I don’t want her begging me, but I need to take control of this situation. If I say no, then that’s nonnegotiable.
She flashes me that knowing-woman’s smile. “You touched me last week.” Then her face sobers. “That’s when I knew I had to break it off with Danny. Everything we did last week—everything you made me do and feel—I was fantasizing about you.”
I catch my breath, stunned.
Suddenly it’s clear. We’ve been feeling the same thing all along. There was a moment, a spark, a strip of light from a just-opened door, something that told me she wanted me. I just didn’t trust it, preferring instead to assume I was forcing myself on her.
Rachel’s running her hands up my thighs, rucking up the fabric of my trousers. She looks at my groin. “Where do you hide your cock?” she murmurs.
She fiddles with my belt and the fly of my trousers. Inside, her hands find the thick rope of my erection behind snug boxer briefs. Even through the cotton knit, her hands are deliciously hot.
“Ah, chérie,” I breathe.
She seems to be studying it with her hands and with her eyes. “I like it better without the loose fabric.” Her fingers are tracing along its length, molding the head.
I thrust my pelvis forward and drop my head back. She’s peeling the underwear down, slowly, carefully so that my cock is released millimeter by millimeter. The spread of my legs means she can’t push the cloth too far down my thighs, but she’s got it bunched around my hips, just below my ass. She reaches in to fondle my sac.
I’m struggling not to drive the action. Rachel needs rest and comforting, not a rampant dick in her face and a Dom barking orders at her. Then she takes her hands away. I look down. She’s scooted up, sitting more against the pillows. She twists her hair into a rough knot at the crown of her head, then puts her hands, palms facing up, on her thighs.
“How may I serve you, Sir?”
The witch. She knows that will inflame me past all discretion.
I try to stop her. “We shouldn’t.”
She responds by wriggling out from between my knees. She gets her legs free and stands up. I sit back on my heels, waiting to see if she pulls her clothes on. It’s what she should do, it’s what I should want her to do, but I hold still, praying she’s as desperate as I am.
She doesn’t leave. Thank God, she does what I hoped for. She kneels on the super-soft rug by the bed—there for just this purpose—and presents herself to me.
“How may I serve you, Sir?” she repeats.
I close my eyes, trying to think what to do. We haven’t talked as a couple, haven’t negotiated limits, decided on a safe word, called her safety-net person, none of that.
But I have it all on file, a little demon reminds me. The first lesson is all about safe, sane and consensual, so I require all my students to provide a clean bill of medical health and to question me bluntly about my health. We role-play the establishment of limits, both to set them for the rest of the lessons but also so the student knows what to do in a new BDSM relationship.
So trust her, the demon insists. She knows you. You sure as hell know her. So stop dicking around.
“Very pretty,” I praise her as I get off the bed. I walk behind her and strip off my clothes. My cock is painfully tight, but I rather enjoy that.
“Are you ready to submit?” I ask her formally. It’s the start of every lesson, the invitation to proper subspace.
“Yes, Sir.” Her voice is resonant with intensity.
I walk back around to face her. “What is your safe word?”
“Roadblock.”
“And to slow me down?”
“Speed bump.”
I have to force myself not to stroke my cock. Her submission is so beautiful, so honest and joyful. The problem is, I need to be careful with her injuries. I want to torque her pleasure without reminding her of the bastard.
“Stand.”
She stands. My palms itch to caress her.
“Follow me,” I say, walking out through the living room back to the atelier. When she’s joined me at the St. Andrew’s cross, I turn her so her back is to the X-frame.
I put a hand gently at her chin, lifting her face to mine. I kiss her and when her lips open, I am tasting again, then feasting on her. I could do this for hours. I wrench myself away but make a mental note to include kissing for hours in another session.
I get a cushion designed to pad the portion of the cross that will press against Rachel’s ass.
“It doesn’t hurt. Much,” she insists.
I arch an eyebrow. “Did I ask you?”
“No, Sir,” she mumbles.
When the pad is in place, I strap Rachel’s wrists and ankles to the cross. I check to make sure she’s secure but not stretched. This isn’t about pain, it’s about setting her free through a pleasure that I control.
I’m trailing kisses on her face, her brow, the skin alongside her eyes, the unbruised cheek, her luscious lips, her chin. I get a warm, damp cloth to clean her nipples of any remaining salve, using the texture of the cloth to tease and arouse her. I take a nipple in my mouth, relishing the strain of her muscles as she tries to push herself into my mouth but can’t. I nibble, stroke with my tongue, press down with my lips and suck. Then I repeat the process with the other nipple.
When I’m done, I apply the easy nipple clips, the ones that stimulate more than hurt. I’m going to dominate her with the painful frustration that comes only from the ramping up of desire and reward. Her whimpers urge me to go faster, there’s a frantic quality to her entire body—she’s starting to realize there is a catch to having a Dom pleasure you.
My lips skim past the marks on her rib cage, down her tummy and straight to her pussy. The pad protecting her ass has the added advantage of tilting her pelvis toward me. Everything is open to me: her clit, her cunt, her asshole. I’m a patient man, methodical in my approach. This can take all evening.
I thrust two fingers into her cunt, pressing in the perfect spot to make her mindless with passion. My other hand plays with her clit, not quite enough to allow her to come, then makes way for my mouth. I lick in all the ways I can devise—little flicks, short strokes, then all the way to sustained passes with the flat of my tongue. Then I suck on her clit, teasing it with my teeth.
We get to the edge of her orgasm once, twice, three times before I finally push her into the whirlwind. Her body jerks hard against the restraints, pulsing with each new climax. Finally she screams. I smile and pull away.
I unbuckle the cuffs and scoop her into my arms. Her hair has come loose again, trailing over my biceps and shoulder. I can smell her shampoo, her scent, her passion, her release.
When we get to the bedroom, I set her on her feet. “Can you stand?” I ask before taking my arms away.
“Yes.” She braces her legs, then moves to kneel.
“No.” I hold her hand in mine as I get onto the bed. “Now, kneel between my thighs.”
She grins at me, clearly pleased finally to be the instrument of my pleasure. If she knew how good it felt to hear her scream, she might not be so desperate to return the favor.
I lean back against the pillows. “Touch me.” Her hands are soft and strong, and so inventive.
“Please,” she whispers.
“Please what?”
“Please, Sir!”
I chuckle. “What is it you want?”
Her eyes are pleading with me. “I want to suck you off, I want to fuck you, I want to make you come a thousand times,” she says in a rush.
I smile. “Not all tonight, I trust?”
She’s still holding my cock, petting it and smearing the head with precome. But she’s looking at me, serious now.
“Tonight, tomorrow, as long as you want me.” Her hands still. “Or, as long as you only want me, not anyone else. I don’t like to share.” She tilts her head to one side, squinting a bit while she waits for my answer.
“No one else, I promise. There hasn’t been. Not for a long time.”
&
nbsp; She nods. “Me neither. Because I didn’t have anything with Danny, not really. I think he reminded me that I was submissive. I let my need to explore that part of myself confuse his arrogance for dominance.”
“He’s in the past,” I remind her.
“I don’t think he was ever in the present,” she says. “He just led me here to you.”
I know what she means.
She resumes the stroking. It’s different with her, more erotic because of the way I feel about her. I’m not confident I’ll be able to last if she starts squeezing. As it is, she’s applying tantalizingly insufficient pressure to make me come. She’s smart.
“So…blowjob? Or can I fuck you?”
“Even astride, it’ll hurt your ass,” I say.
“Please, Sir, I think I can solve that problem,” she coaxes.
I purse my lips to keep from laughing. “I’d like to see you try.”
She sheathes me with a condom, then straddles my hips. She rubs the head of my cock all over her slick sex. I alternate between watching her face, which is glowing with happiness, and watching what she’s doing with her hands. Finally, she starts to inch down onto me. She’s hot and tight, methodically squeezing her muscles around my cock. But while this is the right amount of pressure, it’s now too slow to make me come. I’m pleased by her efforts to frustrate me.
When she’s all the way down and her pubic bone is pressing against me, she spreads her knees wide and leans over my chest, her hands on either side of my shoulders. She moves up and down at an angle, never letting her sore ass hit my body.
I figure out the best place to put my hands is at the tops of her thighs. I can’t force the pace, but she’s doing a great job. I’m remembering our session the week before. My cock is the dildo she’d used. I start to play with her clit, replicating the things I’d done in our third lesson.
I feel her quiver.
“Hold it in, Rachel,” I order. I don’t want her coming before I do, or at least not too much before.
She bends her head even lower, so her hair falls onto my chest and arms. Ribbons of the most exquisite silk tickle me. I reward her with a devilish pressure on her clit. She groans and pants. And speeds up.
Yes, that’s the rhythm. Just a bit more… And then she squeezes again, harder.
I yell, “Now, oh God, now!” and finger her until I feel her spasms.
It’s never felt this good, coming inside a woman I’ve wanted so much. My skin and muscles contract. I’m flying, bound to the bed only by the delicious weight of her body.
*
I’m draped over Marc’s chest, my head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder. He’s stroking my arm from shoulder to fingertips. His other hand is under my hair, holding my neck like it’s the most delicate spun-sugar creation. I feel treasured. Loved.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Of course it’s okay. Better than okay. I’ve wanted you from the start.”
“Ginny says all the girls want you.”
“Ginny is a charming woman, but perhaps just a bit naïve.”
I lever my torso up to look at him. “Naïve?”
Marc’s eyes are warm and loving, but his expression is almost austere. Quite the contrast.
“I teach protocol. Mostly to couples, but yes, occasionally to single women. They’re giggly and silly. They do not arouse me at all.”
“Oh?”
“The couples…? Enh. Sometimes, but only because I see them respond to each other. It’s hollow, like watching someone else lick an ice cream cone.”
“You must have your pick of subs, though. You know, like at the clubs…?” I ask. I feel tentative with Marc. He seems unattainable.
“Rachel, I’m not—it’s not like that. Currently, I study BDSM more than I practice it. I teach it as a way to study it. I was more active in Paris, bien sûr, but here in New York? I’ve been too busy to be much of a Dom.”
I put my head back down and nod. “But it was different last week, wasn’t it?”
I feel the rumble of his laughter.
“It’s been different with you every minute, but last week I lost my control. I had to touch you. I’m not proud of it—you were dating another man. But I wanted to make you come, I wanted to see it.”
“I’d been fantasizing it was you, your cock, you playing with my tits.”
“Oh, Rachel,” he says sadly. “That’s why that crétin beat you, isn’t it?”
“No,” I contradict him with force. “He beat me because he’s an abuser and an asshole. I didn’t provoke it and you didn’t cause it. Danny should have let me go.”
“If he had, what would you have told me today?”
“That I’m free? But that I still want to learn, so can I please have more lessons? A lot more lessons?” I joke.
I’d been so certain Marc would dismiss me when he saw the bruises. I know it’s irrational, but I felt ashamed. I almost didn’t show up. Then his look told me it was okay, that I was okay, and I relaxed.
I press a kiss into Marc’s shoulder. He thinks he’s only treated the bruises on my body but I can feel myself healing from the inside out. He’s showing me how to love myself.
I can hear him smile. “More lessons. Yes. I like that. There are many more things I can teach you.”
“And things I can teach you,” I whisper against his skin.
*
C Is for Curious
By Emily Cale
Damn it. Hilary listened to the message her mother left for the second time in five minutes. Her mother never called in the middle of the day, so the missed call by itself was cause for concern. Combined with the cryptic voicemail asking her to call back as soon as possible, the whole thing spelled disaster. She winced as the possibilities raced through her head.
Biting her bottom lip, she looked up at the clock on the wall. Three-fifteen. All the appointments for the hour were currently underway, and the four o’clocks wouldn’t start showing up for another twenty minutes. That gave her the perfect opening to deal with whatever family crisis waited in the wings.
She plucked her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk and made her way to the stairwell. Normally, she’d use the break room of the Black Rose Dominatrix Club, opting to talk while downing a cup of coffee and munching on whatever treats she could find. The uneasy feeling in her stomach made her rethink usual tactics. This call might require privacy. The kind found in one of the many prop closets on the lower level.
Taking a final glance around the room, she pushed open the heavy wood door and made her way down the stairs to the basement. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the decreased lighting. In the reception area, wall sconces lit the room and allowed clients to fill out paperwork without straining their eyes. Downstairs—well, it was really more about seclusion. The recessed floor lights cast a soft yellowish hue on the nude-colored walls. Enough to get around without running into anything, but not enough to make out much more than shapes and shadows.
A mental list of possible family emergencies ran through her head. What if Uncle Matt’s cancer was back? Or Dad had finally had the heart attack the doctors kept warning him about?
At the first room, she pressed her ear to the door. Silence. Good enough. Pulling out her phone, she brought up her list of missed calls and turned the doorknob. As she hit the send button, she threw open the door and stepped inside.
Without looking up from the screen, she could feel eyes on her. Fuck. Cautiously, she lifted her chin. Definitely not a prop closet. Oh, there were plenty of toys, but at least one of them was in use. Mistress Rebecca stood in the middle of the room, holding a paddle above a man’s ass. Hilary locked eyes with her, neither of them moving. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The woman visibly tensed but didn’t say a word. She didn’t look away or make any motion that hinted at how she wanted to handle the situation. Breaking free of the Mistress’s stare, Hilary dared sneak a look at the man.
Blindfolded. Thank God. At least s
he could slip back out without having to explain everything. At least, for now. She couldn’t even begin to think about all the talking she’d have to do later. All she could think about at the moment was getting the hell out of that room. Stepping lightly, she backed across the threshold and closed the door.
Then she ran.
Hilary spent the next two hours hiding behind the oversized half-moon desk, trying to hold herself together. Once the nausea subsided, she managed to return her mother’s phone call. Of course, it turned to be nothing but a question over Friday night’s family dinner. Figures. I’m going to lose my job because we can’t possibly go without mashed potatoes. Apparently the decision over white or brown gravy qualified as an emergency.
Every noise made her jump. Each second went by slower than the one before it. Hell, she swore the clock hands actually moved backward at one point. After Mistress Rebecca told the owner about the events that transpired this afternoon, Hilary’s ass would be out on the street before she could even try to explain. Not that they owed her the opportunity. They only had one rule here: privacy. She’d certainly shattered that to pieces today.
To make matters worse, her mind kept wandering back to the scene she walked in on. Not in an oh-my-God-I-need-eye-bleach way but in an oh-my-God-that-is-fucking-hot way. Of all the women who worked at the dungeon, Mistress Rebecca managed to set off an extra spark of heat in Hilary. Even though she was one of the most popular women at the club, she always found time to stop off at the front desk and say hi between clients. Her bubbly personality brightened the room and everyone’s day.
It didn’t hurt that she was hot as hell. The corsets she wore daily pushed her breasts up until Hilary couldn’t believe they even managed to remain contained. It was impossible not to stare at them. After all, they were right there. Perfectly proportioned and out where anyone could touch them. Not that she ever would. At least not in real life.
In her head was an entirely different story.
And thanks to her little venture earlier, now she couldn’t stop thinking about whether the man who’d been tied up in the middle of the room got to feel them or if he too was subjected to the torture of only imagining their softness.
Love Letters Volume 1: Obeying Desire Page 7
