by Natalie Dae
Romance Junkies said of her work: “Desiree Holt is the most amazing erotica author of our time and each story is more fulfilling then the last.”
Email: [email protected]
Desiree loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Desiree Holt
Crude Oil
Beg Me
Afternoon Delight
Down and Dirty
All Jacked Up
Wet Dreams and Fantasies: Interlude
Wet Dreams and Fantasies: Intermission
Wet Dreams and Fantasies: Game On
The Sentinels: The Edge of Morning
The Sentinels: Night Moves
The Sentinels: Dark Stranger
The Sentinels: Animal Instinct
The Sentinels: Silent Hunters
The Sentinels: Mated
Cat’s Eyes: Pretty Kitty
Cat’s Eyes: On The Prowl
Attack Force: Unconditional Surrender
Clandestine Classics: Northanger Abbey
Brit Party: Four Play
Night of the Senses: Carnal Caresses
Caught in the Middle: Swingtime
Threefold: Party of Three
Treble: Trouble at the Treble T
Subspace: Head Games
Switch: Top or Bottom?
Feral: Black Cat Fever
Christmas Goes Camo: Melting the Ice
Heatwave: Summer Spice
WAITING FOR HIM
Natalie Dae
Chapter One
Shara twirled a lock of her dark hair and stared across the spacious penthouse living room at her Dom. Naked and spreading her legs, she leant back on their black leather sofa and waited for him to notice her. To say hello and smile. To give her that look, the one that told her she was his world and he’d left work behind.
He’d swept in minutes ago, long black hair streaming behind him, and dumped his briefcase on the walnut sideboard that housed alcohol and crystal glasses, napkins and their best silver cutlery. He’d seemed preoccupied, acting as though she wasn’t even there. That stung a little. Hadn’t she been eagerly anticipating his arrival? Hadn’t she been glancing at the clock, seeing only a minute or two had passed since she’d last checked? Hadn’t her heart been hammering, her pulse racing, her mind conjuring images of how their evening would go? Yes, she’d experienced a pang of hurt, of regret that, despite their talking to one another via computer for the best part of the day, his mood had changed rapidly since they’d last had contact.
Something had happened in between. Someone or something had upset him.
She could only hope he still wanted to play. Still wanted her.
He appeared lost, leaning his folded forearms on the top of the armchair like that, gazing into space somewhere in the vicinity of the large mirror hanging above the roaring fireplace. She wondered what he was seeing, what he was thinking, and whether she could erase it, make it all vanish so he never had to go through a moment’s hurt for the rest of his life. People thought because they had money they had no worries, but they didn’t know a damn thing. Life still went on for them much as it did for those who earned less, except their cash could solve the minor issues or remove boredom by allowing them to disappear on their boat for the day or dine out. He’d had a hard morning at the office, she knew that much, preparing for a meeting later in the afternoon, and all the money in the world wouldn’t take that tired, strained look from his face. Only she could do that by preoccupying him, or listening to what was on his mind and suggesting ways to solve issues.
I want to hold you, John.
She couldn’t, though. She’d have to wait as she’d been instructed, until he pulled himself back to the present.
His hair fell forward off his shoulders, partially obscuring his features, the rise of his cheek and the tip of his nose the only things she could see. The light from the chandelier caught his hair, giving that dark sheet a silver glimmer. She longed to touch it, to sift her fingers through the softness then fist it tight, forcing him to look at her, to acknowledge that she’d been waiting for him like this for an hour. To let him know if they needed to abandon their plans that was all right. It would be a letdown, considering she’d worked herself up into a state of frenzied excitement as he’d told her to do, but she was prepared to forgo play tonight if that was what he needed.
Look at me, John. Speak to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.
But that wasn’t the way it worked—the way he worked. He would only tell her what was wrong once he’d mulled it over, once he had to admit that he couldn’t find the solution alone. He hated to burden her.
She sighed quietly, although she’d wanted to push the air out in a gush so he’d whip his head her way and look at her with those big brown eyes. Anything to have his attention. Yet if he knew she was growing impatient he’d make her wait longer, testing her ability to keep her emotions in check. Teaching her that, although she was allowed to express herself, to tell him how she wanted things as his sub, he and only he really called the shots. It did no harm to allow him to think that way, but Shara was the one in true control. At least that was what she had always thought.
Observing him was nothing but an immense pleasure. The cut of his grey trousers was perfect for highlighting the curve of his arse, only one cheek visible owing to his side-on position. His white shirt was crumpled at the elbows, the cuffs turned over, and his dark grey tie swung a little between him and the chair back. She wondered whether he’d take it off and bind her wrists with it, or tie her to the bed pole, the material cutting into her skin just the way she liked it, the burn of it increasing every time she moved.
She imagined walking up behind him and running her hands over the swells of his rear, easing the fabric down so she could touch him, palms to taut muscles beneath that hair-speckled skin. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed, thinking of how that skin tasted. How her tongue seemed to explode with sensation as she dragged it up and down, just to the side of his crack, then delving lower to lick the soft bridge between his bollocks and puckered hole.
Going down on her knees in front of him entered her head then, of her breathing in the scent of recently enclosed cock, all musk and indefinable tang.
I want you to fuck me, John.
He shifted his forearms so they jutted out in front of him, and dug his elbows into the chair top, the leather pleating like shadowy flower petals around them. He let his hands dangle, and she admired the curve of his wrist, the prominent bone there that, when pressed to her clit, gave her an orgasm quite unlike those produced in any other way. And his long, square-ended fingers, how she loved them, the way he stroked her cunt. The way he pushed two inside her, curling them and rubbing over her G-spot, the pressure there always startling at first until he gained a fast rhythm and the urge to come built. Most times, once she’d been sated, he withdrew them and put them in his mouth. Sucked off her juices, staring at her as he tongued the web between his fingers, his eyes glittering with the promise he’d make her come again before she’d fully recovered from the orgasm she’d just had. He knew her so well, knew what turned her on, and played expertly every time.
She tilted her head and studied him some more. If she got up now and sat in that chair he was in the perfect place to cup her breasts, to tweak her nipples between fingers and thumbs. Pull them so they distended to that painful level that had her panting, arching her back to show him she wanted more.
And she always wanted more.
He could nuzzle her neck, lips featherlight, soft and warm, his hair resting over one of her shoulders, the ends a tickling caress, one she loved on her inner thighs when he feasted on her. If he was true to form he’d lick a path down her neck to her collarbone, swirling the tip of his tongue in the dip there and giving her nipples an extra hard pinch. She’d gasp, even though she’d been expecting it, and he’d chuckle that low-in-the-throat way he had when fully ar
oused yet trying to act as though he wasn’t.
Her cunt ached—ached so fiercely she contemplated pressing the heel of her hand to her clit to ease the throbbing. But it wouldn’t stop there. She’d dip her fingers into her wet hole and finger-fuck herself until she almost reached orgasm, rocking her hand, daring him to stop her, to demand she take her hand away and wait for him to do the honours.
But waiting was the deal and she wasn’t about to renege.
He sighed, lifted his arms then cradled his head, dropping it slightly, his face and hands fully covered by hair. Perhaps he needed to have a moment where he could pretend he was alone. She’d get up, leave him in peace, but he hadn’t given her permission. This play session had been set up via email earlier in the day, the first letter arriving with a jingle notification that had her frowning as he hadn’t indicated he’d be contacting her today when he’d left this morning.
My pet,
I want you naked, on the sofa, waiting for me precisely an hour before I’m due home this evening. You must think of what play will include, think of nothing but that, and under no circumstances must you touch yourself. Anywhere. You must not squirm to relieve your arousal—and by that I mean you squeezing your legs together and clenching your hole so you get movement. Friction. I want you to just sit and imagine.
And she had done that, although with each scenario that had played out in her head she’d become increasingly uncomfortable. It was a test, she knew that, and when he asked her—and he would—whether she had done exactly as he’d told her, he would be looking for signs of her lying. She had no intention of doing that—why lie and break the trust between them? Why throw everything away for a quick fumble between her legs while she waited for him? Anticipation was what she enjoyed most, the longing, the dreaming, the heady build-up so she was on the verge of coming when he walked in. Thoughts alone could do that, she’d discovered, if she closed her mind off to everything but the idea of being fucked by him. Whipped by him. Invaded by him.
And John…knowing he imagined what she was doing, perhaps growing uncomfortable himself as he sat at his desk talking to someone sitting on the other side, discussing his latest venture, his mind not fully on that as it should be but on her. The giddy rush that gave her always took her breath away. That despite their billions, despite his quest to help others fight illness, thoughts of her overtook any others. Oh, she wasn’t vain enough to think it happened all the time, but on play days, emails ramping up their desire, he’d told her he struggled to concentrate.
My pet,
I have a meeting later, so I won’t be able to write to you between three and four. So let me make it clearer what I want so you can think of this before I contact you afterwards. You must strip then shower at three. While everyone’s discussing Jacobson and his possible investment in the company, I can sit and imagine the water soaking your hair, making your skin shine. With the shareholders hashing out whether Jacobson’s name will benefit our brand and those in need of the drugs his research will provide—it will, I don’t need a discussion to know that—I’ll indulge in a little mind wander.
You can wash your cunt, but do not press the soap against it. Do not rub the side of the bar up and down your slit. Do not reach for that expensive tube of shower gel and slide it inside you. Remember, nothing, nothing feels as good as my cock. Likewise, you can wash your tits, but leave your nipples alone. Skirt around them, ignoring the urge to squeeze or pinch. When you’re done, leave the bathroom without drying yourself. I want you to walk through the penthouse, knowing you have goose bumps, knowing your nipples are hard, your cunt curls dripping.
And her cunt curls were dripping now. Her juices had pooled at the lower curve of her hole, resting there, a globule that, if she moved slightly, would burst and seep downwards. With her legs wide open like they were, he might see the shimmer of her wetness if he lifted his head and turned her way. He’d see her need, the way her chest was rising and falling, her taut nipples. He’d see the blush on her cheeks, growing hotter by the minute, and know she was still doing as he’d instructed. Thinking about their play session even after he’d arrived home.
Perhaps him not coming over to her immediately was a new strategy, one he’d failed to tell her about. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.
But there was, she sensed it.
I can’t do anything about it unless you ask me to, John. And those are your rules, not mine. Silence on play days unless ordered to speak.
So she continued with obeying his instructions. And waited, waited for him.
My pet,
Once you’re dry, you may, if you have enough time, prepare the playroom. I want the paddle with the studs placed on the table. Tonight we shall test your pain threshold again, as discussed the other night. The whip and cat-o’-nine-tails don’t have the ability to hurt you now beyond that first bite, do they, so we will be going to the next level.
Pain—you love it, don’t you. Love the way it streaks across your arse, the rush of it going to your cunt and making it buzz. I remember everything you have ever said, you know—every damn thing—and tonight we’ll push the boundaries and see just how much further you can go. After your boast that you’ll never use the safe word… I don’t believe in saying never. There has to be a time when you can’t take any more. Perhaps tonight will prove that.
Fuck, he’d thrown down that challenge on purpose, knowing she enjoyed submitting to the degree she couldn’t stand after a good whipping. That every strike pushed her further out of herself and into the zone, that the only thing that mattered was how much it hurt, how quickly that pain switched to pleasure and made her clit throb so hard just the beat of it could make her come. No fingers, no tongue, nothing but her draped over the table with her legs spread wide, her cunt gaping open, and the pain being the one thing that induced orgasm.
She thought of the paddle and how she’d run her fingertips over the metal studs, testing how they felt. The tips were blunt, although they had the ability to pierce her skin if she was struck in the same place frequently, she was sure. She’d pressed her palm to them, then smacked the paddle onto her hand, trying to imagine what it would feel like on the more tender, softer skin of her arse. The thrill that had gone through her returned now, and her nipples tightened, her cunt clenching involuntarily, breaking open that globule so her juices trickled down into her arse cleft.
Can you smell me, John?
The paddle was on the table, and she saw it in her mind’s eye, its blackness and the sparkle of the studs. A thin, brown leather loop hung from the end of the handle, ready for John to slip his hand through. If he became too engrossed, his palm sweating, and he lost his grip, he wouldn’t drop the toy. She could see him wielding it, see the firm set of his mouth as he prepared to strike, the query in his eyes as to whether he could finally break her. Whether he’d found something she couldn’t endure. Her boasts had been designed to push him, to get him to do what she wanted without him realising she had manipulated it that way. Everything had to be his decision, but if she didn’t work the way she did she’d be left wanting. He’d dashed that misconception, though. She’d thought she had been so clever, orchestrating the way things went without him knowing, but he’d told her he knew exactly what she was up to earlier in one of his emails. He knew and hadn’t said a damn word until her safety had become an issue.
John’s previous subs had been totally passive, allowing him to call every single shot. Shara wasn’t made that way. She enjoyed being at his mercy—it gave her a sense of calm to be so treated, to hand over the reins to him and allow him to take her wherever, whenever and however he pleased—but to not express that she needed more went against her principles. She was a sub, yes, but one who needed a say in what occurred. This was a learning curve for John, and she was determined to show him that a sub didn’t need to take only what he decided to give, denying her inner wants.
You will do what I want, John.
My pet,
I
realise you admitting you can’t take any more would be a big thing. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met—that’s why I love you, my sub with a touch of Dom. Perhaps, when I paddle your arse and you find the pain is a different breed to what you’ve had before, you’ll finally admit I was right. That I know best.
I can see you rolling your eyes. Stop it.
Once you’ve put the paddle on the table, you may go into the living room and sit on the sofa. It should be around four by this time. You must think of the paddle, how it will feel—the studs, the bite of them—and how far you’re prepared to go. They may make you bleed, remember that. I know the pain carrying over to the following day gets you off. Where you can’t sit, can’t bear to wear clothing because it chafes, yet at the same time you relish that because it reminds you of what we’ve done. I know all this, but I’m concerned at the levels you’ve said you wish to go to this evening. Although I’m prepared to strike you, to give you pleasure-pain, I’m not prepared to hurt you if it doesn’t give you some measure of excitement or sexual sensation. Do you understand? Hurting you for the sake of it isn’t something I can do. You’ve been aware of this from day one. Do not push me or try to force me into playing that way.
What is my main rule? Say it out loud. Say it to yourself now. Yes, that’s right. Your safety is my primary goal. So, my little pet, do not think you can outwit me with how clever you’re being. I know exactly what you’re doing and it won’t work. The minute, the second I feel you’re out of your depth, play stops.
You sighed then, didn’t you. Don’t.
I won’t go easy on you either, know that and let it sink in. If this is what you want—a hard, brutal spank—then that is what you’ll get. But, I’m warning you, if I catch on to you pretending that it really isn’t hurting so bad, just so you save face, I will not be pleased.
