His To Have

by Devon Birchley

  “No,” he says, with startling firmness. “Never think that about yourself. You’ve obviously impressed him a lot. I can tell you try your best in everything you do.”

  “How can you know that about me?”

  “Because I can see your strength. It radiates through you.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got to say I’m a little confused. You seem to be complimenting me for being strong, but you actually want me to be submissive. I don’t get it.”

  He reaches out and brushes my hair back from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear, then he leans forward. “It’s all about oppositions. The willing submission of the strong is a much more appealing prospect than that of the weak.”

  I shiver at his breath on my ear, at his words.

  “Tell me about your childhood.”

  I bite my lip. “Why would I tell you that?”

  “It’s important for me to understand you, the whole of you.”

  I drink, fiddle with the edge of the elegant drink coaster. “I don’t know where to start. It was a regular childhood. Nothing weird happened.”

  “How many siblings?”

  “Three. I’m the eldest. Cara is two years younger than me, then Frankie and Robbie are seven and ten years younger.”

  “And your parents. Are they together?”

  “Yup. Happily married, more or less. Do you really want to know this stuff?”

  “I do. Are you and Cara close?”

  “Yeah, we get on well these days. But we used to fight like cat and dog when we were kids.”

  “Why?”

  I blow out a long breath. “I blame the parents,” I drawl, dripping my voice with irony. “They were always playing favorites. And it brought out our natural jealousies.”

  “And what happened when you fought?”

  “I got my ass whupped. A lot.” I laugh, probably too loudly, but he’s looking very interested, leaning forward in his seat. Watching me.

  “And the same with your sister?”

  “Nope. Just me. She was a lot smaller than me since she was born tiny and premature. I was the naughty one, and she was the cute vulnerable one, and whenever we scrapped, it was me who got put over my parents’ knee, regardless of the fact that she’d been going at it like a hellcat and I’d been holding back with everything I had. I used to hate her in those days. Come to think of it, it was the same at elementary school. I never started any fights, but if another kid started on me or one of my friends, I wouldn’t back down. But because I was taller than the other girls in my class, I was usually the one that got caught and punished. I’d have to stand in a corner or stay back after school.”

  “How did that feel?”

  “So wrong. I used to burn with the injustice of it.”

  “I mean, in your body.”

  “Like a red fury. Hot and shaky.

  “Is that all?”

  “No.” My cheeks warm at a particularly uncomfortable recollection. It was summer, and my sister and I were both in our kid bikinis. I said she could ride my bike if I could play with her scooter. She had a go on my bike, then wouldn’t let me take her scooter. I got mad and slapped her, then she pulled my hair, and we went at each other like a couple of scrapping puppies. My mom came outside, and Cara started squealing like a stuck pig, so mom grabbed me, bent me over her knee, and smacked my ass at least a dozen times. It was all red around my bikini bottoms and halfway down my thighs. And then my uncle and aunt turned up, and everyone laughed at it. I wanted to go change, but mom wouldn’t let me, and all afternoon I felt so horrible and squirmy and humiliated.

  “Tell me what you were just thinking about,” he demands.

  “No. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. From the look on your face, I can tell it had a profound impact on you.”

  I shake my head but, slowly, reluctantly, I tell him the story.

  “You probably felt like you never wanted to be controlled again?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “And how would it feel if I started to sexually control you?”

  “Wrong.” I spin my glass around in my fingertips. I gaze at all the gleaming bottles lined up on the bar, at anywhere but him. “But maybe…hot.” There, I’ve said it now. The heat in my cheeks turns up several notches.

  “I think you’d like it a lot, Reagan.” His voice is a big cat’s purr. “And more than that, I think you need it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you haven’t been fulfilled in your sexual relationships so far.”

  “And how do you know that exactly?” My tone is snappier than I anticipated.

  “I can feel it, in every part of you. In your eyes, in your kisses. You’re searching for something.”

  “Maybe I’m happy the way I am.”

  “Would you be here if you were?”

  “I just agreed to meet you here for a drink tonight, nothing more.”

  “If that was true, would you be wearing that sexy-as-fuck garter belt?”

  I draw a sharp breath in. There’s no way he could’ve seen it beneath my dress. I already checked that it didn’t show through.

  “Maybe I wear garter belts every single day.”

  His hand comes down on my thigh, right on the spot where the little satin clip meets the top of my stocking. “I don’t think so, Reagan.”

  I swallow hard. “Maybe the idea of domination, control, whatever you want to call it, turns me on, but I don’t think it’s something I want to get involved in.”

  His eyes narrow, barely perceptibly, his irises dark and stormy. “Why not?”

  “I— It—” I break off, not wanting to offend him.

  “Go on.”

  “The whole idea of it seems kind of weird. Freaky. I don’t have anything in common with those dudes from the Sexpo in gimp masks or diapers. I don’t want to be part of that world.”

  To my surprise, he tips his head back and laughs loudly. “Neither do I. The Sexpo wasn’t my idea of fun. Until I met you, anyway. I like to play in the privacy of my own space mostly. And I believe you should try everything once. Except incest and folk dancing, of course.”

  “What?” I freeze while I process his words, then burst out laughing. He has a curious way of building tension, then dissolving it when I least expect it.

  He shrugs. “I wish I could take credit for that, but it’s one of my friend’s catchphrases. I think it’s good advice, though.”

  I stop laughing and stare at him. No one has made me feel so many things at the same time before—I’m intrigued, tense, relaxed, and a little afraid of this insanely attractive guy.

  “What if I just want to date you with none of that—that funny stuff?” I say in a rush.

  “I’m afraid that ‘funny stuff’ is the only game I like to play. But I have a feeling that once you try it, you’ll wonder how you missed out on it for so long.”

  With his left hand still on my thigh, he spins my stool so I’m facing him. His right hand comes down on my left thigh, and he eases them apart a little. I bite back a gasp and test his grip, but it’s firm, and I can’t squeeze them back together. “I think you came here telling yourself we were only going to have a drink, but your body is crying out for me to take you upstairs and possess you.”

  Involuntarily, I glance over at the elevators. “So, you’re like a good Samaritan here to help me find fulfillment?”

  He cocks a half smile. “Partly.” He jacks my thighs another inch apart, and I’m aware of my panties pressing on my clit. “I won’t deny that I want to fuck you, but it’s not the vanilla sex you’ve had before. I want you helpless. To give yourself to me completely. I want to see the surrender in your eyes and hear it on your lips.”

  I gaze at him, unable to get words past my parted lips.

  “Hold your hands behind your back.” His voice is almost a growl, and I find myself complying, clasping them together, just above the apex of my ass. This has the effect of thrusting my breasts forward, and I’m very aware
of my nipples pushing at the fabric of my bra.

  “Close your eyes.”

  When I do, I feel open, as exposed as if I was naked. I pick up his scent, his heat, and sense him leaning close.

  “Tell me you don’t like this.”

  I can’t. All I can think about is how much I want him to slip his hand between my thighs and push my panties aside. And then he kisses the side of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. Involuntarily, I tip my head back, wanting him to bite my neck all over, take my breasts into his mouth and bite them, too.

  As brusquely as he grasped my thighs, he lets them go again and leans back so he’s barely in reach.

  “I think the dynamic between us could be on another level, Reagan. But if you’re not ready for what I’ll ask of you, I understand.”

  I clear my throat, then sip my drink, noticing that my mouth is dry. “Just to be clear, what are you going to ask of me?”

  “That you give me your consent. I’ll never do anything that damages you. But I need your trust for this to work.”

  “Is this a game?”

  “The best kind.” He lifts his thumb to my lips, and with a smooth stroke, wipes my lipstick right off. And then he kisses me. Hard, hungrily. As if he’s feeding off me. I return his kiss, swirling my tongue around his, tasting him, inhaling his heady scent. It feels like minutes before he pulls away.

  “It’s your choice, Reagan. I won’t push you,” he says.

  I turn and slide off my seat. “I just need to use the restroom,” I mumble, walking quickly to the other side of the bar, turning my flushed face and smudged mouth from the bar staff.

  6

  We’re in the elevator. All three walls, the doors, and the ceiling are mirrored, reflecting multiple images of an incredibly hot man standing opposite a big-eyed girl with red, slightly swollen lips. We’re only ascending five floors, but I sense that the journey I’m making is vast. I feel like I’m teetering on a precipice, about to step off into an unknown world, and my life will never be the same again. I’m not even aware that I’ve fallen silent, slipped deep inside myself.

  “Reagan.”

  My head snaps toward him.

  Adler is looking at me with something approaching concern. “You look like little girl lost.” In a step he’s in front of me, taking me in his arms, and kissing me so softly and tenderly that I instantly feel safe. “I won’t ever hurt you. Unless you want me to.”

  I take a breath and hold it, thinking I need to remember these words, to keep them safe inside me.

  He holds my hand as we walk along a dimly-lit corridor with black, lacquered walls. The keycard clicks in the slot of the door, and a luxurious room opens up. It’s the Prime Suite; I remember it from the photos. Red satin walls, oriental screens, and mirrors everywhere. The bed is huge with a black satin coverlet, and there’s a full-size living room with a sunken marble bath. The floor-to-ceiling windows present a sweeping city view.

  Adler takes my hand and leads me into the room.

  “Let’s have some champagne,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving a bottle. While he pours, I pad around exploring the room. The bathtub is full of hot water, bubbling gently. There’s a wide, black screen on one of the bedroom walls on a set of runners. When I push, it slides to the side, revealing a curious assortment of hooks and fittings. I look back at Adler with a questioning eyebrow.

  “For the special requests I mentioned earlier,” he says. “But we have no need of them tonight.”

  We stand by the window and sip the champagne. He’s behind me, a little off to the side, and we chat about the city as he points out various landmarks. Inconsequential talk that calms the fizzing in my veins, prevents it from bubbling over into panic. His nearness is intoxicating, his clean, spicy, masculine scent filling my nostrils with every breath I take. I concentrate on the view, on his large, long-fingered hand as it points to one thing after another, and of the coldness radiating from the glass.

  Casually, he strokes my bare shoulders, my neck, my jawline. I shiver, yearn for a firmer touch, to be pressed against his body, taken in his arms. But I understand that it’s my job to be still. I sense that I shouldn’t put my arms around him, unfasten his shirt, grope his muscles, as I’ve been longing to, but wait until he’s ready.

  He moves directly in front of me, then lifts my chin with a fingertip and stares into my face.

  “Do you come easily?” he asks.

  I swallow. “Kind of. Only with a vibrator.”

  “By yourself or with a partner?”

  “Both.”

  “What’s your favorite position?”

  “Spoons, I guess.”

  “Do you like to be taken hard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  My head spins. “I don’t know,” I say. I feel hot and embarrassed, like I want to run away right now. But with each question, my pussy clenches, and I can feel my panties getting wetter and wetter. I like being interrogated like this, forced to answer these intimate questions.

  “Do you like to have men go down on you?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” To be honest, I don’t love it. It’s nice and soft, but it never gets me off.

  “Do you like to suck cock?”

  I blink. In my fantasies I do, but the reality never matches up. “Yes,” I say, very deliberately, and he looks pleased.

  “Can you take it deep?”

  “A little,” I lie.

  “Have you had anal sex before?”

  “No.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  Warmth floods my cheeks and my pussy clenches again. “Yes.” In my deepest, darkest fantasies.

  The corners of his lips twitch. “Does it seem wrong?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you like to be watched?”

  “Maybe.”

  He takes my glass from my hand and places it on a nearby coffee table.

  “Now, show me that beautiful lingerie.” He unfastens my zippers with deft fingers, seeming to already know where they are, one at the side and the other at the back. He slides the dress off my shoulders and unpeels it from my body until it falls to my feet. He picks it up, lays it over the back of a chair. I’m trembling under his gaze, which moves languidly from my breasts to my thighs, to the very damp crotch of my panties.

  “Turn around.”

  I do as I’m told, completing a slow circle. Relax, I tell myself. Don’t think about your imperfections. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? When I meet his eyes again, they’re burning with desire. He likes my body. He reaches out and slides my bra straps from my shoulders, pulling the soft cups down until my nipples spring into view. As his thumbs chafe them both at the same time, a sound escapes my lips. He rolls them between finger and thumb, pinching a little, and a white-hot bolt of pleasure shoots through me.

  “Sensitive nipples,” he comments. “Take your panties off.” I hesitate, take a deep breath, then hook my fingers into the sides, slide them down, and step out. I’m still half dressed, still in my bra, stockings, and garter belt, but to all intents and purposes, naked, and totally open to him. He is staring at me, and the anticipation is killing me. His cock is hard, tenting the expensive fabric of his pants, and all I want right now is for him to throw me onto the bed and take me. I’m a big pool of need, my pussy so wet I’m most likely dripping onto the floor.

  Then he puts his arms around me and backs me against the window. I gasp as the cold glass makes contact with my upper back and ass cheeks. His hand slides between my legs, and when he finally touches me, I think I’m going to pass out, or come on the spot. He strokes me back and forth, caressing my neatly trimmed fur, spreading my labia, brushing the tip of my clit. As his finger slides inside me like liquid fire, I’m so over-sensitized it almost hurts.

  “Mmm.” He makes that big-cat purring noise again. “You only come with a vibrator. Really? That�
�s funny, because I feel like you’re not far off right now.” He’s right. If he keeps sliding his finger in and out like that, it might tip me right over the edge. He adds another finger, and they curl inside me, moving independently, and I’m aware of each knuckle, each finger pad, as they fan out and flicker and twist, seeming to caress my pussy walls in a hundred different ways at the same time. His other hand pulls one of my breasts completely out of my bra, and he kneads it firmly as he finally brings his lips to mine again. His cock is hard and urgent against my belly, and his tongue is forceful, and I suck on it, wanting to draw all of him inside me.

  “I want to devour you, Reagan,” he murmurs. “Make you mine. But I want you bared to me first. Do you know what I mean?” I make a nuh-uh sound of incomprehension. He slides his fingers out of me and taps my mound. “Have you ever shaved it before?”

  I haven’t. Monica is always trying to get me to go to the salon with her and get a wax. She says it makes everything more sensitive, but I’ve never had the balls to do it.

  “No,” I say in a small voice, feeling ashamed. I do feel like the only woman in my entire generation who doesn’t have a bare snatch. Like there’s something uncool and loserish about it.

  “There’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s not that I don’t like it. I just like to see everything. And I’m pretty sure that you’ll like it, too.”

  I press my lips together. “I could shave it now, I guess, if that’s what you want?”

  He grins, a little cockily. “I’d prefer to shave it for you. Don’t worry, I’ve got a very light touch.”

  I hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”

  He steps away from me and takes off his jacket. Then he unbuttons his shirt quickly, carelessly. I suppress a groan of frustration. I’ve been wanting to do that for him so bad. As he throws his shirt aside, my mouth falls open. His torso is beautiful, even better than I imagined. Big, bulging pecs, a perfect washboard stomach, and those lovely diagonal muscles that make grooves just above the waistband of his pants. The tattoo that I’ve been trying desperately to see covers his right pec. It’s a phoenix with script above and below it. I observe this in a kind of a daze because his big, strong hands are now unfastening his belt, undoing his zipper, and his pants are falling to the floor, revealing muscular thighs and the biggest erection I’ve ever seen. His stretchy black boxer briefs are barely enough to contain it, and the long, thick outline is clearly visible. He wraps his arms around me, and I greedily run my hands all over his back and shoulders, desperate to touch him all over. He stiffens then catches my wrists in his iron grip, and I look up at him questioningly.