by Joey W. Hill
Her pupils expanded and darkened, which was as much of a cue as he needed. While he wasn’t sure about role playing a vampire, he approved of the fang idea as a different form of cutting toy, something that would allow him to put his mouth on her while he tested her limits. The manufacturer was a reputable BDSM paraphernalia company he knew, so he expected they’d had the same idea for the fangs. He slipped them into his mouth.
The bridge was flexible and could be adjusted. He found it had a reasonable fit with his mouth, though he also expected they could be custom ordered for a perfect hold. He drew her to him as he put some of the black cherry blood on his finger. Then he slid it down her throat, leaving an intriguingly realistic smear.
Feeling the pulse of the artery under his fingertip, seeing her go still, her gaze flicking up to him with a mix of erotic intrigue and deeper need, flipped a switch. No matter their surroundings, the Master side kicked in, the possessor. His focus narrowed to her, the store and everyone in it moving behind a gray curtain. Her mesmerized reaction to the props only helped with the fantasy.
He imagined what it was that intrigued her about vampire lore and used that to get him even deeper into it.
A powerful being, about to take control of his prey, his toy. Her breath had become shallower, he noted. She lifted her hand to touch the tip of one fang. It protruded only slightly over his bottom lip, so they could be easily hidden for maximum effect. He coiled his hand in her hair, tilting her head back as he closed in to put his mouth on the bloodlike streak, tasting it and her.
He’d make his own crimson concoction to replace this one. Maybe a cherry liqueur, like he’d described to Cass. But for here and now, this worked fine. Her nipples had gone taut, because he could feel them through her thin bra and his shirt. She really did get off on this, because he could almost smell her arousal coming off her skin.
Since it was a new tool for him, he went easy with the fangs, learning them. He tightened his grip on her hair, not wanting her to jerk suddenly and him do her more damage than intended. He slid the point down her throat as he licked off the black cherry, and a damn near moan came from her throat. She was pressed even more urgently against him, as if fighting not to rub her mound against his thigh. Fuck. He wanted to bite her, wanted to sink his fangs in…
He shifted his position and granted part of his wish, digging the fangs into the tender juncture between neck and shoulder, right where that earlier bite was. Her fingers clutched him as if she was falling off a cliff, and he wasn’t sure if they both weren’t doing that very thing. Happily. Well, if he was a vampire, he could fly, right? Or break her fall, at least.
Her hand had slipped to his nape, was teasing the dark hair there as she breathed fast and quick.
“Don’t vampires have slaves or servants? Something like that?” He lifted his head to meet her glazed eyes.
“I think so. Yes. Maybe. Definitely.” She caressed the tip of one fang again and smiled, a sheepish and charming look on her pretty face. “Wow. That was… I guess I didn’t realize quite how well that would work with you, that look you get, so intense. Maybe you were a vampire in a former life.”
“Aren’t vampires immortal?”
“Well, maybe you annoyed someone, and they staked you. Lucas is always threatening to kill you. Maybe he was your Van Helsing.”
He removed the fangs, using a helpful hand sanitizer positioned on the wall to clean them before he slipped them and the black cherry oil back into the package. There was a lubricant for the stake dildo, he noted.
Removing that piece, he turned it over in his hand, aware of her attention on it. “So for this, I guess it’s Buffy the vampire slayer coming at me with the stake.”
He knew her fondness for the Joss Whedon series, so, as he spoke, he angled the pointed part to his chest, proffering her the other end. Her color still high, Marcie closed her fingers over the cock-shaped handle and increased the pressure against his flesh. The stake was smooth wood, and sharp enough to drive into a vampire’s chest…or do edge play with a sub.
“But she can’t bring herself to do it,” he murmured.
“Want to bet?” A smile crossed her lips, her eyes sparkling. She increased the pressure on the point, lifting on her toes to bring her mouth closer. “She tries to do it, but he overpowers her, takes the stake from her.”
She tilted her head, her hair brushing his knuckles. Crazily enough, he’d already been in the process of doing as she’d described, somewhat. He’d shifted his grip to her wrist to twist it gently but firmly, enough to dislodge her hold on the stake. He gripped the base of the phallus handle, the heel of his hand still on the stake end. Her hand had dropped to his side, just above his hip.
“He turns it on her,” she continued, her lips moist as she touched them to his jaw. “Makes her worry about which end he’ll use, as he drags the sharp point down between her breasts, over her navel, to between her legs…”
He held her gaze. He had turned the stake around with a dexterous twist of his fingers, and the point was teasing her cleavage, just below the pendant. Her eyes were dark and deep, her lips parted.
Reality penetrated, though he wasn’t sure how. Maybe someone had sneezed, blown an air horn, something. He suddenly recalled they were in a lingerie store and eased back, though he eyed her as he returned the stake to the package.
“You’re getting me in a great deal of trouble, the things you’re tempting me to do to you in front of your sister and everyone in this store. I’m going to go give this to Wallenda. Try to behave. Like you ever do.”
She dimpled unrepentantly, but beneath that, he saw something far needier. Marcie was an honest flirt. When she teased or taunted, it was because she wanted him. The sooner, the better.
Why had they even left the house today?
Ben thought about that BDSM resort Matt and Savannah had gone to some time back, where the guests could act as Dom and sub full time, no matter if they were in one of the five-star restaurants, out on the beach, or in the privacy of their open-aired bungalows. He might book them a trip there, sooner rather than later. Otherwise, he might be arrested for the things she openly tempted and challenged him to do to her, regardless of their audience.
Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be a bad honeymoon. Maybe a few days there, then a trip to Italy for a week…
As Ben dropped the vampire kit on the counter, Wallenda shot him an amused look. “Thought I was going to have to take the fire hydrant to the two of you,” she said.
“We’ve considered carrying a portable one with us for just that reason,” Savannah said, coming to his side to place an assortment of lacy sachets next to the vampire toys. “I love the scent on these, Wallenda. No one else sells it.”
“Because they are prepared by a voodoo priestess who will tell no one her secret ingredients,” Wallenda responded. “And you can cast no stones, sister. There’s been a time or two you’ve been in here with that man of yours when I thought the walls would start to smoke.”
“I told you about bringing Rick Lewis here,” Ben said to Savannah. “Matt’s going to find out. Wallenda will tell.”
Savannah made a face at him. Wallenda waved a snapping hand in Ben’s direction, the black nails flicking like switchblades. “You ignore him, cher. These Kensington men, they are untamed beasts, the best kind, no? You have any new pictures of that angel baby to show me?”
As Wallenda and Savannah started talking about Angelica, Ben reached over to the desk area behind Wallenda’s counter and snagged a pen and small pad. He scribbled a note on it, and moved to the end of the counter where there was an opening for Wallenda to pass through. With his back to them as he fished out his wallet, his body screened his motion from Savannah’s side. He dropped the notepad and the hundred-dollar bill on the corner of Wallenda’s desk. He paused only long enough to know the woman had seen it, because she gave him a subtle nod and knowing twitch of her lush lips.
Good. Now he wandered away with a definite purpose. Marci
e had moved into a different section of the store, and his steps toward her slowed when he realized what she was looking at. Wedding lingerie, lots of white lace, heavy silks.
Admonishing himself not to be a chickenshit, he made his feet move and came up behind her, sliding his hands up and down her arms. "I like that one," he said, about the one she was touching.
It was almost all lace, except for some sunbeam-shaped partitions of satin between the lace of the floor-length skirt. For a minute, he imagined Marcie in the decadent thing, in a honeymoon suite hotel room. One that overlooked a Venice waterway. When he swept her off her feet, the lace would spill over his arms, the swatch of silk at the bodice giving him tantalizing glimpses of curves as she reached up and touched his face, her brown eyes incandescent…
“I might come back and get it,” she said.
"Not put it on and show me right now?"
She shook her head. "These are special. You only wear these for a wedding night."
“Yeah, I suppose so.” He put his lips to her throat. She automatically tilted her head to give him access, her body leaning back into his. When his hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb passing over her nipple, her body jerked, and her breath caught. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever I want.” He bit her throat, then bumped her with her body. “Walk to the employee storeroom door over there. Now.”
The other women were involved on the other side of the store, but it wouldn’t have mattered to him if they were gathered around them. The sticky note he’d left Wallenda had only four words on it: “Fifteen minutes of privacy.”
A shudder went through Marcie when he gave her the order. She obeyed instantly, which only sharpened his need. He released her to walk behind her, drinking in the sight of her hips swaying, her hair brushing her shoulders. He closed the distance between them in time to reach over her head and push open the storeroom door. Nudging her inside, he closed it behind them, putting them in semi-darkness, amid an array of filmy silks hung on racks, stacked boxes, and a fortunately placed cushioned chair with worn velvet upholstery, in a 1970s gold color.
He nodded toward the chair. “Go over there and take off your shirt. Bend over and clasp the top of the chair.”
Her eyes only grew more full of response, physical and emotional. She moved with her usual grace to the chair, and pivoted to face him as she removed the shirt, showing him the sinuous ripple of her upper body as she drew it off and draped it over the chair arm. He bit back a reverent oath at the sight of her generous curves, barely contained in lace. Holding his gaze an extra moment, she turned toward the chair, her knees brushing the seat as she leaned over it to grasp the worn wood of the back.
Christ, she had an ass made for sin, denim molding over it just right. He moved in closer, bringing his hips against it as he reached under her and slipped the button of her jeans. Sliding his fingers inside, he found more lace, and she sucked in a breath as he pushed beneath the elastic band to caress her smooth mound, tease her clit and labia with the pads of his fingers. Then he was pushing the jeans and panties to her knees, which buckled fully to rest in the seat of the chair.
Banding an arm around her waist, he used his other hand to open his own jeans and get his boxers out of the way. His cock nudged her pussy and he swore as he found her so wet she practically sucked the head into the tight opening.
“You little slut,” he whispered, and she quivered. “You’ve soaked your panties.”
Making sure she had her balance, with her knees on the chair seat and hands clasping the back, he removed his grip on her to strip his belt. He looped it around her upper body, tightening it over her breasts, just above the nipples, and wrapped the tail end of the strap around his fist, resting between her shoulder blades.
Yeah, he wanted to add that anchor point, because otherwise he might fuck her through the side of the chair. Especially when he ran a palm over the marks the cane had left last night, and she did that little shuddering thing again. He pinched one, hard, and she caught her lip in her teeth, her eyes closing as she dipped her head in profile to him, her thick hair falling over her shoulder.
“You need a gag to keep them from hearing you scream, brat?”
“Yes, Master,” she said in a throaty voice.
“Tough,” he said ruthlessly. “You don’t want them to hear, you’re going to have to bite it back. I want to see you fight it, and blush that appealing pink color when you fail.”
He wasn’t in the mood to wait, and pushed into her. She knew how to take his size now, though it was always an adjustment, so he moved with her, urgent and demanding but not cruel. Not about this. When he was seated to the hilt, he nearly came then and there, feeling her pussy doing little spasms against his length. It told him she was already close to the brink, just as he was. Fifteen minutes was going to be more time than they needed, but far less than he wanted.
He bent over her, propping one hand next to hers on the chair, his other still wrapped in the belt, tightening it on her upper body. He braced his knee on the outside of hers, making sure he kept enough counterweight on the front of the chair, so he didn’t flip them with his thrusts. They might end up against the wall regardless, leaving scrapes along the already scarred wooden floor from the chair’s movement. He could live with that.
“With me, brat?” he muttered against her perfect shell-shaped ear. She nodded, and when he thrust deeper she gasped, and corrected herself.
“Yes, sir.”
“If I was going to be a real bastard, I’d come, but leave you hurting for it. You wouldn’t be able to put two sentences together, thinking about how and when I’ll let you release. It’s the right punishment for how disrespectful you’ve been today. Sassing your Master. Telling your friends he’s ticklish. Making him buy bad pasta.”
A tiny sparkle appeared in the brown eyes she turned toward him, though he saw the strain in her face muscles, felt the need vibrating off her body. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. But you will be, when I get you home tonight.” She rippled against him and he growled in answer. He began to pump into her again, savoring her gasps, knowing that taking him like this resulted in a confusing mix of arousal and discomfort. God, how many women had he fucked? Mostly up the ass, even when he was in what could have loosely been called semi-relationships, aka, fucking them more than once, and usually in a club scenario.
But ever since he’d been with Marcie, he found himself enjoying taking her this way, just as much. He reveled in the slick-silk feel of her heated cunt, her pleas, the way she bit down on her lip to try and suppress them as he brought her closer and closer.
He twisted the belt tighter in his grip. In his position, he could see her breasts quivering, flesh flushed red around the strap from the constriction. His pelvis slapped against the marks on her ass, his balls brushing her thighs, kept close together by the hold of her jeans above her knees. It would make the climax more intense, and impossible for her to hold back her response. She was a screamer, his brat.
He'd never embarrass her in front of her family, but her willingness to be embarrassed, in order to serve her Master’s desires, putting those needs above her own dignity, did things to him he couldn’t describe, at least not in a way that most people would understand. He released the strap of the belt, knowing the buckle and prong would hold the tension, that stimulation. Sealing his palm over her mouth, his smallest finger caressing her jaw, he kept thrusting and felt the grip of her sex turn into a full convulsing spasm of release.
“May I…” She spoke in muffled desperation against his hand. “Please, Master…”
He made her keep begging, impressed by the trembling, near-violent effort it took her not to climax. He could push her past that boundary, give him another reason to punish her, but he wouldn’t. Not today.
I love you. “Come for me, Marcella. Come for your Master.”
He didn’t know why he didn’t say the first part aloud. Maybe because these moments were
more primal. But he felt those three words, in every pounding heartbeat, in every stroke, in every second of her response, the screams he muffled against his palm. She bit him, hard enough to nearly draw blood, but he held in place, able to take any pain she gave him, almost as well as she took his.
He released right behind her, and he was right. They’d moved the chair a good six feet, so even if those in the store couldn’t hear her screams, they might wonder about that screech-screech-screech sound. Thank God the floor was already marked up; else he really would have been paying a lot more than a C-note to fix the visible marks. When he finally stopped pounding himself inside her willing body, they were inches from the wall. As Marcie dropped her head, her forehead rested against it. He tilted his own against the side of hers, breathing deep.
He knew what she’d meant, when she said she always wanted him inside her. There was nowhere else in the whole damn world he wanted to be nearly as much. Loosening the belt and letting it fall into the chair seat, he caressed one breast, soothing the marks the strap had left. When he teased a still taut nipple, he earned a tightening of her muscles upon him.
“I’m buying you that black teddy Dana liked,” he said. “I want to see your gorgeous tits spilling out of it. And the steampunk style waist cincher. I like the idea of tightening it so much I steal your breath. I’ll attach ropes to the metal links in the front and back and wind them around the spanking bench. Keep you there while I figure out how to mark your gorgeous skin next.”
Then he’d release her, strip it all away and bathe her soft, pliant body in his garden tub. Hold her as she slept in his arms, surrounded by the frothy bubbles that would moisturize and restore her skin from what her cruel Master enjoyed doing to it.
The thought sobered him. He slid from her, moving her so she could curl up in the chair as he hitched up his jeans and rethreaded his belt. His beautiful brat. He could see the pulse in her throat, like a bird’s. When she laid her head on the chair, his gaze followed the movement, the slight flexing of her jaw as she swallowed.
