A Matter of Discipline

by DawnMarie Richards

  Taking a knee in front of her, he reached for her bound wrists. She lifted her head, watching as he worked to release her.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine, Mr. Vince,” she croaked before clearing her throat and trying again, “I’m fine.”

  “We’re not in the studio anymore,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, yes. Of course, I see.”

  “You did very well.”

  “Thank you.” Her tiny grin twisted with doubt.

  He cradled her freed wrist in his palm, rubbing at the channels the rope had left in her skin with his thumb.

  “I need to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  He met her puzzled gaze.

  “For touching you, Marion, just now. It was…unprofessional.”

  “But I thought…the women in the photos. Didn’t you…I mean, I just assumed…”

  “What, Marion?” he demanded, irrationally annoyed by her lapse into stammering. “What did you assume?”

  “That you’d had sex with them…” Her gaze wandered to a spot somewhere beyond his left ear. “That you’d want to have sex with me.”

  “No, sweetheart.” He sighed. “Sex isn’t a given.”

  “So, you didn’t want to…”

  She shrank from him, shoulders hunching and arms tugging toward her body. Quickly, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it from his body. Wrapping it around her, he fastened the two buttons between her breasts and then urged her gaze up to his with a nudge of a crooked finger beneath her chin.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want to…I think my actions make it pretty obvious the opposite is true. What I said is I shouldn’t have.”

  She blinked up at him. “Does it matter, at all, that I wanted you to?”

  He smiled at her confession. “I’m afraid it doesn’t. What we wanted isn’t the issue.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.” He let his hand fall away from her face, turning his attention to her still-bound wrist. “Remember what I told you about my responsibilities in the studio.”

  “Yes.”

  “When a woman gives control over to me, it comes with the crucial expectation I will strictly maintain mine. To breach that would be a dangerous lapse. And, Marion…” He forced himself to face her. “When I was kissing you, moving my finger inside you…” Her arm jerked in his grasp, but he held firm. “I wasn’t.” He shook his head in bewilderment, returning to the task of untying her. “I wasn’t in control at all.” The last of the rope came free from around her and he straightened.

  Unnerved by the spontaneous admission, he concentrated very hard on the tangle of cording in his hands. After carefully reworking it into a neat butterfly coil, he secured it by spiraling the center with the end length which he then tucked under itself. He placed the bundle on the side table and then turned his attention to Marion. She waited, patient and silent.

  “I’m not sure we should continue.”

  “I don’t understand. It was just a kiss.”

  “You’re right, Marion.” Before he could finish, she sighed with relief. “You don’t understand.”

  Confusion creased her forehead before comprehension set her jaw. She got up and stepped beside him, catching at his wrist with both hands. Her fingertips on his pulse tweaked a nerve running between his balls. Definitely should not continue! But he couldn’t express the thought any more than he could pull out of her tender grasp.

  “Please.” Her grip tightened. “I need this, Blake, to be reined in, made still and quiet. Just be. To have you looking at me like that, I’ve never felt so…” She closed her eyes briefly, a shiver passing over her. “I’ll do whatever you need me to…agree to additional rules. No unnecessary touching. No kissing.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “It can be. I can do it. Try me.”

  Moonlight and shadow turned her imploring smile into an impish challenge. Blake closed his eyes against the tantalizing image. He slanted over her, his mouth drawn to hers in excruciating increments.

  He could feel the heat radiating from her lips when she finally whispered, “Stop.”

  Lifting his lids, he found her gaze and saw uncertainty reflected in her eyes. Should they surrender to the desire of the moment or risk another evening in each other’s company?

  Shaking his head at what could only be the temporary insanity brought on by looking too long into bewitching green eyes, he told her, “Next Friday, eight o’clock.”

  “Yes, Mr. Vince.”

  He turned, furtively pressing a palm to the steel rod of his erection in hopes he could walk away with a normal stride, instead of a waddling limp.

  “Getting your things,” he explained as he made his escape.

  He heard her sigh, a mix of frustration and relief, and empathized. His intention had been to bring discipline into her life. It appeared, in the process, some of her recklessness had rubbed off on him. It remained to be seen which of them would get the better part of their wicked bargain.

  Chapter 11

  Blake dropped into his seat, grateful for the steadfast support of shaker woodworking. He grabbed the near-to-full drink off the table by his side, taking a healthy swig. The scotch burned his throat on the way down, reminding him the ordeal had only just begun.

  In the interminable hours since their last meeting, Blake had done a lot of thinking. He’d decided it had been a mistake to handle Marion as if she were a special case when, in fact, she was just another model. Granted, more inexperienced and vulnerable than any he’d worked with—but a model nonetheless. It was time he treated her like one.

  When she’d arrived, he’d been polite but impersonal, bringing her directly into the studio with a minimum of chatter. No private changing room or small talk or words of encouragement. He’d left her standing in the middle of the room, telling her to undress as he’d continued on to retrieve the deep periwinkle rope he’d need to tie her.

  She hadn’t objected but remained unmoving until he’d turned to face her. Only then had she begun, chin raised and gaze askance. Her fingers had trembled as she’d undone the small pearl buttons fastening her shirt and the cuffs of her sleeves, giving the straightforward deed an edge of excruciating anticipation. By the time she’d shrugged off the blouse, the silky black material falling to the floor in a quiet whisper, Blake had been hard as stone, gripping the coil of silk cording like a lifeline. She’d unzipped her tan tweed skirt and, with a merciless wriggle of her hips, sent it to land in a heap around her feet. Her clear, unblinking gaze stayed on his even as she’d toed off her shoes and stepped out of the mound of her discarded clothes.

  It had been then that Blake realized she hadn’t just been undressing for him. She’d been doing a striptease. The final act of her performance passed in an erotic blur. With coy deliberation, she’d released the row of eyehooks down the center of her bra, parting the sky blue lace cups in an obvious unveiling meant for his pleasure. Breasts swaying, she’d bent to take off the matching thong, feet arching as she’d lifted one, and then the other, the scrap of fabric passed beneath and tossed aside. By the time Marion had stood naked in front of him, Blake had felt much more like a deranged voyeur than the detached professional he’d hoped to be.

  Between his raging hard-on and the itching desire to put her over his knee, he’d approached her with caution. Without speaking and touching her as little as possible, he’d bound her as before, securing her to the block and tackle and turning to the rigging. Resisting the urge to winch her off her feet and give her a proper lesson in the dangers of provoking him, he’d fixed her position, tied off the line, and retreated to the artist’s nook he’d created for himself.

  The canvas propped on the easel in front of him waited for him to begin, a ghostly outline of a female body haunting its center. The small glass-topped table within arm’s reach did double duty as a palette and catchall for the various and sundry items he’d need to work—including the jelly jar of scotch. Blake traded t
he glass for a brush and turned to look at his subject.

  Despite his aloof handling of her and the challenge of being suspended, a tranquil quality informed Marion’s pose. She exuded an aura of being exactly where she wanted to be. Ignoring the smug satisfaction the thought gave him, Blake concentrated his energies on transcribing her shadows using shades of clay, spice, and amber. The darkness he overlaid with pearls and creams, a hint of cantaloupe mixed in for good measure. With swift and certain strokes, Marion’s likeness began to take shape and before Blake knew it, more than an hour had passed.

  He glanced at her face, wanting to continue but concerned she may have reached her limit. Her gaze locked on his though he knew she didn’t really see him. She’d retreated, a deep sadness settling into her eyes and weighing at the corners of her mouth.

  He knew he should stop, but the bittersweet expression opposed to the lush sensuality of her body proved too tragically beautiful to resist. He began to sketch, careful to capture the nuance of each line of her eyes and lips. It proved painstaking and utterly absorbing, Blake becoming lost in the process, surrendering to the work.

  Chapter 12

  “Marion.”

  The whisper of her name dangled at the edge of her consciousness, luring her up through the quagmire of tortured memories she’d descended into as minutes had become hours. She’d never forget the look on the face of the postman when she’d answered her door and smilingly signed, oblivious to the small black sticker next to the address label identifying the morbid contents of the otherwise unassuming package. The less-than-truthful explanations she’d uttered, numb and mortified, for the benefit of her colleagues and friends. Then had come the sympathetic stares and scandalized whispers which had followed her everywhere. Until, eventually, she’d been forced to escape—to the suburban comfort of Eaton, Ilene’s warm friendship, and the unexpected Mr. Vince.

  “Marion.”

  By degrees she, again, became aware of her body. The rush of blood through her veins, the thrum of her heart. Hands, wrists, and shoulders throbbed. The endless ache of her breasts, nipples puckered to tight buds. Heated skin bristling. How the stretch of her spine taunted the carnal core running between her thighs and buttocks, magnifying every pulse and contraction. The alternating currents of pleasure and pain assailed her without rhyme or reason, making it impossible to discern one from the other.

  “Marion.”

  More insistent, the voice demanded her attention. She opened her eyes. Blake stood in front of her, somehow managing to look equal parts concerned and pissed off and intent on devouring her.

  As if her nerves transcended the confinement of her skin, she gravitated toward him. Satisfaction shuddered over her as the soft, black material of his well-worn T-shirt and jeans met her naked length. He surprised her, holding her in place, his palms warm on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “Does something hurt?”

  “Hurt?”

  “Jesus, Marion! You’re crying.”

  “Crying?”

  Confused, she only seemed capable of echoing him. Her eyelids fluttered at the unexpected touch of his lips on her cheek. When he put his mouth to hers, she tasted the salty truth.

  “No kissing, Mr. Vince,” she told him when he lifted his head.

  His grim smirk made her uneasy.

  “Then I’m sure I shouldn’t do this either.”

  His voice had taken on the deep and husky timber for which her body seemed hardwired, robbing her of speech.

  He moved his hands over her, his thumbs meeting in the middle to trace the bridge of her nose and tease at the swells of her lips. With a tiny grunt, Marion tipped her head, granting him access to the underside of her chin and the length of her neck. She staggered backward as the steady, downward trek continued. His palms brushed the rise of her breasts on their way to settle over her ribcage, his thumbs tucked beneath their burgeoning weight. He held tight, his firm grip compelling her to look up into his eyes.

  “You’re certain you’re not hurt.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Vince.”

  He dipped his head, taking a nipple into the mystery of his mouth. Her head lolled back, her body twitching in his hands as he sucked and licked and swirled his tongue over her, the mist of need becoming an obscuring fog. While he gave the other side equal consideration, he continued his exploration, traversing the gentle slope of her belly, fingertips ringing the outer rim of her naval before drifting over her hips. By the time he grabbed her ass with proprietary confidence, the promises she’d made him the previous week had been lost to blinding hunger.

  His lips brushing her ear, she heard him ask, “And pushing myself inside you, Ms. Hertz? That would be entirely out of the question, I suppose.”

  She barely managed a breathy, “Please, Mr. Vince.”

  “Fuck, Marion.”

  Despite his words, he drew his hands down the backs of her thighs, lifting her legs to wrap his waist. His shirt rose as he nudged her up on his body. She gasped as the hard plane of his stomach made contact with her swollen clit. Reflexively, she crossed her ankles in the small of his back, urging him closer.

  “Condom,” he told her, letting go to shift within her clinging embrace.

  She heard foil tearing, the distinct plunk of packaging hitting hardwood, and then Blake’s quiet grunt as he handled his erection, sheathing it before positioning the head at her opening.

  He caught her in the vice of his biceps, his forearms pressing along her shoulder blades, his hands hooking her shoulders. With measured control, Blake compelled Marion down over his length, her starved and sodden pussy welcoming every delicious inch. Farther and farther he advanced, her body and imagination stretching to accommodate him.

  “Do you want all of me?”

  She curbed the wicked temptation to ask how much there was. Besides, who was she kidding?

  “Every bit of you, Mr. Vince.”

  His cock twitched its approval, the subtle trill making Marion huddle around him in a pathetic impression of an embrace. Pressure increased from above and below as Blake prodded and pushed. The stretch became a burn, and she lowered her head, pressing her mouth to the hollow where his shoulder met his neck. She only meant to stifle her moans, but as the furious invasion refused to abate, she took the exposed flesh between her teeth and bit down. He never flinched.

  At last, the downy softness of his balls fit snug in the swath of skin between her openings, letting her know she’d gotten what she’d asked for…every bit. Full and gasping, Marion released him from the bite and lifted her head.

  Dark brows pressed close over heavy hooded eyes, he considered her with determination edged with regret. For the first time, fear sparked through her. Not for her physical well-being, but for what proceeding might do to her psyche. She opened her mouth, a self-preserving instinct demanding she make him stop.

  Before she could utter a word, his gaze dropped to her parted lips. She counted three pounding beats of her heart, and then his mouth came down on hers. More than a kiss, it was an irrefutable demand. Blake opened her to him from the inside out—a forced bloom—consuming her angst like a rare delicacy. He lifted his head, the petition for consent clear in the molten chocolate of his eyes. She stared at him, spent and breathless. At her subtle nod, he began to move.

  She experienced the long, deep, torturous strokes from the tips of her fingers through the curl of her toes. Before long, her vision blurred, Blake’s face going soft and hazy at the edges. Fingers grasping convulsively at the air, her mouth opened on a gasp, her eyelids fluttering. No! Not yet!

  He thrust into her with vicious force, and Marion braced for the inevitable. She gyrated against him, but he ground their bodies together, robbing her of what little leverage she had. The stillness allowed the beginning ripples of orgasm to recede from her grasp.

  At her whimper, Blake resumed, panting quietly with renewed exertion. The slow slide brought her inescapably to the brink. A
nd, again, he denied her at the last possible moment. Marion sucked in an unsteady breath, understanding dawning cold in her chest. Blake meant to punish her with pleasure for breaching their agreement.

  Over and over, like a puppet on a string at the mercy of forces beyond her control, Marion was made to suffer the exquisite anguish of being brought to teeter on the edge of ecstasy only to be returned to the reality of her aching arms and clenching thighs. Each time, she became more convinced she couldn’t take any more. But then her body would make a liar out of her, helpless against Blake’s relentless urging.

  Skin sultry with sweat and muscles strained beyond endurance, the familiar ache began to build in her breasts, her nipples almost painfully rigid. It was happening again. Angry demands and pathetic pleas filled her mouth. She bit her bottom lip, barring their exit. The all-consuming need of the scant space between her thighs became the whole of her being. She closed her eyes against the impending disappointment, no longer caring if it was allowed or not.

  “Look at me, Marion.”

  She shook her head.

  “Look at me!”

  Her eyes came open at the urgent command, a sob of frustration at being powerless to refuse him ripped from deep in her chest.

  He slid his hands from her shoulders to travel the length of her back, his fingers digging into her bottom. The slight shift shattered her into a million glittering pieces. Blake’s bittersweet gaze bored into her until his own pleasure brought down his eyelids, dark lashes pressed to tanned skin, leaving Marion alone, her compromised body pitching helplessly with the euphoric waves rolling through it.

  Chapter 13

  “All right, I think I’ve been a very good girl. I restrained myself from asking you anything at work, and I’ve been patiently chitchatting for the past fifteen minutes, but I can’t take it anymore. How’d the second sitting with our talented Mr. Vince go?” Ilene sat sideways on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, the glass of red wine Marion had poured for her already half gone. “Things were pretty quiet over here. Did he keep you tied up all weekend?” She smiled at her joke, bringing her drink to her lips, but when Marion didn’t answer, she lowered the globe without taking a sip. “Did he? Did he keep you tied up all weekend?”