by Adira August
He pulled his hands out and slipped the challis top back up onto her shoulders. She gasped and squirmed as she felt the wool chafing her sensitized peaks.
"Now you be a good girl and sit still while I finish cleaning up."
He left her there, frustrated and surprised. He went back around the counter, took the crystal wine glasses and washed them in the small sink, leaving them upside-down on the drainboard.
He turned around to find her staring, apparently at his ass from the direction of her gaze that she allowed to drift up and over his body. His cock did more than twitch.
A line formed between her brows. An “I want” line, his mother used to call it.
“What?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel he hung over a rack, then putting his hands into his pockets.
“Are you going to keep your promise?” She asked.
“What did I promise?”
“That you’d give me what I want, today.” She waited, but he said nothing. He wanted to hear her say it again. “I want to touch you,” she breathed. “I want to touch you all over.”
His cock jerked and lengthened, pressing against a fold of his trousers. He gave her a puzzled look. “Did I promise you could do that?”
She concentrated, trying to remember. Then her eyes met his, deep with tragic realization. She shook her head. “But, you said today was for giving me what I want.”
“And I said there are no rules. Not yet.” He turned his back to her, took a glass from the cupboard and pressed the lip to the ice release lever on the refrigerator. He heard the rustle of her skirt as she got down from the stool. Waiting for his glass to fill, he felt her arms encircle his waist, her hands open, flat on his abdomen.
She found the buttons of his vest and he felt one release. "My turn," she whispered. The muscles of his abdomen tightened. The ice overflowed.
He moved the glass to the water dispenser. His vest fell open and he felt her breasts flatten against him, just under his shoulder blades. He stopped the flow of water. Concentrated on controlling his breathing.
She unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it up, out of his waistband bound by his narrow leather belt.
He pulled his tie open with one hand, reached down and adjusted his cock with the other before he turned around. “Drink this,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
She took the glass and a long draught of the ice water. “Then you should have some, too.”
He got a glass for himself. She finished the water, watching him drain the glass in one long pull. Her fingers lightly touched his throat as he swallowed. Her body pressed against him and she rubbed her breasts against his chest. He knew she sought relief for her exposed nipples. The heat and pressure in his groin made him shift away from her.
Not yet.
“Are you stopping me?” She asked.
Without a word, he took both their glasses and put them on the counter.
He walked into an adjacent living area, two comfy couches faced each other in front of a gas fireplace. It was a place he had once imagined himself being with her.
He touched something on the mantelpiece and the fire sprang to life. With a remote, he turned on two lamps that cast soft pools of light from sofa tables behind the couches, and turned off every light in the kitchen and dining area.
Avia moved to the end of the counter, wondering if she was supposed to follow. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he took a large Navajo blanket from the back of one of the sofas and spread it on the carpet between them. He kicked off his shoes.
Leaning over the back of one sofa, he located a dark green shopping bag, the sides bulging enough for her to tell it wasn’t empty. He left it on the floor at the corner of the sofa. And then, finally, turned to look at her.
“More presents?” She asked, off the bag.
"Exactly," he said, and took off all his clothes.
He watched her as he did so, stripping off the unbuttoned dress shirt and t-shirt underneath, revealing his wide shoulders and chest sloping to his solidly muscled abdomen. He didn't have lumps and slabs and sharp-edged muscles built with steroids and heavy weights.
Ben Hart was a big, solid man, body smoothly sculpted by years of physical labor. His muscles flexed and relaxed as he moved and stretched. He put himself on display for her, knowing the sight of him like this excited her.
He turned slightly, the firelight playing shadows along his abs and pecs. He opened his belt, slid his pants and briefs down to his ankles, stepped out of them and his socks at the same time. He kicked the pile of clothes away toward the shirts.
He stood before her, one hands on his sizable erection, the other cupping his balls. He dropped his hands to his sides, open, offering himself to her. “You said you wanted to touch me. Any way you want.”
The smile that lit her face rivaled the firelight, even from across the room. She walked slowly toward him, as she had in the parking garage that morning. Her eyes never stopped roving over his body.
“One rule,” he said when she reached him.
“What?” She whispered, her hands already replacing his on his cock and between his legs, lifting his sac, weighing it in her cupped palm. Her eyes darkened. Her lips opened, her tongue darted out to wet them.
Think about cold mountain waterfalls, Ben. You can do this for her. If …
“You stay dressed. Except for the shoes.” He paused. “Like a good girl.”
Her eyes flew to his face at the use of the phrase. “Yes, Ben,” she breathed. And he wondered how long he could wait before he took her. She stepped out of her heels, kicked them toward his shoes.
She touched him. She stroked and pressed and felt and rubbed her cheek along all parts of his body. He stayed hard but they both ignored it while she turned him and pushed him this way and that to get access to every inch of skin.
He could feel her hard nipples through the sweater against his back, dragging along his skin as she turned him. They must be very sensitive by now. She rubbed her chest against his stomach, looking for relief. It was a monumental effort not to throw her down on the floor. You have to let her do this. You have to wait.
“Lie down here,” she directed, indicating the blanket between the sofas. "On your stomach." He did.
She lowered herself and sat astride him. She ran both hands down the deep furrow protecting his spine. The powerful trapezius muscles bunched as she laid down on him, pressed her body to his back.
He lifted up to give her access when her palms slid around to his front. The tips of her fingers traced the thin line of smooth hair from his navel to his cock. His erection bumped against the back of her hand, but she ignored it, trying to memorize him with her hands and fingers.
She slid down on him, he felt her pubis through her skirt between the cheeks of his ass. Her knees between his legs, pushing his thighs apart as she braced herself. He concentrated on keeping himself still and relaxed.
Her arms around his hips, she used both hands to cup his heavy sac, ran her palms down the insides of his thighs and back up the long, strong adductors. She explored his testicles with her fingers, and his sac tightened viciously. A low groan escaped his lips.
"My God, Ben you are so beautiful,” she whispered. His hips flexed into the blanket, pressing his throbbing erection into the hard floor beneath.
A few minutes later, Avia was sitting cross-legged with his feet in her lap. He was on his back, looking at her with his hands behind his head, so he could see all of her in the firelight from behind him, the pools of lamplight from the sides.
She brushed some bits of blanket fuzz from the soles of his feet. His cock was at half mast, lying thick but still, along his pelvic bone.
Even his feet are beautiful, she thought. Not bony or lumpy, but the pale arch shading to a deep rose along the plump ball and round toe pads. His heels weren’t dry or cracked and she knew he was a runner so, how …? Oh. She looked up.
“Do you get pedicures?” He tried to pull his feet away, but she determin
edly held on. “Why Benedict Valor Hart, you’re blushing. You do get pedicures, then?”
He looked at the ceiling. “It’s Ione, my head housekeeper. Or whatever I should call her. She does all sorts of things. Once a month, she has this crew descend on me like I’m some A-list movie star. A guy cuts my hair and two women give me a manicure and a pedicure and ... other things like that.”
He was a deeper shade of pink, now, and Avia was delighted and fascinated. “Tell me what the ‘other things’ are,” she insisted, massaging the ball of his foot, pulling his toes gently but firmly. His lips pressed into a line.
“Okay, be that way. But you said I could touch you any way I want, as long as I want. So, you can answer my question or find out what bad boys get,” she teased.
He remained silent, but his cock rose. Not something she could miss from her vantage point. She locked her gaze on his, tucked one of his feet under her thigh, her skirt enveloping it, and lifted his other foot to her mouth. She was only going to rub her cheek against his instep, see if he was ticklish, but as soon as she did, she heard his sharp intake of breath.
That’s sexual, she thought, thrilled to be exciting him. She nuzzled under the pads of his toes and sucked on the ball of his foot along their base, nibbling gently with her teeth. Wondering if he’d think it was silly.
Then she heard the rumbling groan from deep in his throat and felt him shift. Oh, yeah.
She flicked her tongue between his toes, while massaging his heel. She moved her lips to his great toe and, closing her eyes, took it all the way into her mouth, letting him feel her teeth as she slid over him, her other hand moving up, her thumb massaging his instep.
She laved his pad with her tongue. Harsh, guttural breathing reached her. She tilted her head and opened her eyes to find him staring at her, face flushed, mouth open, eyes glittering and dark - and then she saw his cock: huge, red, hard against his abdomen.
“Are you,” he began, his voice caught. Then, “Do you have a thing … you know, a foot thing?”
She sat back, still massaging him. “Looks like you’re the one with the foot thing.” She said, with a nod to his raging penis.
Avia realized she was responding, also, heat and moisture gathering between her legs. Her nipples peaking, itching again against the fabric of her top.
Inspiration struck and she slid his foot under her sweater, and rubbed all of the bottom over one hard, needy nipple, and then the other. So good. Her hips shifted, her eyes closed until she heard -
“Fucking bitch,” he breathed, fixed on the shape of his foot moving under the fabric.
She started pulling up her skirt. “Tell me what the ‘other things’ are or I’m putting these toes in my -”
But his foot was gone. He was up, his big hands on her upper arms and she on her back on the blanket. He clamped her wrists together behind her with one hand, forcing her back to bow, her breasts to push up. He threw one muscular leg over hers, lay his knee on her far thigh, cocked the leg and spread hers apart..
He’d immobilized her in six seconds.
“Hey! It was my turn!” She protested, writhing and twisting, testing his hold.
"My turn now," he growled. "I’m going to teach you what bad boys do to naughty girls who tease them.”
Ben reached into the bag he'd left on the floor and showed her an implement with the Hartbeat™ logo. It seemed to be a standard bamboo backscratcher a little over a foot long. But the smooth half-inch wide handle ended at a black leather grip. At the opposite end, the bamboo widened into a cupped oval.
“This is the Hornet. Disobey me and you’ll end up with your bare bottom in the air getting stripe after stripe."
He'd developed the Hornet as a less brutal substitute for a cane. It was narrow enough to deliver a sharply painful stripe that lingered. But the bamboo was flat, not round. It avoided the deep tissue injury of a cane.
It was short enough for lap work and effective enough that if the user swung at a solid 10, the spankee would be crying for mercy with little actual physical trauma. If it broke, as they often did at high intensity, it was inexpensive enough to have several more on hand, to the dismay of the miscreant.
And, it made a fine, hollow whooshing sound and landed with a loud, sharp crack. The Hornet was one of Ben's go to disciplinary devices. It was extremely versatile, easy to control at all intensities. And the "hand" keeper was just the right size to work between a woman's legs, for pleasure or punishment.
He twirled it in his fingers like a parade baton. Avia's eyes were huge and liquid, her breath coming in short pants as she watched it spin in the firelight. He put it down and reached back into the bag.
"Dolly's Discipline," he said. What he showed her this time looked like a Victorian hairbrush, halfway between an oval and a rectangle, the back filigreed with a cabbage rose in the center. But when he showed her the face where the bristles should have been, it was leather: smooth, varnished, shiny.
“Naughty girls lay over laps and have their buttocks spanked bright red until they learn to behave as good girls should.” He turned the paddle slowly so she could see it from all angles. She struggled for a moment against his iron grip on her wrists. Her pants became inarticulate whimpers.
"We'll see if you need that after I give you a graduate course in teasing."
He put the paddle on the floor next to the stinger. Tonight, Avia wouldn't get what she expected. But she would get what she deeply wanted.
Ben took his time lifting up the front of her skirt, tucking the fabric into the top of her waistband. He ran a fingertip along her garters and the tops of the gossamer light stockings he’d included with her outfit.
His hand moved up to her breasts. She saw his intent and futilely tried to avoid him, to somehow shove her back down, move her nipples away from his seeking fingers. But she only succeeded in making the mounds of her breasts quiver and tremble against the sweater.
He took one proud nipple in his fingers and squeezed hard, no teasing this time, rolling it through the fabric. She cried out in pleasure and pain and need for more. He moved to the other breast and repeated his actions, ignoring her response.
His face was closed and hard, eyes glittering as he pulled back and yanked the sweater from her waistband, almost tearing it apart as he worked it up her body as high as possible.
She felt the tight fabric dig painfully into her underarms for a few seconds, as he forced the sweater and her bra over her face and head and behind her neck. He stretched it over her shoulders and pulled it down a few inches, baring her to him, her back still bowed, wrists still clamped in his strong fingers.
He turned dark, dangerous eyes to hers and slipped his fingers through the soaking crotch of her tear-away panties, and ripped them from her body.
"First lesson," he said and used his index finger to stroke the heated swollen flesh inside her labia, lightly, slowly, working his way down one side and up the other. When he came to her already engorged clit, he tickled it gently underneath.
She cried out as intolerable pleasure spiked to her cunt and she fought vainly to close her knees. She burned fiercely along her slit, open and exposed by her spread legs.
He tugged her wrists down one more inch and her backside almost left the floor, her breasts juddered. He kept her that way and carefully teased her lips and clit for a few more interminable minutes, while he assured her that because she liked it so much, he wouldn't stop.
Her vagina clenched at nothingness and she felt hot liquid flow down to pool between the cheeks of her ass. Finally, he pulled his finger away and wiped it on her mons.
He fell on her nipples with mouth and hand, sucking her between his teeth, his tongue a firm rasp on one while his fingers pinched the other, viselike, rolling, pulling.
He'd switch sides and her nipples lengthened. He sucked them further into his mouth, his tongue curled and pressed, clamping her nipples one at a time against the edges of his teeth, sucking until they filled with blood, releasing them to
throb with pain and pleasure in his fingers. And then, he'd start again on the other.
She keened loudly, and couldn’t help the useless wrenching and twisting against his rock solid body, desperate to get away. Her movements only served to spur him on. She could feel the huge, hard column of his cock against her hip, rubbing against her, instead of slamming into her.
And she went mad with the overstimulation, the power and control, the frissons of need through her nipples, convulsing core, clit and burning folds.
When her whole body went stiff and she screamed long and hard between clenched teeth, he finally stopped. Her nipples hugely swollen, dark red, wet and raw.
Ben reached into the bag he left at hand and pulled out a small bottle of fragrant warming oil and a set of soft leather wrist restraints. He felt her sharp intake of breath.
He flipped her over and she cried out again at the feel of the blanket against her raw nipples. After he pulled off her top and bra and tossed them aside, he slipped the cuffs on her wrists. Velcro straps secured them behind her back.
Pulling against most restraints put a lot of stress on the small bones of the wrist. He’d designed these to extend up over the back of the hand. Stiff, unyielding, the leather concealed a flat piece of metal like a carpal tunnel brace. They kept the wrists straight.
If she pulled, and she would, the sleeve tightened like a Chinese finger puzzle, providing more support, as well as security from accidental release.
“The more you pull, the tighter they get,” he told her. “So don’t fight. Just relax, now. I punished you for being naughty. Now you get a reward for accepting your punishment like a good girl."
He unbuttoned her skirt and slid it down her legs. Reaching around, he unhooked her garter belt, peeling it down and leaving it still attached to her one of her sagging stockings.
Removing a fifteen-inch spreader bar from the bag, he strapped it on her, just above her knees. Her lower legs could kick in protest, but the triangle of bar and thighs with her pudendum at the apex was fixed and stable.
