"Nervous?"
I shake my head, feeling the surge of angered blood through my veins, and a toe-curling, finger-trembling rush once again; not through nerves this time, but an expectant excitement at what awaits. I look down to the wooden table before us, and widen my eyes. A lighter shade of wood than the surrounding set, speckled with dark, circular patches, and fitting rather incongruously with the rest of the stage. It was seemingly brought here for this occasion, and I begin to see why: two sets of two iron shackles, placed at either end, stretching the length of the table. It looks like something from the Spanish Inquisition, rather than the decoration of a lonely shack. But the masochistic devotee inside me appreciates the atmosphere at least.
"This set was something we had mocked up for the zombie movie coming out this month. I forget its name."
Good luck finding it among the millions of scary-cabin-based zombie movies, I quickly think to myself. My eyes wander intrepidly back to the table, and those foreboding iron shackles that grace its surface. Rusted slightly and looking abrasive to the touch, my wrists begin to burn in anticipation. Here I am again, giving myself to my master.
"And the table, well," he pauses, scratching his head, apparently battling the impulse to tell me the truth. "I guess this is what time-wasting screenwriters have to look forward to."
He bends at the knees, placing the candle on the floor, before taking off his jacket - revealing to my adventuring eyes the thick and broad musculature of his shoulders underneath his shirt - and folds it neatly, finding a suitable corner of the cabin for it.
I begin to feel the impetus building. My handbag drops to the floor, as a compelling force attracts me to the table, despite my niggling, cynical compulsions to resist. He looks back at me with those blue, expressive eyes, reflecting the sole candle's fiery glow, and I immediately know what I must do. My dress is unzipped from behind, by a set of trembling, impetuous hands, as I slide it down my body, discarding it in a dusty mess on the floor before me. He watches me as I remove my bra, before an intense buzzing noise from the lighting overhead startles me from my impromptu striptease.
"Won't anyone find us?"
"Nobody would dare."
I got that message loud and clear. My petite b-cup breasts fall out of their cups, and my bra is kicked to the dark recesses of the cabin. Just as I begin to slide down my panties, reaching my aching knees, he charges across to me, apparently unable to hold himself any longer. He digs his fingers into my biceps, lifting me off the ground in one sudden, frightening movement, and forces me to the table beside us. I flatten my back against the harsh wooden surface, and expand my chest outwards to catch one almighty breath; I'm in that zone again, the exhilarating feeling of giving somebody else complete control.
My wrists are seized - albeit carefully - and affixed to the iron shackles, cold enough to arouse goose pimples on my forearms. They're tightened, in line with my head at my either side, and once more I'm captive. My ankles are next, splayed out beyond shoulder's width below me, allowing my keeper absolute access to the dampening patch between my legs, if he so chooses. The shackles are tightened, and the imprisonment is complete.
"How's that?" he asks, in a genial and amiable tone, ill-fitting the situation.
"Wide," I say, speaking the only thing that pops into my mind as the cold, fetid studio air breeze between my parted pussy lips with ease.
He disappears behind me, leaving me only the sound of his slow, deliberate footsteps on the artificial floorboards company. The tension kills me. Clack, clack, clack go his finely polished shoes on the ground, and suddenly the shadows we cast against the walls dance intensely, to and fro, as I can only guess he picks the candle up, moving it closer to me.
"Here's what's going to happen, Miss Everett" he begins, standing malevolently out of my sight. Even as I arch my head backwards, grazing the back of my skull against the hard table's surface, I still can't see anything but his shadow. "You've impressed me so far. You do as you're told. You don't answer back, and you don't say no."
A swelling, obnoxious sense of pride begins to ooze from within me. I was always the teacher's pet; the first to impress any authority figure. And unsurprisingly I find the same ego-boost from Daniel.
"But, I'm going to make things difficult for you. You're going to be a picture of restraint today. If you do or say anything without my prior approval, then you get -"
Fuck! Burning, searing pain! Exploding onto my stomach in tiny specks, radiating outwards until whole patches of skin hurt! I cry out loudly, cocking my head forward to see trails of liquid wax pooling on my stomach; tiny lakes of fire making my wrists strain against their restraints painfully in protest. And above, Daniel's hand, holding a saucer tipped ever so slightly to the right, seating a candle and a whole bed of searing hot candle wax no doubt.
"This."
Again, I get the message loud and painstakingly clear. The skin on my stomach throbs with pain, as cooling liquid begins to drain from my pale skin, and into my belly button, hardening with every passing second.
"Do you understand?"
I nod my head up and down, brushing the back of my scalp against the remorseless wooden surface as I do so. I can't see him, and it kills me. I close my eyes, and try to piece together the scant recollections of the few times we've been together, but I still can't see anything but that sly smile on the side of his lips.
"Good. Then we'll begin."
He puts me out of my misery at last; he strides back into my view with a click and a clack, holding that nefarious candle and saucer as he walks, making our shadows dance seductively against the walls. With his left hand, he reaches for my thigh, gently caressing his fingers against my smooth, pale skin. The feeling is enough to send me into raptures, tickling me up and down in fidgeting squirms. Evidently, he does not like it.
"Miss Everett, did I ask you to move?"
I bite my lip, straining my expression delicately, trying with all my might to contain myself against the tantalizing, tickling caress of his fingertips against my skin. But it's no use. Again, I jerk from side to side, barely constrained by my shackles, and I already know what's coming.
The droplets of wax seem to hang in mid air forever. My eyesight is as terrible as ever, but even I can see the tiny drops of liquid making their painstakingly slow journey down to my body. One hits my right breast, the other just below my ribcage, and I squeal between gritted teeth as the pain seizes my body. Red hot. Burning. Searing flesh.
"I'm not used to people disobeying me Miss Everett" says my jailor, taunting me from above. "You're going to make me burn this entire candle."
I feel the sweat building on my brow; the crimson hot blood rushing to my cheeks and around my body, making me blush. The wax soon cools, hardening to my skin in abstract, oily flat sculptures. I mash my teeth together, chew on my lip a little for good measure, and harden my body for the inevitable restraint that must follow.
"Let's go again."
He brushes his fingers up and down my thigh, tickling my fine, pale pores, wandering with his eyes all over my body, and my sopping wet slit, brightly visible for his sordid delight. This time I'm resolute; I tense my every limb, hardening myself against the touch of my oppressor, and preparing myself to resist my every impulse to fidget and move. So far, so good.
"Better," he mutters, trailing his fingers up to my vulva, tickling the side of my pussy lips, exciting a rush of energy throughout my body that under normal circumstances would have me kicking out in ecstasy, shouting obscenities and pleading to go further. This time I know better. His fingers move in sumptuous zigzags all the way back down to my knee, and I surprise myself with my restraint. I begin to sigh a breath of relief, watching that saucer of hot wax hovering ominously above me with wide eyes, knowing that surely the worst is over. I'm wrong.
"Remember. Don't do anything before I give you permission."
With those foreboding words, his fingers flash back up to my impatiently awaiting snatch, glistening wet am
id the humid, fusty air, and loving every moment of attention he lavishes upon me. His fingertips part my pussy lips first, glancing over my slit and gathering the waiting juices, before diverting upwards to find my engorged clit, hungrily demanding every bit of love it can handle. Two or three strokes up and down with a finger tip, and I'm already in a sinister paradise. He sees me bite upon my lips, strain against my restraints, and waits for the inevitable sound and the foregone movement that will demand yet more punishment.
He gently brushes my clit from side to side, exciting the same fireworks I felt on our first night together in the restaurant. Battling my temptations, I plunge myself into make-believe, putting myself back into my calm place: a gorgeous plain of green grasses. It doesn't work, my love-hungry clit just drags me right back, reminding me that it won't be long now until I'm wracked with a cruel orgasm.
"Ohhh!" I cry out, losing my boundless control for a moment, before looking back up to his face, silently pleading for clemency. I see his eyes thicken in judgment; his shoulders broaden fiercely, and with a deft tip of his hand, the wax falls once more.
"Mmmhhhrrr!"
"You disappoint me Miss Everett," he says, a tangible tone of sorrow in his voice, far removed from the usual monotone. "You were doing so well."
The pain is excruciating; burning, radiating heat. Drops on my stomach, my left breast, and my thigh. But it's not enough. I still haven't learnt my lesson. His fingers continue to excite and electrify me, increasing their pace upon my hardening clit, this time moving in small circles. It's too much; my right thigh - emboldened by the fearful rush of pain it just felt - begins to tremble, and I'm left anxiously anticipating the blood-curdling pain once again. But that gorgeous bastard makes me wait.
"What's the worst part?" he asks, knowing he won't get a response. "Is it the pain? Or the waiting?"
Most definitely the waiting; like in all things. Something gives me the feeling he knows this too. When the pain comes, I'm hardly ready for it, but I manage to suppress any sound from between my lips. It hurts, drops burning my chest and stomach, but I can restrain myself, digging my nails into the splintered wood of the table. I must be getting better at this.
His finger - tracing complete circles on my clit - only gets faster, and in a marvelous feat of dexterity, he pushes his middle finger deep into my slit, whilst swapping his index finger to his thumb, continuing the pace on my love-button without skipping a beat. God, he knows how to make me squirm, if only I could.
"So how do you feel?" After several moments of stifled silence, he realizes his mistake and corrects it: "You can answer me now."
"Uhm," I say, trying hard to disguise a groan of relief into a simple utterance, "I don't know if I can do this."
Again, that familiar smile sparks to his face; he enjoys me watching me like this. He loves to see me pushing my boundaries. Things are heating up, and I don't know how well I can postpone the orgasm he cruelly brings. But he's going to make me do it regardless.
"But you're doing so well," he says, taunting me from above. His grinning, almost-demonic face glows in the golden hue of the candlelight, appearing somewhat less than human. I take a silent, deep breath, taking a moment to realize every other thing around me; the feeling of the cold, hard wood beneath my back, the cold uncomfortable pain of my stinging wrists against my shackles, and the stuffy, albeit liberating air against my naked skin. He pushes his finger deeper within me, curving it around to meet the insides of my stomach, and again I lose myself.
"Mmmhhm!"
I already know what's coming, but it seems to take the burning wax so long to get to me. Maybe I am getting better at this; I no longer fear the pain. Hell, that time, I'm not even sure that I tried to avoid it.
"Urgghh," I groan, as the drops splash upon my skin, joining the other errant droplets of wax in hardening structures all over my body, hiding the burns beneath. I press my lips together - determined not to let anything else pass - and look into the face of my host; steely, and committed to his sinister work. He even bites his lip, perhaps suppressing a compulsion of his own. I like the look.
Time goes by - seconds, minutes, I don't even know - and I maintain a steady grip on my unruly body, stopping myself from trembling, groaning, and making sure I don't lose myself to an inevitably painful orgasm. At last, he's impressed.
"Good."
Good. Somehow I think I deserve better for my efforts. I'm not far wrong. I watch from below as he slowly lowers the saucer to the table, fearing his intentions at first, before realizing he's giving me a reprieve.
"Okay, you can come, Miss Everett."
Permission, at last! His fingers increase their pace even more so, and my pussy contracts around him almost immediately, jailing him within me. My back arches away from the hard table beneath, ascending as far as I can to the heavens. I lose my breath, wracked by the pleasures of an orgasm so long denied, and scream out.
"Ohhhh!"
My clit hardens to an absolute rock-solid surface, enjoying the affections of his finger, and giving me no time to compose myself. Fireworks ignite. My body begins to radiate a fuzzy warmth that almost liquidates the swollen globs of wax upon my skin, and I lose myself to fits of trembling; shuddering forwards and backwards, against my restraints, and against the resistance of the table.
"You look like you enjoyed that" he says, bringing me back to Earth with a low monotone.
I nod, feeling a bead of sweat escape from my forehead. I'm convulsed by aftershocks, my pussy grinding against his enveloped finger of its own accord. He withdraws, and I already miss him.
"You did good."
His words mean almost nothing to me now; I just stare into his eyes with a menacing, compulsive desire. I want him, and I can't let anything stop me. He tears himself away from my gaze long enough to reach into his pocket, and take out a small key. And then, to my delight, he unlocks my shackles one by one, freeing my wracked, shuddering body bit by bit, limb by limb.
"So what now?" I ask, biting my sweat-glazed lip, feeling the heat radiate from my burning scarlet cheeks, and running a hand over the strange, abstract sculptures of wax on my body. I brush them off as I climb to my feet, seeing them hitting the floorboards, and wondering for just one brief moment whether anyone will find them, the telltale evidence of a very debauched morning.
"I have business" he says, a delayed answer to my question. I fall back to the table, dejected, disappointed, and making every effort to exhibit my sore, stinging, and alluring body to him.
"Why don't you hold me? Just for a minute."
I don't know what's gotten into me; I couldn't usually be so bold. But something about being shackled inside a dingy and decrepit cabin, red-hot wax biting at your skin, and your lover's fingers exciting you to a forbidden precipice can inspire a forlorn confidence. He considers - crossing his arms, and looking at me with a raised eyebrow, surely noting my departure from the assigned role of submissive - but after a few moments gives in to my demand, and approaches. I wrap my arms around him, burying my face into the lovingly warm fabric of his white shirt, and again I feel whole.
"Where are you going? Can't I come too?"
He remains suspiciously silent. I tighten my grip on him, feeling the tense muscles around the small of his back and his abs tighten before my affections. In fact, his entire body feels rigid and tense. If I were so daring, I would almost say he feels vulnerable.
"I must be going, Miss Everett. I can call you a driver."
I'm not ready to let go yet; I'm not ready to lose him to another afternoon of stuffing myself in my room, avoiding the painstaking glances of my twin sister. I don't loosen my grip.
"Miss Everett..."
I don't know where I get the nerve. The old me would have bowed to the demand of anyone, let alone someone like Daniel Grant. But here I am, holding on for dear life. He seizes my stingingly sore wrist with his fingers, and peels me away from him, but I still have some embittered fight left in me. I slide a couple of fingers underneat
h his shirt, between the carefully buttoned exterior, and feel the warmth of his skin beneath.
"Miss Everett!" he bellows, and I feel the same rush of foreboding fear that I felt just fifteen minutes ago, a saucer of burning wax held threateningly above me. He takes a step back, but my grip is too strong. The buttons of his once-immaculate white shirt are spilled onto the floorboards around us, bouncing into the darkened corners of the set, and his body is exposed to me. And I can't believe what I see.
"What have you -"
He looks down to see his abdomen exposed, and the snaking, jagged, writhing mess of scar tissue beneath. I put my hand to my mouth, shocked at the scars that he hides. I see an array of badly healed wounds - an intertwined set of scars that start at his pectorals, and twist up and down his body, to his belt line - and I can't stop myself from looking back up to his eyes as soon as he pulls the two halves of his shirt back over him. I don't see anger, pain, or sorrow. He seems emotionless, a completely blank expression upon his face.
"I'm sorry, I - I just -"
You fucking idiot Chloe, what have you done?! I leap to my feet, and turn my back to him, too late. My mind is aflame with nervous, gilt-edged questions: Why would Daniel Grant have such scars? He's one of the richest men in the world! Why would I be so fucking stupid, overconfident and rude to expose him like that? What is he going to do to me now?
"Miss Everett," he says, in that ever-professional monotone I know so well. I turn back around, to find him wearing his black suit jacket once again, buttoned up to hide any evidence of my impetuous crime. "You're leaving."
I nod, despondently. Turning around, I look around for my dress and underwear, treading water in an expanse of emotionless, shaken disbelief. I feel palms on my shoulder blades, gently pushing me; I follow his instruction, and allow him to guide me out of the cabin, back into the plastic grasses and shrubs, and back into the darkness outside. It hasn't hit me yet; the realization that I'm still naked. Nor the horrible, biting hatred I'm going to feel myself, having blown the growing chance I had with the man who took my virginity. But it's coming.
Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) Page 10
