. Even though she was sitting up on the spanking bench, which made her taller than she would have been standing, he towered over her.
She lowered her arms and, not quite sure what to do with them, lay her palms on his shoulders. He didn’t object. His right hand caressed her hair, from the crown of her head all the way down her back, pressing the silky locks against her skin. Her nipples pebbled, and she deliberately leaned forward, brushing them against his hard chest.
He looked down at her as his hand retraced the path it had taken, this time under her hair, against her bare skin. He took hold of the back of her neck in that casual, possessive touch that he’d used before.
Sejal lowered her gaze instinctively. Barely-leashed sexual aggression was pouring off him in delicious waves. He was so masculine, so physical, that it was easy to submit to him.
It would be hard to submit to Hach now.
Another thought that needed to be pushed away and dealt with later.
"Come on," he said. "I want my hands on that sweet pussy."
Oh yes, she wanted that too.
She waited for him to step back, to give her room to climb down, but he slid his hands under her ass and lifted her. Sejal wrapped her legs around his waist and arms around his neck. The bare skin of her chest met his equally naked flesh—he was warm and hard against her. She could feel the softness of her breasts molding against the hard planes of him, her body changing to fit his.
He carried her away from the spanking bench, setting her down on the end of the medical exam table. Sejal pressed her lips together, but didn't object. As a doctor, she didn't like medical play—she liked to compartmentalize, and getting fingered while on an exam table might make it harder for her to separate Dr. Barsar from Sejal the Submissive.
Yet she didn't object. She sat, feet dangling, and waited to see what he would do next.
Master Dowell went to a small chest and started rooting around inside. When he straightened he held a plastic-packaged toy, though she couldn't see exactly what it was. With a casual twist of his muscles he opened the package, and then removed the toy, carrying it to a Jack-and-Jill style bathroom shared by this playroom and the one next to it. She heard the water turn on, and then he was back, a clean, new ball gag dangling from his hand.
Cort ran his thumb over the gag, making sure it was clean and dry, as he walked toward his submissive.
His for now.
Sejal watched him approach, but her gaze was softer, more submissive. She still looked noble, but now looked like a...
His brain scrambled to come up with something that fit her. She was so unlike the submissive he normally scened with that he was struggling to come up with a way to describe her. Not that he was good at coming up with descriptions. Or good at anything in particular.
She raised her chin a fraction when his steps slowed and the small motion sparked an analogy.
A queen. That’s what she looked like.
A queen who had recognized she'd been vanquished. That thought led to a quick, vivid mental image of her in a medieval style dress and crown, rising from her throne only to kneel at his feet in submission, accepting that he had conquered her kingdom and would now be her king.
He probably should have watched fewer cartoons when he was young.
He bounced the red rubber ball of the gag on his palm as he stopped in front of her. She was sitting with her knees together, her feet dangling more than a foot above the floor.
"Spread your legs," he demanded, not liking that he couldn't see her pussy.
She did as he ordered, spreading her legs so wide that her knees were along the edge of the padded table. The crotch of her purple underwear was stuck into her wet pussy, the lips protruding lewdly on either side. She'd like having him scratch her clit through the fabric, so he would leave her panties on. For now.
"Open up," he demanded.<
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She opened her mouth. It was as small and delicate as the rest of her, and the ball barely fit between her teeth. He pressed it in, some perverse part of him liking the way her jaw strained open before he got the ball in place behind her teeth. Her lips flexed on the red rubber as she tried—most likely in vain—to get comfortable.
"Lift your hair.”
When she'd gathered her hair on top of her head he fastened the straps of the gag at the back of her neck. Because the ball was wedged into her mouth, he left the straps—which were rubber like the ball, and a bit stretchy—looser than he would have normally. He also started a mental clock. He couldn’t leave it in too long, or she might hurt her jaw.
Seeing her like this—legs spread, breasts bare, lips and teeth held open by the gag—was making it hard for him to think about anything but stripping her naked and burying his fingers and tongue inside her. The gag was in. Next step, bondage.
He frowned to himself. He was missing a piece. With a start he realized what it was, and hid his wince. “Non-verbal safe word.” His voice was huskier than it had been.
She made a muffled noise, stopped, and then nodded her head. Her breasts bounced as she inhaled and then let out a sigh, air whooshing through her nose. He stared at those lovely, full breasts.
Non-verbal safe word. Right.
Trying not to look like he’d forgotten to grab something out of the stock box—though that was exactly what had happened—he turned and walked away from her. Damn it, he needed to think ahead, to plan this better so he wouldn’t have to run to get something at a critical moment. He’d never been great with details—not just in BDSM, but in life. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t always know, remember, or figure out what elements he needed for that outcome.
