His To Have

by Devon Birchley

  The next morning, against my better judgement, I get dressed in the outfit, putting on a garter belt and skipping my panties altogether. But I do put a clean pair in my purse. Just in case.

  When I walk out my front door and down the steps, reality hits. Woah. This is different. It’s a coldish, windy day, and the frigid air sneaks right up my skirt. It’s kind of a nice sensation, but I feel so goddamn vulnerable, convinced that everyone who passes me knows I’m not wearing panties. The tight skirt means that it takes me twice as long to walk to the metro as usual, and once I’m on the train, I stand for the entire journey, even though there are free seats.

  Dale, one of the other associates, chats to me in the elevator, but I barely hear what he’s saying. When I arrive on our floor, I head straight to the restrooms and put on the panties.

  It’s a high-pressure day, almost back-to-back meetings, with a ten-minute break at lunchtime to run downstairs and grab a sandwich from the nearest deli. I don’t regret wussing out on going commando. Koln & Mathers isn’t the place for sexual experimentation. But I feel sexy and kind of powerful in the stockings. I like the way that I’m always aware of the garter belt and its constricting effect on my flesh. And as much as I try not to think about tonight, I’m failing. I’m longing to feel Adler’s mouth on mine again, his hands on my body, his cock forcing its way into me.

  Around five p.m., there’s a message: Did you follow my request?

  I hesitate before replying, knowing instinctively that lying is not a part of the game. Yes.

  Good. What time will you be free?

  I tell him 8.30, wondering why I feel a flicker of guilt at deceiving him.

  Same hotel as before. Room 1132. A.

  At 7.30 p.m. I stop working and go down to the onsite gym for a shower. This time, I leave the panties off. I’m a little wet. Who am I kidding? I’ve been wet all goddamn day. But at least I can avoid sitting down until I see him.

  As I stride across the hotel lobby and the luxurious hotel scent hits my nostrils, there’s that same mixture of excitement and apprehension. I knock on the door of 1132, and he opens it immediately. He’s wearing dark gray jeans and a blue Oxford shirt, unfastened half way, and I can smell the shower freshness coming off him. It’s intimate somehow. I love the way guys feel when they’re freshly washed, kind of soft and new-born.

  “Hi, Reagan,” he says, light dancing in his eyes.

  “Hi, yourself.” My voice sounds peppy. Not how I’m feeling, at all.

  He pulls me into the room and gives me a kiss that makes me tingle all over. I finally get why the studs in my mom’s cheesy romance novels are described as swoon-worthy. He’s too much. Too gorgeous and sexy and stacked. I feel like my brain’s in overload, and I could pass out right here. For a moment I forget that I’m only here for sex, and I let myself fall into him, my veins running with euphoria.

  He takes my hands in his and holds me at arms’ length. “You look great,” he says.

  “So do you.” My eyes are drawn to his shirt buttons, the tanned, bare skin beneath. Suddenly, I feel like a woman possessed. I’m burning to rip off his shirt and run my hands all over him. I want him to slip his hand up my skirt and feel how wet I am, how much this game has cost me.

  The room has a similar layout to the previous one, but the color scheme is different with black leather furnishings and more red. It looks more like a bondage dungeon.

  “Are you hungry?” A table by one of the windows is laid out with antipasti, bread, and a bottle of red wine. I’d been too keyed up to think about food, but the sight of some of my favorite things reminds me that I am. “It’s important to eat,” he says when I don’t reply immediately. Taken aback, I slide onto one of the seats. Why would he give a damn whether I eat or not?

  The food is incredible, and I dig right in. I notice that he eats very elegantly, European style, with his fork in his left hand. I want to ask him about it, but the dynamic between us has made me clam up. I don’t know if I’m even supposed to ask him questions about himself.

  “You eat with passion,” he tells me. “I appreciate that in a woman.”

  I shrug. “I love food and I work out a lot. Dieting has always seemed really sad.”

  He looks pleased. “What exercise do you do?”

  I tell him about my schedule of running and weights and interval training, and he asks me lots of questions, as if he wants to know every single detail.

  “I was happy to see that you played soccer.”

  “Why? Some guys don’t think it’s so feminine, especially when I turn up to a date covered in bruises.”

  His eyes cloud, and I can tell I’ve said the wrong thing. “Some bruises are a pleasure to behold. Especially when the beholder is the one who’s administered them.”

  I draw in a breath, unfortunately at the same time that I’m sipping my wine, which results in a coughing fit. His lips curl up at one corner. He’s pleased again; the balance of power has been restored.

  “Tell me what it was like to go without panties all day,” he says, the moment I’ve finished eating.

  Warmth floods my cheeks. “Embarrassing. Awkward.”

  “Good.”

  Good? I squirm a little.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s kind of freaky to know you’re enjoying my discomfort.”

  He smiles. “But you were enjoying it, too. The thought that someone might find out was turning you on, wasn’t it? Admit it.”

  I sigh. “Yes, it was.”

  His smile gets wider. “I wanted you desperate. I wanted you to spend the entire day worked up, hot and embarrassed and needing to be satisfied. Did you go without them for the entire day?”

  “Yes,” I say calmly, as he watches my face carefully.

  He nods. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  I frown.

  “Anything at all.”

  “Last time we met, were you auditioning me?”

  He gives a short laugh. “I was keen to see if I was right about you.”

  “And were you?”

  “Of course. You’re here now. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so,” I lie. I have a lot of questions, but I’m not even sure how to word them.

  “Did you bring your orgasm diary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go get it.”

  I get up and retrieve a small notebook from my purse. It’s not ideal, with cartoon pictures of dogs on the cover, but it was all I had on hand Sunday night. It now contains three entries—Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.

  He takes a large square cushion and places it on the floor.

  “I want you to undress and kneel on the cushion and wait for me. Don’t speak until I speak to you.”

  I press my lips together. My instinct, as always, is to rebel, refuse. But at the same time, heat surges through me, and my pussy spasms. He opens my diary and quits paying me any attention.

  I gaze at the cushion in discomfort. And then I pull my sweater over my head. I undress sluggishly, disappointed that he’s not going to undress me. This feels kind of perfunctory. I glance at him often. He seems absorbed in my words, flicking back and forth between the pages, and I wonder what’s keeping him for so long. I put all the detail in that he requested, but there’s only a couple of pages for each entry—dates, times, and a brief synopsis of what I was thinking about. He doesn’t even look up when I’m fully undressed, and I lay my clothes on the back of one of the armchairs.

  I linger in front of the cushion, my knees refusing to bend. I stare at him hard, willing him to turn to me, tell me he was joking. But he doesn’t. At last, I kneel and place my hands on my thighs.

  I wait and wait, even start counting the seconds to pass the time. When I get to 203, he gets up casually, notebook in hand, and comes over to me.

  “Good,” he says, his voice low, caressing. He reaches out and strokes my hair, and much to my disgust, I’m glad for the praise. “This is a position you’ll come to know very well
, whenever I tell you to wait for me. But I want you to hold your hands behind your back and your legs like this…” He adjusts my knees so they’re at least a foot apart. “There, much better.”

  Something shifts in my head again, as if the world is tipping and I’m becoming someone else. I instantly know I’ll do whatever he tells me for the rest of the night without hesitation.

  “Your diary is very good. I’m glad to see you’re willing to be open with me. It gives me some very valuable insights. I’d like you to keep writing in it.” I look up at him, wanting to ask what insight in particular, but not daring to.

  And then he leans forward and takes both my nipples between finger and thumb. He pinches hard. I cry out in surprise and pain. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going until tears spring into my eyes, and my hands come up of their own accord and snatch at his wrists.

  “Put them back,” he hisses, and I do. He reduces the pressure but doesn’t let go.

  “Don’t lie to me, Reagan, ever. If you fail to comply with one of my requests, you admit to it. Because the consequences for lying will be worse than the consequences of failing. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whimper. When he finally lets go of my nipples, they’re throbbing.

  “It’s one of the first things a submissive needs to learn.”

  He strides over to the seating area and sits down on a circular, oxblood-leather ottoman, legs wide apart, and I’m struck by how he seems to have transformed too, into a more powerful version of himself. “Now I’m going to discipline you. Come here.”

  I start to get to my feet.

  “On your hands and knees.” He wants me to crawl. Really. I can’t express how much I hate this idea. I tip forward and place my hands on the plush carpet.

  “Arch your back,” he commands me.

  I haven’t done this since I was small, and I feel a lot like a slinky animal. Maybe a cat. I crawl across the floor and stop right in front of him. I expect him to reach for his zipper, but instead, he taps his knees.

  “Over my knee,” he says.

  “What?” I mutter, even though I heard him perfectly well.

  “Bend over my knee.”

  Something bursts in my brain. Something hot and unbearable; a squirming snake of shame. “I can’t.” I shake my head.

  But he’s not in a patient mood. He bends down, pulls me to my feet, and deposits me across his thighs. His strength is breathtaking. This man has some serious muscle. He tips me forward, so my toes barely touch the ground and I’m hanging over his lap. Blood rushes to my head, and the memory of the last time I was in this position echoes back from very long ago. He strokes my ass cheeks, almost comfortingly. I feel very exposed and wonder if he can see my pussy and my asshole in this position.

  Then he lays a hand heavily on my lower back, holding me still. There’s a rush of air as his hand comes down, crack, on my left buttock. I flinch but press my lips together, determined not to make a sound. The next one on my right is equally as hard. Then he rains down a whole series of slaps, each one in a different place from the last, all the way to my upper thighs. Once I’ve got over the shock, it doesn’t really hurt. I anticipate each one, half with reluctance, half with something that I don’t want to acknowledge.

  “Your ass is nice and warm now, a pretty shade of pink,” he murmurs, stroking it all over again. I give a sigh of relief. We’re done. That wasn’t so bad.

  “I’m going to give you fifteen spanks now, and I want you to count.” What? There’s more? It’s beginning to sound like that was just the warm-up.

  “Okay,” I say, forcing the word between my lips.

  The next slap is far, far harder, and I yelp. It really hurts. There’s a long silence.

  “You’re supposed to count,” he growls. “So we’re going to start at the beginning again.” His hand comes down again in exactly the same spot. I yell out.

  “One,” I mumble.

  “Louder.” The next slap lands on my other cheek.

  “Two!” I call. The third and fourth are on my thighs. It’s unbearable. I squirm and thrash my legs and do everything I can to get away from those big, pitiless hands.

  By the time we reach 15, I’m not far away from tears, and my head is spinning. For a moment I step outside myself, see myself bent over the lap of a virtual stranger, allowing him to whup my ass like I’m a naughty child.

  “Good girl, all done now.” His tone is crooning, and he caresses my burning flesh with his fingertips. As hot as my ass is, I can tell that his hands are hot too, from hitting me, and it feels weird and kind of gross.

  “Did you like that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Liar.” He slides his fingers between my labia, spreads wetness all over my thighs. I shudder at his touch. He pushes my thighs apart and continues to stroke me, alternating between my ass cheeks and my pussy. It’s soothing and arousing at the same time. He teases me, running his fingers up and down my labia, but avoids touching my clit. I want him inside me, and I encourage him, moving my legs further apart. At last, he obliges, sliding two fingers deep into me, and I tighten up right away, little spasms running up and down the walls of my vagina. He begins to pump his fingers in and out, and I sigh and moan, my whole body floppy, aware of nothing more than the sensation of his long, thick fingers inside me. He goes faster and faster, and I’m not far away from coming when he slips out of me and one of his fingers slides up my ass crack until it finds my little hole. I suck in a breath as he circles around the edge. I want him to stop, and I want him to go inside. As he pushes a little, my muscles tense up, then relax, and his fingertip slips into my anus. He keeps going, and I keep waiting for it to hurt, but it doesn’t. It feels incredible, so soft and sensuous. His finger is all the way in now, and when he slides it out and pushes it back in again, sparkles of pleasure fizz in my brain. He finger fucks me like that for a while, and then his other finger slides back into my vagina. Holy shit, this is too much. It feels dirty and demeaning, and as hot as hell. He pumps his fingers fast, and my pussy and my ass start to spasm, and the tidal wave rushes over me, knocking me flat, as I thrash and moan on his lap.

  Wow. I’m not in any rush to get up, content to dangle over Adler’s thighs like this, while my heartbeat slows to its normal rhythm.

  At last, he lifts his left arm from my body, which I take as my signal to get up. My legs are wobbly as I stand, and I feel like a disheveled mess.

  “Come here.” He reaches for me, pulls me into his arms, and hugs me tight. “You did good. Very good,” he murmurs in his deep, sexy voice. He strokes my hair and kisses me tenderly for a long time.

  As his mouth becomes more urgent, he gropes my breasts.

  “And now you can thank me.” His voice has become hard again. “Go get the cushion.”

  He tells me to put it in front of him and kneel on it, and then he unfastens his belt, opens his zipper, and takes out his cock. I’ve been aware of it the whole time, jabbing into me, and now it’s rock hard. I lick my lips nervously, wondering how I’m going to cope with it.

  He takes a step forward, bringing the tip close to my mouth. “Open,” he orders me.

  I part my lips and it slides in.

  “More,” he says. It already feels like too much, but I open my mouth wide, and his cock keeps coming and coming, the head filling my mouth and hitting the back of my throat. I withdraw, try to use my tongue to pleasure him, but his hand presses on the back of my head, and it goes in deeper. He mutters words of encouragement, but he doesn’t let up. Every time I choke, he pushes a little more, his hips rolling back and forth, his hands in my hair, keeping me still. I’ve never managed to take this much in my mouth before. It blocks off my airway, and I breathe in occasional gulps when he withdraws.

  “Look at me,” he says, and he forces me to maintain eye contact while he fucks my mouth, holding me still, making satisfied mmm sounds while he slides in and out. “Good girl,” he mutters from time to time. I feel so objectified right now
as I slide my hand down to my clit and start to jerk myself off. It kind of distracts me from what he’s doing to me, and by the time his hips start to pump fast and hard, I’ve got two thirds of him in my mouth.

  He pushes in deep as he comes, right down my throat so I barely taste it. When he releases me, I gasp for air. He leads me over to the bed, and we lie down, him wrapping me in his arms.

  “You’re beautiful, Reagan,” he murmurs. “So sexy and obliging.”

  He asks me a hundred questions, wanting to know how I felt about everything. I can’t admit that I liked having my ass spanked, but somewhere deep down, I know that I did. The crime I was being punished for was bullshit, I know that, but it was cathartic, somehow. Uncomplicated. I feel calm, calmer than I’ve felt for a long time.

  “Did you like taking me in your mouth?”

  “Yes,” I say, obscurely proud of myself that I managed to take so much of him. He runs a thumb across my lips.

  “You have a lovely mouth. Very soft. And a much deeper throat than I expected. And did you like having my finger in your ass?”

  “Yes. It made me come.”

  “I know. I felt it. It was very sexy. I can’t wait to fuck you in your perfect little hole, Reagan.” I stiffen. As much as I liked the feel of his finger, there’s no way his cock would fit in there. He’d split me in half. “But I’m not going to do it until you’re ready for it. In fact, until you beg me to do it.”

  I press my lips together. Like that’s ever going to happen. “Don’t hold your breath. Your cock’s way too big for that,” I say.

  “It won’t be, once I prepare you for it. Actually, I have something for you.” He gets up, goes to the closet, and returns with a small box tied with a gift ribbon. “Open it.”

  I roll onto my belly and remove the lid. Then I let off a burst of laughter. I may be a small-town girl, but I know what that is. It’s a butt plug. It’s black, silicon, and about three inches long. It’s narrow at the tip, then it gets wider, then it’s narrow again with a wide base. It looks like an arrow from the side. I cast him a sideways glance. “I’ve always put these in the same category as blow-up dolls and Fleshlights.”