by Liz Meldon
“Widen your stance.” He tapped my right inner thigh twice, harder this time, and I shuffled further down the palm, then opened my legs further. Exposed. Vulnerable. On display. Unable to face him, not even to get a read on his thoughts, I tucked my chin into my chest and waited for the next set of five.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and when I nodded mutely, he barked my name.
“Yes, sir.” Not really, but I’d done the crime.
Dean’s next five strikes varied, both in location and timing. The backs of my thighs were up for grabs this set, and by the end I was crying out with each hit, each snap of the switch against my sensitive skin, and bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet.
“Five,” I squealed on the last blow, which had been in the exact same spot as strikes three and four. My lips quivered, my lower half ablaze. The whole area had probably gone bright red, and I suspected each strike would stay with me until tomorrow. I dreaded sitting for dinner tonight.
“All right. Up we go.” Out of nowhere, Dean’s hands descended on me. One on my lower back, the other on my arm as he helped me upright. My vision blurred as I straightened, and fat, heavy tears rolled down my cheeks. I blinked in surprise, forcing more out, and then hastily wiped them away, shooting Dean a furtive glance, hoping he hadn’t seen them. From his frown, he had.
Damn it.
I shouldn’t have been crying. I wasn’t sad.
In fact, I was oddly alive. Exuberant, even. Like I’d survived some trial, as ridiculous as that sounded.
“Belle, are you okay?” Dean pulled me toward him, the stick forgotten in the dust a few feet from us, and wiped the wet tracks away with his thumbs. I nodded and released a watery laugh.
“I am. Really. I don’t know why I’m crying. I didn’t even notice it…during.”
“Probably just the shock of it,” he murmured, his arm curving around my shoulders, the weight of it oddly reassuring. I burrowed into him, arms folded between us, and smiled when he kissed my temple.
“Probably.”
“You did very well,” he told me, his voice whispery and soft again, all that flint and steel gone. “You took your punishment like a good girl.”
“Thank you, sir.” And I meant it. After all, there was a good chance we were both thinking the same thing—that I hadn’t been all that great about taking my punishment. I’d squealed and flinched and jumped out of reach, especially at the beginning, but next time I would do better. I’d be better.
Still, his praise soothed me. It quieted the internal dialogue, the self-criticism, the doubt. It gave me confidence. It suddenly had me thinking that, maybe, I could do this. With him, I could be both Belle, the escort, and Belle, the human being, and not worry as much about keeping the two so rigidly separate.
In fact, as I stood there, snuggled up to his side as Dean pushed my hair back and dried my cheeks one last time, I found myself utterly spent—and happy. I could have curled up in his lap right there and slept the day away.
“How about this,” he said as I tipped my head back to look at him. “We’ll postpone the tour until after dinner. We’ll go back, put some lotion on you, and you can take a nap for the rest of the afternoon. How does that sound?”
“It sounds nice,” I admitted. “Really nice.”
“Good.” Dean stepped away, but only to retrieve my sunglasses. In an effort to play the good submissive, I’d tossed the cat-eye sunnies aside earlier as if they hadn’t cost me a small fortune. As Dean slipped them back onto my ears, careful not to get any hair caught under the metallic arms, I decided I’d stop trying to play at being submissive. I’d quiet Penny’s must-dos—and just do. From the way he handled me now, Dean seemed to prefer when I wasn’t trying too hard—but this was only day one. That could all change on day two.
“I do think we’ll need to work on your,” Dean paused for a moment, as if searching for the right word, and then grabbed my hand again, our fingers twining, “stamina. Would you like to play another round of the game we played on the plane?”
“Now?” I asked, eyebrows shooting up. He shook his head, pulling me toward the trail.
“After your nap. Maybe while I cook dinner.”
“Okay,” I said brightly, looking away when he smirked. Clearing my throat, I added a nonchalant: “Or, you know, whenever—is also fine, sir.”
Sunlight dappled his handsome face as we crossed the tree line, the canopy rustling overhead, and Dean kissed the top of my hand with a chuckle. “All right, Belle. Whenever it is…”
6
Dean
Okay.
Ahi tuna—seared and resting.
Coleslaw—in the fridge.
Toasted taco shells—awaiting their filling.
Lemon vinaigrette for drizzling—next to the coleslaw.
Chopped sides—avocados, radishes, cilantro—also in the fridge.
Hands on my hips, I surveyed the tidied prep space, the dishes drying on the rack, and then set the pan in the sink to soak. Grabbing the bowl of spicy mayo I’d whipped up at the last moment, I dug into my pocket for the vibrator’s remote and clicked the little device up to its final setting. Belle let out a strangled moan behind me, and I smirked, then slipped the remote back in my pocket and added the mayo into the very full, recently stocked fridge.
I had ordered our first round of groceries to be delivered yesterday. While there was a little company on Saint Thomas that did it, I had a team of staff on call to do the actual arranging inside my kitchen. I was rather particular about it. In fact, I had pushed my particularities into our contract—that I would be doing all the cooking for the next two months.
Belle could help if she liked. After her nap, she had padded downstairs, all sleepy-eyed but refreshed, and offered to prep the sides for our dinner—ahi tuna tacos. I hadn’t let her do anything beyond cut vegetables, however. My cooking for us was part of the deal.
I loved cooking.
Yet I seldom had the opportunity to do it, either for myself or for company. Back home I had a private chef, and the resorts had no problem plying me with delicious options from their kitchens. But—I’d always liked doing it myself. I especially liked doing it for a submissive. Feeding her. Nourishing her. Caring for her by fueling her body—I relished the intimacy of cooking.
I had a whole dossier on Belle, separate from the packet legal had drawn up for both of us, that listed all the things she liked. Most of them had been off-the-cuff remarks on our coffee dates, but I’d made note of every one.
From there, I’d built a menu plan for the next two months. I wanted to keep it healthy and nutritious, altering some of her favourites to comply. Three weeks ago, she had told some anecdote about a trip to California with her dad, and I’d noted the way her eyes lit up when she recalled the surf shack fish tacos. Well, seared ahi tuna was a step up from whatever those heathens had served her.
I intended to spoil my submissive—both in and out of the bedroom.
On the other side of the coin, I also had a list of foods she detested. Should I need to get creative with my punishments, I always had brussels sprouts, and she’d eat every last one I put on her plate.
Closing the fridge door gently, I straightened and stretched side to side, my back cracking. Behind me, Belle’s efforts were growing louder—even with the bit gag. As I washed my hands in the deep sink, lathering them up with hand soap, my back to her, I had to admire her perseverance. She’d been at it for—seven minutes and forty-five seconds. Fifteen seconds better than on the plane, but still not quite where I wanted her.
Some of the scenarios I’d outlined required Belle to keep from climaxing for lengthy periods of time. From what I had seen today, she needed a bit of training in that area. Most of all, she needed to remember to ask to come; at least then I would know she was close and could respond accordingly. Back off. Ease up. Force her to do a task that would cool her down before we returned to the main event. Something. But if she didn’t say anything, we would keep having inc
idents like this afternoon’s transgression.
Not that I minded punishing her. And today was only the first day. Eventually, however, I would expect her to follow the rules.
Her muffled cry had my cock stiffening. She had been harder to ignore over the last few minutes, and I tucked my shaft into the waistband of my shorts before facing her after nearly eight torturous minutes for both of us: her fighting her climax, me unable to watch her naked body writhe.
The first floor of my four-thousand-square-foot vacation estate had been designed to feel open and airy. Glass windows encased the entire level, offering spectacular panoramic views of the island—beach, water, forest, and, although it was man-made, the pool. Granite countertops flecked with grey, gold, and white sat atop the L-shaped configuration of my kitchen counters. Stainless steel appliances everywhere you looked. A farmhouse sink—all the rage these days, according to my interior decorator sister—and a dishwasher. To my left, the white stone staircase, glossy and smooth, led you upstairs, sequestered in by a glass railing. Below the stairs, a seating area: white lounge chairs, a glass coffee table, a two-seater sofa.
I’d taken tones from the island itself to offset all the white: the paintings, the rug under the coffee table, and the kitchenware were all reflective of the landscape.
The only piece that wasn’t made of glass or white stone was the twelve-person walnut dining table. Apparently, seven years ago I’d had grand aspirations of entertaining large groups. These days, I only wanted to share the space with one person—and at the moment, she was strapped to that enormous table.
Well, bent over it, more like, and tied in place.
I strolled forward, hands in my pockets and a smirk on my lips, as Belle continued to wriggle and moan. Her sounds had become more strangled, more desperate as time wore on. I couldn’t imagine the position was all that comfortable, but comfort hadn’t been the point when I tied her there. With her ankles lashed to each table leg, I’d left her splayed and vulnerable—totally naked, forced to stand up on her tiptoes. Silk satin restraints—pink, of course, like all the goodies I’d purchased for this trip—knotted around her ankles and wrists. Bent at the waist, her body stretched over the dining table, hands clutching the satin laced around each wrist.
I sauntered to the far end of the table, where I’d looped her wrist ties around the two legs there. My goodness—Belle was a vision. Sprawled out. Utterly immobile. Trapped. Helpless, with a vibrator buzzing in her pretty little cunt and a bit gag in her mouth.
After she had assisted with dinner prep, I had her put the vibrator in place—but I didn’t turn it on. Instead, I’d had her pull out our plates and wine glasses for supper, organizing them on a thatched carry-out tray. Then, just before I tossed the tuna on the stove, I’d had her strip naked and bend over one end of the table. She had done so without hesitation. In fact, she had seemed a bit giddy about it—until I bound her, firmly, and stuck a gag in her mouth. Then she started to shift about nervously, testing her restraints, the tightness of her bit.
“How are we doing, Belle?” I crouched down to meet her eyeline. “Have you come yet?”
She looked up, her watery eyes wild and desperate. Drool dribbled from her lips, the gag forcing her mouth open. A delightful red flush had erupted across her body, from her cheeks down to her chest. It was a shame I had chosen to arrange her this way: I would have enjoyed toying with her nipples, testing her tolerance. Another time. For now, I could relish the view of her marked-up ass instead.
“Well? Have you come yet?” I arched an eyebrow, and she shook her head frantically, mouthing a strangled, muffled no, sir. The bit gag, about two inches around and made of squishy silicone, allowed for more speech than a ball gag, and I had both on hand, in varying sizes. Here, she could still almost utter her safeword—apricots—if need be, but there was the nonverbal cease and desist—snapping her fingers twice—available to her as well.
Her answer had me smiling. “Good girl.”
How beautiful she looked—bound and gagged. A teary-eyed, dribbling, trembling, blushing mess of a submissive. Belle was a gorgeous girl; any idiot could see that. But to me, what made her so exquisite was her exertion. Her effort. If I touched her, I’d likely find her sticky and hot. Biting down on her gag, she looked like she was trying so fucking hard not to come—and she never looked more lovely than when she tried to please me.
I tugged at her left restraint, wondering how that pink silk would look wrapped around her throat. “Are you ready for your reward?”
She hesitated, staring at me as though I might take it back, and then finally nodded, the movement paired with a long, agonized moan. Excellent. I’d been wanting to reward her for a long time. The chocolates on the plane had been all well and good, but this reward—it was a moment to bond between Dom and sub. And I lived for these moments.
I checked her restraints quickly, ensuring the knots were still tight, that she wasn’t going anywhere. First on the table legs, then at her wrists. As I passed by, I also saw to her gag, tightening it one more notch, just for fun. Her faintly freckled skin glowed with a thin layer of perspiration, and it erupted in little bumps when I trailed my finger down the length of her spine.
Tonight, her ass was her crowning glory—so prettily marked from this afternoon’s punishment. While I had knocked off one set of five, I had purposefully gone hard on her for the remaining two. She needed a taste of what was to come, of what might be waiting should she misbehave. Should she break the rules. Naturally, I had more tricks up my sleeve than spanking, but I so adored the way a submissive’s skin tinged rosy pink after a good spanking. Belle’s skin held the color especially well, seven distinct marks left across her buttocks and thighs.
Still, I wasn’t sure how easy she bruised, and while the occasional bruise was a stark reminder to toe the line, I didn’t want her covered in them by any means, her pale skin painted black and blue and purple. If she bruised easily, then she might need more time to recuperate. Over this first week, I’d determine how far I could go—within her limits—to avoid lengthy recovery times. After all, two months might seem like all the time in the world for two people alone on a private island, but it could race by in the blink of an eye if I wasn’t careful.
Time really does fly when you’re having fun.
Belle had been at it for nearly nine minutes when I finally shut the vibrator off. Her entire body sagged in relief, and perhaps disappointment, but she shot right back up when I slipped two fingers into her wet opening and retrieved the little rod. Her arousal dripped down her thighs, leaving her positively soaked. While that was difficult to tear myself away from, I did, leaning forward to set the vibrator in front of her face. She moaned softly as my hips, my rigid cock, pressed against her undoubtedly sore ass.
Straightening up, I noted that the braid I had plaited into her hair remained. Not for long. Not after I had my way with her, the satin bow at its base unlikely to hold.
As I smoothed a hand over her cheeks, admiring the marks, a thought occurred to me: she could be lying. She could have come twice by now and only become more adept at hiding it. I shook my head, running my finger between her slick, swollen folds. She could be lying, sure, about a great many things, but trust was so key in a Dom-sub relationship. I had to trust her, even if she was a paid submissive, just as she had to trust that I wouldn’t hurt her, abuse her—that everything I did was in her best interest.
So, for now, I would move forward under the assumption that she had been honest with me.
That she was dying to climax.
Her body certainly suggested as much.
“Belle,” I murmured, speaking low enough that she had to crane her head back, ear toward me, to hear, “I’m going to fuck you now, and for your reward, you can come whenever you’d like—as many times as you like. How does that sound?”
She moaned and looked away, then pressed her forehead to the table and moaned again. I grinned, tracing abstract shapes across her skin as she shudder
ed.
“That’s what I thought.”
I could have dragged it out. Made her suffer.
Instead, I pulled a condom out of my pocket and ripped open the shiny packaging. Despite our numerous medical examinations, the fact that Belle was on the pill, and my general dislike for condoms, I had some on hand for situations like this—when I didn’t want to worry about the cleanup after. With everything that had gone on today, I figured Belle would hate to waste another half hour showering before she dug into her tacos. Once we were finished here, she could have a few moments to herself, then it was straight to the lounge area next to the pool for dinner under the stars, on reclining chairs that offered more cushion than those at the dining table.
Button popped, zipper open, my shorts fell unceremoniously down my legs, and I kicked them aside for better mobility. My cock dropped heavily against Belle’s ass, and she jumped at the contact, squeaking. I so loved the noises she made.
After rolling on the condom, I eased my cock between her folds, using her arousal as a lubricant. She shifted about beneath me, moaning, arching her back and thrusting herself up to meet me.
Brat. You’ll have what I give you, not what you try to take.
I gave her two light smacks, one on each cheek, wearing a lazy smile as I stroked myself.
From the moment I met Belle, I’d wanted to fuck her. If I could, I would have bent her over Elysium’s office reception desk and had my way with her right then and there. But what I’d wanted most of all was this—her, bound and desperate, dripping with need and utterly helpless to attain her own pleasure. I could walk away right now. Leave her there. Eat my dinner at the head of the table while she stayed put until I was finished—and that would be almost as enjoyable as having her.
Almost.
After such a long day, Belle had earned her reward.
So, I gave it to her.
Gripping her hip with one hand, I steered my cock into her with the other. As soon as her wet heat engulfed me, I thrust hard, sinking all the way in with a groan. Belle mewled and tugged at her restraints, body arching up to meet me.
