by Ashe Barker
He narrows his eyes at me, his head tilted to one side. “But not unwilling?”
“No, sir.” I meet and hold his gaze, hoping for—something I am unable to articulate.
“Would you like me to help you?” Yes, that was it!
“Could you, sir?” I gaze at him and make a conscious effort not to wring my hands in my nervousness.
“I believe I might since you have been honest with me. I will always appreciate your honesty, Imogen.” He gets to his feet and comes to stand before me again. “Turn around and close your eyes.”
I do as he tells me, trembling a little as he places his hands on my shoulders. He squeezes gently and his breath whispers across my cheek as he leans in to speak to me.
“Despite my words just now, be assured I will do nothing to harm you. If I hurt or frighten you, you may tell me and I will cease or slow down. So, shall we continue?”
“Yes, sir,” I breathe.
“I am about to remove my mask and I shall use it to blindfold you. From the moment I do so, your body is mine to do with as I please. Do you trust me with your body, Imogen?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, without hesitation. “But I wish you would allow me to see you.”
“It is better this way.” He releases his light grip on my shoulders and moments later the cool fabric of his kerchief covers my eyes. He ties it at the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. I lean back against him and the tension that had built and formed a knot in my stomach starts to evaporate. Matters are no longer in my hands. I am free.
“I am going to remove your gown and your undergarments. You will stand still and only move if I ask you to in order to assist me.” It is a statement, a command, not a request—my first experience of the stern lover I was promised. I relax still further.
Deft fingers loosen the fastenings at my back and my gown drops away from my shoulders. The cool whisper of air against my skin is sensual, almost as arousing as his touch. Gray works quickly, murmuring instructions from time to time. I lean one way, then the other, lift my arms, step out of the pool of fabric when he tells me to. In moments just my shift remains, covering me loosely from shoulders to mid-thigh. Still standing behind me, Gray reaches around to untie the laces between my breasts and draws the soft linen garment down my arms. It catches on my hips, but my breasts are bared. I let out a soft sigh, somehow able to tolerate the intimacy of the moment as I am not called upon to witness it. The blindfold acts as a buffer between myself and the reality unfolding. I am here, but able to distance myself, at least for now.
“You are lovely, Imogen. You quite take my breath away.”
I do not answer, though his words send spirals of longing plunging deep into my core. I do not even start to understand the sensations he is evoking, but I know they are good. I desire more. I need—something, though again I am at a loss to name it.
Gray traces his hands along the length of my arms, releasing me from the sleeves of my shift and eventually linking his fingers in mine. He draws my hands into the small of my back and whispers to me to keep them there. I clasp my hands together and try to remember to breathe.
He places his palms on my shoulders and turns me to face him. I am aware of his scrutiny, attuned to the intensity of his gaze as much as if he were actually touching me, exploring my naked breasts, my belly, the secret place still lower down that remains concealed beneath the bunched fabric of my shift. I should be ashamed, mortified, at the very least embarrassed. I am none of those things. I find the experience exhilarating, empowering. I blossom under his admiring perusal.
I gasp when he does at last touch me. He cups my chin in his hand, brushes his lips over mine, then draws his hand slowly down my throat, between my breasts and across my stomach. He pauses to gather my shift and pushes it down my body to crumple on the floor.
“Open your legs, Imogen.”
It never occurs to me to demur or protest. I step from the pool of linen and widen my stance, then hold my breath as he continues on his way.
His hand is warm, his touch gentle yet sure. He slides his fingers through the curls at the apex of my thighs then on to stroke the sensitive folds of my sex. I lurch forward, the powerful clenching of my body taking me by surprise. I had no idea what to expect, still do not, but I find the discovery intriguing. And I am bewildered, confused by the riot of sensation coursing through me.
“Gray?” I whisper his name, unsure what I need to ask him, tell him.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, sir.”
“Wider.” He taps my inner thigh with his hand.
I part my legs further and gnaw on my lower lip. I have but the haziest notion of the mechanics of what is to come, though I do not fear it. Not exactly.
Gray slides his hand between my spread thighs again, caressing me in a manner I find both exhilarating and disconcerting. It is intense, yet infinitely gentle; the strength of my reaction at odds with the leisurely, undemanding nature of his exploration. He takes his time, drawing his palm and fingers back and forth as my body clenches in helpless response. There are sounds too—wet, sloppy sounds. I know my body is creating the moisture; this has happened on previous occasions, though not often. It mortifies me that he might notice.
“Ah, Imogen, so hot and wet. This is for me?”
“Sir?” I am not certain if or how to reply.
“It is for me. All mine. So, are you tight too?”
“I do not know, sir.” Dear sweet lord, I hope so for this is what he seems to desire.
He steps back from me, just a fraction, but enough to enable him to cup my chin again in his free hand. He tilts up my chin and brushes his lips over mine.
“Open your mouth, Imogen.” The command is delivered in a low, soft tone, but I have no illusions about his requirement that I obey. I want to obey.
I part my lips and he slides his tongue between, angling his head against mine to deepen the kiss. I am stunned, had not anticipated this. I had always assumed kissing to be a mere touch of the lips—chaste and essentially dry. This is not. This is hot and wet, intimate in a way that both offers and demands. The sensation of being breached in this way is incredibly compelling. I want to nibble his invading tongue, twist my own around it, suck on it.
Dare I? Would he mind?
Unable to resist I stroke my tongue against his, tentative at first, then gathering my courage to play as he plunges further into my mouth. His tongue dances around mine, licking, tasting and I respond with an enthusiasm I could not have dreamed I might. This is my first kiss and it is truly wondrous.
I am lost in the moment, focused entirely on the sensual dance between our tongues. Gray continues to stroke my wet core, but without warning he shifts the angle of his caress. He locates a spot where the sensations seem to be at their most intense and he circles there, increasing the pressure as I struggle to remain on my feet. My knees start to buckle and he drops his hand from my face to encircle my waist. He takes a half step forward. I am compelled to retreat. He moves again, easing me the few feet backwards until I connect with the bed. He leans forward and I have no option but to sit.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to issue his next commands. “Lie down on your back and spread your legs wide. Take hold of the headboard and do not let go or I will tie your wrists to it.”
“There is no need to bind me to the bed, Gray. I… I do not wish to leave.”
He chuckles. “I know that, little one.” He offers no further explanation, but as he has resumed kissing me, I am not minded to pursue the matter either. I do as I am told, bending my knees and spreading my thighs as wide as I am able. I curl my fingers around the slats of the bedstead and hang on.
He slips his hand between my legs again, going straight for that special place. He rubs, presses, squeezes. I break the kiss to let out a squeal.
It hurts, almost. Yet there is pleasure too, intense, hot and needy, curling through my body, which spasms and conv
ulses in ways I can barely comprehend. Something is happening to me, something wild, wonderful, and quite terrifying. Gray increases the pressure, to the point of real pain.
“Do not take your release until I give permission.”
I am baffled. “Sir? I do not understand.”
“I will tell you when you may come.”
“Have I done something wrong? I am sorry, I do not understand what is happening. You are hurting me…” I could ask him to stop, he said that I may, if I was to become scared. I am scared but still I do not say the words. My fear of his stopping is far greater than my fear of what he is about to do, or of what more he may have in mind for me.
The pain stops. His fingers are gentle again, stroking through my moist folds. He had been leaning over me, his lips against mine, but now the bed shifts as he moves to kneel between my thighs. I do not need to see him to know that his eyes are on me, perusing my most secret places, spread wide for his enjoyment—just as he told me, exactly as he requires.
“So pretty, Imogen, such a sweet, pink little quim. And mine. You are a virgin, yes?”
I nod.
“There will be pain but it will be quick and soon over. Then comes the pleasure. You want the pleasure, do you not, Imogen?”
Again, I nod, drawing my tongue across lips, which are dry suddenly. “Please, Gray, I want it now. I am ready.”
“I think not… not quite ready yet. But you will be.” He presses my knees further apart and upward toward my chest.
I have no time to reflect on the vulnerability of my position, nor on the fact that whilst I am naked and spread out on the bed, he remains fully clothed as far as I am aware. Any protest I might have made and in truth I have to doubt there would have been so much as a whimper, is swept away by the wave of pure sensation he unleashes next.
He uses his thumbs to part the lips of my quim, then leans down to plunge his tongue inside. I cannot see what he is doing, but it must be his tongue, for nothing else could deliver such sweet intensity. Soft yet probing, the intimate intrusion sending spirals of raw lust spinning through me.
“Gray… sir!” I exclaim, my fingers gripping the headboard as though to anchor me to this earth.
He ignores my startled squeals, shifting his attention back to that nub he teased just moments ago. I am unsure whether to be disappointed or to urge him on. I do neither, my whole body convulsing as the sensation starts to crest. I am terrified, hurtling toward something I do not comprehend but which draws me on like a siren.
“I warned you, do not take your release until I tell you to.”
“My—what? Sir?”
He pauses, then, “Ah, my apologies, Imogen. Please disregard that last remark of mine. You may take your pleasure as you will. This time.” He returns to his task, licking and nibbling whilst he trails his fingers through my dripping folds.
I arch, let out a sharp cry as he inserts one long finger inside me. He slides it forward, slow but sure, then swirls it within to caress my inner walls.
“Oh, dear lord.” I am thrashing on the bed, still clutching the headboard but thrusting my hips upward. Another finger enters me and he scissors them inside. I am losing any semblance of control. I fear I may be dying but have no wish to stop or slow down. Quite the reverse, I am driving forward, stretching, seeking, soaring.
Gray lowers his head again and closes his lips around that sensitive bundle of flesh again. He sucks and I am gone.
White light flashes within my skull, my body is spasming. Wave after wave of raw pleasure cascades through me. I am flying, weightless, adrift. His fingers in me, his tongue and lips on me, all conspire to rob me of sense and reason and the merest vestige of control. I care for none of that, so intent am I on milking this flow of carnal delight.
Almost as suddenly as the feeling was upon me, it recedes. Gray’s caresses are slowing, inside and out and my senses gradually return. As do my questions.
“What happened? What did you do?”
The bed shifts again and I know he is standing now, no doubt looking down on my form, still trembling from the intensity of the sensual onslaught he just unleashed. I turn my face in the direction I assume he has gone. “Gray? Please…”
“I told you I am a generous lover, did I not? Now you know what shall be your reward for obedience. You want more?”
“You could do that again?” I cannot keep the wonder from my tone, or the longing.
“I could. And I will. I intend for you to enjoy this night, my little Imogen.”
“There is more?”
“Aye, much more.”
I turn my head, seeking to follow his footsteps around the room. I release my hold on the bed head and start to sit up.
“Do not move.”
The curt command rings across the room. I subside back onto the mattress, mumbling my apology.
Several minutes pass. Occasional sounds offer clues—the thump of boots dropping onto the floorboards, the swish of clothing as he undresses. He will not permit me to see him, but might I touch?
“Please, may I move my hands?”
“No, you may not. If you believe you may struggle with that, I am happy to restrain you.”
“I, I will remain still. I promise.”
Despite my arousal and undimmed enthusiasm for this endeavour, I cannot help flinching as he re-joins me on the bed.
“Do not be afraid, Imogen. I promised you no harm and I will keep my word. But I will have your obedience and you should know that if you disappoint me in this matter, I will punish you.”
I want to know the nature of any punishment but do not dare to ask. Instead I tilt my face toward him. “I mean no disrespect, Gray. I hope… I… I do not wish to disappoint you.” The very notion leaves me in despair.
The mattress shifts under him as he rolls over me. He cradles my face between his hands and places his lips against my ear.
“You know what I require of you. And I know what you want, what you need. Let us believe that neither of us is to be disappointed this night.”
“Yes, sir,” I breathe, as he lays a trail of soft kisses across my jaw. He covers my mouth with his and I part my lips in welcome. It is as though he has released a tap, my body arching as the well of pent-up lust gushes forth to meet his thrusting tongue.
He shifts again and I part my legs to accommodate him. He breaks the kiss and leans up on one elbow, reaching back with his free hand to grasp my knee and draw it up, widening me, spreading me open. He leans to the other side and repeats the action.
“Wrap your legs around my waist. If I hurt you, you may scream. I will not stop. Afterwards, if I continue to cause you pain, you may let me know that in any way you deem suitable.”
“Would you stop? Afterwards? If I asked you to?”
He rubs his forehead against mine. “Aye, lass, I would.”
It is enough. I reach up, blind, to kiss him.
“Very nice, sweetheart. And now… your legs?”
Ah, yes. I hook my ankles together in the small of his back, screw up my eyes behind the improvised blindfold, and I place my trust in him.
I have but the vaguest of notion of what is to happen. I am not entirely ignorant and I realise his fingers inside me were the prelude, but my grasp of detail is woeful. The delight he has afforded me so far is a happy harbinger, surely?
I take in a sharp breath as he parts the lips of my quim again, but this time the intruder is larger, thicker. My entrance opens, spread wide as he pushes forward. His hips rock under my legs, just short, probing strokes impaling me inch by inch. It is sore, my flesh stretching around him.
“Oh, sir…”
“Is this better?” He slips his hand between our bodies to lay his fingertip across my sweetest spot. He rubs again, quickly, from side to side. The pulsing sensation from just a few minutes ago is back, my tense body softening around him.
He takes advantage, pressing further into me. I gasp, hope to weather this
without crying out or worse still, begging him to cease.
Another inch, then another. I press my face into his shoulder, my breathing ragged now.
His fingers are in my hair, caressing my scalp before tangling in the curls and easing my head back to meet his kiss again. He supports his weight on one elbow, the other hand stroking my pleasure spot as he distracts me with the sensual assault on my mouth. I do not know which is the more effective diversion. I only know that I want this moment to continue. To never end.
Of course, it must. Just as I relax, soften against him, he drives forward. The pain is intense, tearing, a ribbon of fire rushing deep inside me. I scream into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss.
He stops, holds still. The pain subsides. I am numb.
“There, it is done. Breathe in, Imogen.”
I do as I am bid, taking care not to move any other part of me. I would surely tear in half were I to attempt such foolishness.
“Good. Now you may breathe out.”
Excellent advice. I follow it.
“Again.” His tone is deep, gentle, but shot through with an inner thread of hardened steel. I obey him, of course.
Several deep, fortifying breaths later he again rubs his forehead against mine.
“You still live, Miss Bennett.”
I cannot disagree. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“So, we continue?”
“I… I believe we should, sir.”
“I may spank you for your impertinent tongue, Miss Bennett. Later.”
“Yes, sir—oh!” I let out a startled cry as he withdraws from me, dragging his thick length across the walls of my inner space. It feels indescribable. He holds his position, the head of his erection just inside me, then he surges forward again.
