by Ruby Laska
The only thing she would never again allow was to be photographed. But there were no cameras here, no phones, no technology at all except for the invisible speakers. The music had segued into something melancholy, Satie perhaps. Rufus had dragged her to classical music performances enough times over the years that she could take an educated guess.
As she was about to unhook the clasp, he stopped her. “No. Not yet.”
Her fingers stilled and she looked up at him expectantly.
“Take care of your things. Place your boots with the toes against the wall. Fold your clothes.”
She did as he asked, knowing as she bent down to pick up her boots that she was giving him a full-on view of her ass. When she was done folding her shirt and jeans, he gave a small nod in the direction of the chair, so she sat down again.
He stood, picking up two of the long ruby-colored scarves. “Just relax. You may keep your undergarments on, for now.”
Ah, okay. Chelsea had been tied with neckties and ropes and even handcuffs before, and she had tied up a few men, too, which had been mildly amusing. If that’s what Ricardo was into, fine with her. She held her wrists up to him, flashing him a “touché” smile.
“Put your hands in your lap.”
He knelt before her, and as she complied, he ran one hand up the inside of her right leg. It wasn’t the butterfly touch he’d employed earlier; he closed his palm over her flesh, going slow, gauging every swell and hollow of her calf, her knee, her thigh.
All the while, taking his time, until he reached the top of her inner thigh, only a fraction of an inch away from her soaked panties. Yes. Now is fine, she mentally telegraphed. Fingers, tongue, cock, she’d take whatever he felt like giving her.
His hand moved back to her knee. Then he placed his other hand on the opposite knee. Very gently, he pushed her thighs apart, looking not between her legs but up into her eyes. And even though he was the one kneeling before her, somehow she knew that it was she who was the supplicant.
“Oh,” she breathed, a wave of sensation uncoiling deep inside her, the precursor to an orgasm, a moment that usually came only after a lot of work and concentration.
“Mmm hmm,” he murmured, as though she’d uttered a statement that needed agreement. He took the first of the scarves and looped it around her ankle, then bound it to the bottom of the chair leg. He kept the tension snug, but not tight; there was no pain, only the cool silk and the hard chair leg, his warm hands and the breeze that floated in from the open French doors. The evening had cooled considerably, her favorite part of a southern California summer; before long the temperature in the apartment would be cool enough that she might regret being naked in the chair.
For the moment, however…Ricardo wound the silky fabric around her calf once, twice, before tying a second knot just below her knee. Now her leg was firmly fixed to the chair. It was not uncomfortable, but as he turned his attention to the other leg, she realized that she would not be able to close her legs even a little: the hot, pulsing cleft of her would be fully exposed, other than the tiny scrap of cotton.
Ricardo stood, and looked down at his handiwork, nodding in satisfaction. Then he took his seat in his chair again.
“Now what?” Chelsea asked, injecting a note of petulance to disguise her nervousness.
“You’re wet,” he said huskily. “Unfortunately, that unattractive excuse for underwear doesn’t adequately show it off. I want to be able to see it—every drop.”
“Well, I’m afraid Neiman Marcus is probably closed for the night.”
He didn’t acknowledge her attempt at humor with so much as a ghost of a smile. “No matter, I shall buy you something more appropriate.”
“You know, all I would have to do is reach down and untie those things if I wanted to get free. Unless you used some sort of secret bondage knots or something.”
He cocked his head slightly. “You are correct that you could easily free yourself. I used nothing more complicated than a chain hitch and lariat loops. But that is not the point. In the first place, while I couldn’t claim to be an expert, I know enough knots that I believe I could serve any purpose I might desire. And second, you won’t untie yourself because you’ll be doing other things with your hands.”
Those hands, she realized, were currently folded as primly as if they belonged to a Sunday school teacher…and they were clammy with nervous perspiration. Still, a hand job was easy…a hand job would be no problem.
“Tug your panties to the side. I want to see you, all of you.”
Oh. Chelsea reached for the crotch of her panties, for the double layer of cotton that still wasn’t enough to absorb her juices. She dragged the fabric to the side, where it cut into her skin. Her pussy lips were swollen and throbbing. As the panties brushed against her clitoris, an almost painful throb went through her.
“Good. Now, using only your fingertips, spread yourself for me. I want to see every millimeter of you. Take your time.”
He sipped at his drink, watching her, inscrutable. Chelsea did as he asked, spreading her lips, unfolding the petals of her labia, feeling her own slickness and heat. She longed to touch her clit, to stroke it the way she did to bring herself off, faster and more skillfully than any man could. Instead, she held herself exposed, chancing a peek at his face.
After a few moments, he nodded. “Now, I want you to slide one finger inside. Don’t touch yourself anywhere else.”
She did so, her index finger gliding easily into her hot, tumescent pussy. She resisted the urge to add a second, to grind against her palm. It was easy enough to guess that wasn’t allowed—not until he said she could.
“In and out,” he said softly. “Very slowly. Fuck yourself, my hungry little niña.”
At his shocking order, she faltered, her body convulsing in…God. She was responding to him, to his vulgar, debasing words. Surely it was just because she was so horny. She did as he commanded, her hand trembling.
“Look,” she said after a few minutes, when it began to seem like he was going to let her go on that way until she came. “If you don’t let me take a break, I’m going to come. And if I come, I’m pretty much done. Just letting you know. You might want to pace yourself if you want this party to keep going, okay?”
One thick black eyebrow went up. “You’re telling me that you only expect to reach orgasm one time this evening?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the way I’m built,” Chelsea said. “Look, don’t get your man pride all in a twist, but I’m not exactly inexperienced and I know my body pretty well. Besides, multiple female orgasm is a myth perpetuated by mostly-male pornographers who—”
“Come for me.” His voice was sharp.
She stared at him in shock. Was he really—
“Now.”
Her mouth, open to protest, widened convulsively as a powerful wave of sensation rocketed through her. Her hips lifted off the chair and her hand jammed down of its own accord, her finger working frantically as she tightened around it. Over and over the waves came until at last, the orgasm shuddered to an end.
And she hadn’t even touched her clit.
She stared at the floor, transfixed, unable to meet his gaze. She had just had her first vaginal orgasm, a feat she had long ago concluded was beyond her. She’d once comforted herself with essays by feminist writers who claimed that male expectations of female arousal and response were akin to tyranny. She couldn’t tell Ricardo that, of course…couldn’t let him know the effect he had on her. She might be finished for tonight, but that orgasm alone was worth it. She eased her finger out of her dripping opening and contemplated wiping it off on her thigh, since her clothes were out of reach and the fabric covering the chair cushion had probably cost hundreds of dollars a yard.
“Lick your finger. Clean it for me.”
Chelsea gasped. Just like the episode in the café, the one that had sent her running down the narrow brick alley—except this time it wasn’t sugar that clung to her finger, but the slick residue o
f her arousal. But to put it in her own mouth—it was…it was…
“Do it, putita.”
She lifted her finger and touched her tongue to the tip. Her body was still echoing with the aftereffects of her orgasm, weak with pleasure and deliciously sated. She darted her tongue over the pad of her finger. It tasted earthy and floral and…
Wasn’t this a little odd? She wondered. Chelsea didn’t consider herself judgmental when it came to sexuality; if no one was being hurt or taken advantage of—a big and important if—then she had no problems with what other people did behind closed doors. And she wasn’t naïve. For example, she knew that lots of people enjoyed dominance play, that there were “dungeons” and play places all over the city that catered to those and other predilections.
But kink was for other people. Damaged people, people whose desires were formed in the crucible of early experiences, trauma, all the painful harm people did each other. How easily Chelsea could have joined their ranks, given her own past—but she had worked hard, so hard, to ensure that she was strong. Normal. Unaffected.
“I’m growing impatient,” Ricardo said. So Chelsea plunged her finger into her mouth, laving her tongue over its entire surface. What was it to her? As natural as sweat, as tears, the dampness from her arousal wasn’t the least bit unpleasant, and the sensation of her finger against her tongue was…also not unpleasant.
“Well done.” He stood up, holding his nearly empty cocktail glass, and headed for the kitchen. “You’ve earned your glass of water.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Could I have one of those?” Chelsea said, pointing to the glass. “Please?”
Ricardo paused, his back to her, the muscles of his back rigid. “At least you said please,” he chided tightly. “But from now on, I would like you to consider that a better choice of words is ‘please, sir.’ Also, if I had intended to offer you a negroni, I would have. You aren’t finished yet, and I don’t want your senses dulled.”
As he filled a glass of water from a pitcher chilling in the refrigerator, Chelsea wondered if she should untie herself now. “I am finished,” she said. “Didn’t you, um, notice?”
He returned and handed her the water. She put the cool glass to her lips and drank gratefully, greedily. She was thirstier than she’d realized. While she drank, Ricardo knelt next to her, another of the scarlet ribbons in hand, and began to bind her free wrist to the arm of the chair. “I noticed,” he said calmly.
Chelsea finished the water and tugged weakly at the silky fabric. “You can tie me up all night long and nothing’s going to happen,” she protested. “Seriously.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Ricardo said. He took the empty glass from her and set it on the table, then started on the other wrist. “Remember that you have the power to end this whenever you like. Do you need me to remind you of your safe word?”
“I—I remember,” Chelsea muttered. She supposed that she could fake another orgasm if it made him happy. The clock on the wall said it was a little after eleven—only six or seven more hours until dawn. They weren’t going to be able to fill it with conversation, given the clipped nature of his responses. They might as well…
“Ahh,” she murmured, the sound escaping before she had a chance to control it. Ricardo was running a thumb along the bottom of her wrist, and for some reason her body was responding as though her arm was lined with tiny G spots.
“The interesting thing about this knot,” he said, ignoring her outburst, “is that the more one struggles against it, the tighter it becomes. Really, an ingenious invention.”
Chelsea gave an experimental tug of one wrist. The silk grew tighter and didn’t loosen when she relaxed her arms.
“These bindings are forgiving, of course,” Ricardo continued, as he stood inches away from her.
At her eye level, she could see evidence of his arousal—his cock, straining against his trousers—was rigid and quite large. Ricardo seemed oblivious, but Chelsea’s breath quickened, and her lips parted as she imagined taking him into her mouth, wrapping her hand around his shaft as she tongued him. What was going on with her? Chelsea didn’t mind oral sex with her lovers, but she didn’t exactly crave it. Considered it a pleasant enough chore, like watering her African violets or sorting the mail.
But right now she hungered for Ricardo de Santos. Without thinking, she strained against the knots, and they tightened further. It was only mildly uncomfortable, but if she kept it up she was going to cut off the circulation to her hands.
“You say that you can’t reach orgasm more than once in one evening,” Ricardo said. He gently hooked a finger under her chin to tilt her head up so he could look into her eyes. “Perhaps that is so. But if I am not mistaken—and I sure I am not—you are still aroused. Your blood runs hot. Your body craves touch and more. Isn’t that right?”
Very gently, he bent down and unhooked her bra so that it dangled from her shoulders. Now she was naked except for her panties, and her nipples were as hard as stone. He traced a forefinger gently around one of them, making slow, lazy concentric circles that came closer and closer to the sensitive center, while his warm breath heated her neck.
For the second time this evening, she thought he might kiss her—and rather than recoiling she found she wanted—no, needed—to kiss him back. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I….crave…I want…”
“Yes, who?” Ricardo interrupted her stammering.
“Yes.” Chelsea arched toward him, closing her eyes, ignoring the pain in her wrists. “Sir.”
“Good girl.” Then his mouth was on her, tracing a path from the tender hollow of her neck down to her shoulder, and Chelsea understood that she had been wrong. Dead wrong. She could come again tonight…she could come again in the next thirty seconds if Ricardo de Santos would do to her clit what he was doing to her shoulder.
So when he pulled away from her, she almost yowled with frustration.
Ricardo continued to ignore her distress. He picked up the lone white candle and held it before him and regarded her in the flickering candlelight.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Chelsea. And yet…there are a few things we must do with you. To make you more beautiful still.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. Not now, she thought, after she was so filled with need. She should have taken more time getting ready. “I was, um, I’m about to get a haircut and—”
“That is not what I am talking about,” Ricardo said. “Not the first order of business. Which is…”
While he was talking, he had accidentally let the candle tilt at an angle, and a drop of hot wax suddenly fell from the top and landed on her chest, in between her breasts. She jerked at the sudden, oily heat.
Ricardo did not appear to notice. “…a wax. Have all your intimate hair removed, please, around your lovely cunt.”
A second drop splashed down.
“Ow!” she said, both horrified at his suggestion and at risk of being burned. “Please—the candle. It’s dripping on me.”
He followed her gaze to the burning candle, to the melting pool at its tip.
Then he looked into her eyes and tilted the candle farther. This time the entire stream landed on her breast, streaking across her nipple. The sensation was sharp and shocking, the combination of heat and the slick wax a blend of pain and needle-spikes of pleasure.
“I am aware of the dripping of the candle. It is a particular kind that I have made in London. The wax is a combination of beeswax and soy—its melting point is low. You will not be left with burn scars, but you should be…completely aware of the heat.”
Another few drops rained down on her other breast. She bucked against her bindings, her pussy aching to be touched.
“The hot wax both releases adrenaline and increases the sensitivity of the skin. As you are no doubt becoming aware. But we were talking about your grooming.”
Deep inside Chelsea’s mind, in the f
raction that was still focused on anything but her pleasure, a warning bell sounded. Long ago, she had vowed that she would never let a man tell her how to care for her own body, especially in that realm. “All grown women have pubic hair,” she snapped.
“And yet, not all of them choose to keep it.”
“It’s—it’s infantilizing,” she protested weakly, grasping at a near-forgotten claim made in an essay she’d read long ago.
“It is certainly not.” Ricardo sounded angry. “I know full well who you are. I am attracted to your mind—your very adult mind. I am drawn to your passion for art, to your determination. I respect you as a woman. But let me be very clear: when we are alone together, we are not equals. We are not colleagues or peers. We have very different roles, which should be becoming quite clear to you now.”
“What if—” another splash of wax, this time on her inner thigh. He had moved the candle without her even noticing. The burn lighted other sensations, hot longing that radiated along her legs to her toes, before rocketing back again. Her wrists, jerking convulsively against the red silk restraints, were becoming painfully chafed. “What if I don’t want this role?”
Ricardo laughed and tipped wax on her other thigh, letting small drops make a lazy trail higher and higher. Her hips ground and bucked in response.
“You really don’t know yourself at all, do, you, mi niñita,” he said, finally setting the candle back on the table. “A moment ago I said that some women choose to groom themselves so that they are bare and smooth. Not all women are suited to such a thing. I have loved—and respected—women for whom such an act would be as incongruous as you using these restraints on me.”
“I’ve tied men up before,” Chelsea protested, though for the first time she wondered why she’d been so insistent, ever since she became sexually active, on being always the one in control. On the one hand it was easy to understand; controlling situations took out the element of fear and minimized the possibility that she’d be overcome by the horrors of the past.
