Cantrips: Volume #1: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain

by Joey W. Hill

  Visceral satisfaction swept through her at how long he came, though. As well as at the guttural, animal noises he made, showing how aroused she’d made him, how intense her teasing had made that ultimate release, even as her own body yearned for the same. So much her flesh was damp with perspiration and all her muscles shaking when he finally came to a stop.

  Slowly, he withdrew from her. Her pussy spasmed and, as she’d anticipated, a warm dollop of his cream came out with him and slid over her vulva, taunting her further.

  Backing up to the stool, he propped his fine ass on it. Picking up a towel she’d left hanging near it for her own uses, he ran it over his cock, down his upper thighs. In this position, she could see bits and pieces of such ablutions. When he tossed it aside, she knew he was sitting back, looking at her in the folded over position. Watching his come run out of her, the heart shape of her ass and pink slit of her pussy displayed for him.

  He put his jeans and shoes back on. She was glad she’d made the shirt unusable by cutting it with the knife. Particularly when she heard the threading of his belt into the jeans, the tantalizing sound of a buckle. It was a message, telling her she wouldn’t get his cock for awhile. While she ached at the loss, she might have a consolation prize. She meditated on the significance of his words, wondering if they meant what she anticipated they did. You ask your Master, beg him...

  At length, he straightened and came back to her. “Go to Child’s Pose,” he ordered, his voice still the stern tone of a Master, but with that sensual undercurrent which rippled over her skin. “Do it slow. You’re bound to be light-headed.”

  She released her calves and let her knees bend, feeling his hands steadying her. Child’s Pose folded her knees beneath her, her body lying flat over them, forehead pressed to the floor, the spine elongated, arms stretched forward. As she settled into it, feeling the stretch in her hips, he dropped to one knee beside her. She was a tall woman, but he was taller, and with her in this pose and him kneeling over her, she was acutely aware of the differences in their sizes, his strength. She stilled as his fingers settled on her spine. Specifically, on the scars aligned on either side of her spine, the dual row of cigarette burns that started at the nape and went to the dimples of her buttocks. He’d offered to have them removed, repaired with plastic surgery, but they were part of who she was, too intrinsic to her identity, for good or ill. But she understood the significance of him touching her there now.

  “Master...”

  “You think I would burn you, mark your flesh, because of a passing fantasy?”

  She swallowed. He was devastating when he combined a husband’s tenderness with a Master’s harshness, but she knew his heart, knew his needs as well as he knew hers. “No, Master. You wouldn’t. Even if it was an obsession, not a fantasy, you’d strike off your own hands before causing me pain. But this is something I want, too. Those marks were forced on me. I want yours, willingly.”

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead deeper into the asana. Vulnerability slid into her voice, a gift she was only capable of giving to him. “I want a scar I can touch that’s yours. That will arouse and overwhelm me, because I know it’s your permanent mark. Something that I’ll remember gave you deep, primal satisfaction when you did it, and that makes you hard when you touch it, because it’s a claim you know I understand, all the way to the bottom of my soul.”

  He stroked up and down her spine, a light movement of his fingers. He was thinking. She went silent, letting him muse upon it. She forced herself not to dwell on his decision, instead enjoying being quiet and submissive under his touch, her mind free of anything but his will, for at least this second. It was late afternoon now, and she heard the cicadas talking in the nearby marsh, the occasional snort of a horse, the comfortable, rhythmic tread as they moved into another part of the pasture.

  “I love you,” she said softly, for no other reason than the desire to say it, the heartfelt treasure of being able to say it.

  “I love you, too, angel.” He cupped her buttock, thumb moving over the crease in a caress, then back up, following those scars to her nape, stroking through her hair. Then he wound his hands in the strands and put pressure on them. Obeying the unspoken command, Marguerite lifted her upper body. As she did, she sat back on her heels, spreading her knees. Deliberately, under his hot gaze, she straightened her upper body, arching her back and linking her hands behind it, knuckles brushing her buttocks as if she was bound, her breasts and pussy available to his touch.

  “Please, Master,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Your slave is begging you to brand her.”

  He was silent again for many long moments. She continued to keep her eyes down, her body upright, vibrating. She’d never have thought it possible, but there were times in this submissive posture she could almost come, merely from having his attention on her, feeling the heat of his pleasure from her surrender to him. It made her understand the freedom of submission better, of allowing her body to tremble with involuntary need and desire for her Master’s slightest touch, a stern command. A brand.

  “Please,” she repeated in a whisper. “Give yourself what you deserve, Master. Let me love you the way you love me.”

  He’d straightened and returned to the stool when she assumed the submissive pose. With her eyes lowered, she saw the long legs, braced out, and expected he’d have his arms crossed over his broad bare chest, watching her with an unreadable expression in his amber eyes. His firm mouth would be taut, even as he’d already be half hard again, just from seeing her like this, smelling her arousal, knowing how hot and ready to climax she was.

  As if he read her mind, he spoke.

  “If I’m going to brand my property, I won’t let her come until the minute the brand touches her flesh. The pleasure and the pain will be wrapped together, intimate the way we are when I’m inside you. Where we don’t know where one of us starts and the other stops.”

  Her heart rejoiced. “Yes, Master.”

  Part Nine

  Tyler crooked his finger at her. “Come over here. You can lower your arms, but stay on your knees. Keep your pussy off your calves. I don’t want anything touching that but me.”

  She slid the couple of feet to him, his hand cupping her head to guide her forward. When he brought her inside the span of his spread knees, she laid her cheek on his inner thigh. She was facing inward, which gave her a tempting view of the curve of testicles and cock beneath his jeans. Flaring her nostrils, she inhaled the aroma of his recent release, and her fluids on him, even under the denim. She wanted to touch, to mouth him there, but she settled for curving an arm around his calf, holding it pressed against her ribs.

  He’d begun stroking his fingers through her hair, slow and deep. Finding her scalp, he massaged it down to her nape, caressing the sensitive occipital bone. Her pussy contracted on the open space between her slightly spread folded legs, needy for him. But she could wait. She could always wait for him, because she knew how much pleasure it gave him, making her mindless with lust.

  “You know that song, angel? The one that asks if the captain of the Titanic cried?”

  She nodded, rubbing her cheek against him. “‘Someday We’ll Know.’”

  “That’s the one. Whenever I listen to that song, I think about how rarely people ask the right questions, the really important ones.” He gripped her hair, tilted her head back to look up into his serious face. The amber eyes had the relentless intensity of a pure Master now. It made her left nipple tighten further where it brushed against his leg, her fingers curve harder into the fabric of his jeans. “We know about asking the right questions, though. You and I. Dominants. We know that’s what unlocks the secrets a submissive keeps, even from herself. So you’re going to tell me what this is really about.”

  Leaning down, he increased his grip, tilting her head so her temple pressed into his thigh, exposing the side of her throat, holding her still as his breath rippled over her pulse. He apparently didn’t want her answer right away, but
then he rarely did. He knew she wasn’t likely to offer or reach the answer immediately, not until he aroused her to the point that truth could rise to the surface like the cream of her arousal. She resisted on instinct, even knowing in the end she would give him all of it.

  His tongue was tracing her carotid, making its way down to her collar bone. She closed her eyes, soaking in the sensation, making a soft noise when his teeth bit that bone gently, then harder. His other hand dipped, his knuckles passing over her nipple, then coming back, catching it between the middle and forefinger knuckles. He didn’t pinch. He had a delicious way of gradually increasing the pressure of the clamp, so it created a slow wave of sensation that made the nipple ache for more. He’d hold that clamp for a time, and then, with a tiny twitch of those long-boned fingers, he’d send a jolt of electricity through the breast and down directly to her cunt. As he did it now, she made a soft cry, jerking involuntarily over her calves. She wanted to rub so badly, but she wouldn’t. She wanted his touch there, his mouth, his cock. His command.

  “I told you...it is about you.” She gave him her best answer, the only one she could offer. Then let out another whimper as he did the twitch in another, unexpected direction. His mouth moved up behind her ear, as he pulled her head back now. Back away from him so she was staring up at the barn ceiling, at the I-bolt that held the hook that had held him. He shifted his head, moving to the front, suckling on her jugular, his hair brushing her chin. Cupping her breast fully, he kneaded it, his thumb caressing her sternum. He never forgot an inch of her flesh. Unlike so many men, obsessed with the prurient parts of a pin-up magazine, Tyler could—and would—arouse any part of her body. It wouldn’t surprise her if he made her come from touching her eye lashes.

  “Yes. I believe it is about me,” he said, that soft Southern male voice stroking and tightening her nerves at once. “You’re always far too generous, angel, giving me things you should give yourself first. But this is also about you. So before I’ll do it, you’ll tell me what it is you want. Why you want this. If you don’t”—he brought her up onto her knees with pressure under her right breast, cradled in his hand, and lowered his head to slide a moist, hot tongue around the areola—“I’ll have to take you over my knee and give you the spanking you so richly deserve.”

  There were crops hanging throughout the barn, and he wore a belt that could smart like hell, but early in their relationship, he’d said he’d never strike her with anything other than his hand again. He’d only broken that promise one time. A night both terrible and beautiful, because it was the night she’d told him she loved him for the first time, and the night she’d learned she had the power to destroy him.

  Still, despite the emotions that gripped her with the memory, and the lust that clogged her throat at that clever tongue lapping at her nipple now, she managed to put a sultry tease into her voice. “You’re going to do that anyway. You like to make me wriggle on your lap like an errant school girl.”

  If he’d ever decided to be a school headmaster, she suspected the girls old enough to discover sexual yearning would have lined up for their spankings. As well as the female teachers. Cafeteria workers... She decided to keep that one to herself, though. As a Georgia gentleman through and through, Tyler would be mildly scandalized at such a thought.

  “Ah...” Her breath left her as he began to suckle in earnest, and his hand in her hair descended to her buttock, gripping there and delving between the cleft to tease her rim before curving beneath. Finding her wet pussy, he eased two fingertips into the opening of the damp channel. It folded his strong body over hers, so she had her face pressed into his upper abdomen. Her hands dangled loose at her sides to keep them out of his way, as she trusted him to hold her up and bend her whichever direction he chose. But it was so difficult, when she wanted to touch him so much.

  “I’ve ordered you the short plaid skirt,” he promised, a smile in his voice, but then he shifted, rising and bringing her up with him, swiftly enough she swayed, the blood rushing through her. He steadied her, though, and slid her onto that stool, guiding her feet so they hooked under the lower rails on the left and right sides, spreading herself for him. She automatically straightened her back, watching his gaze pass over her aroused nipples, the slope of her abdomen.

  “Maybe I’ll put your brand here.” He touched the pale expanse of skin above her navel. “And buy you a double piercing for this area. A topaz and diamond barbell would go through the rim of the navel. I’d connect a chain between that and a silver cuff pierced through the bottom of the brand, emphasizing who you belong to.”

  “I’d like that,” she whispered, and his gaze flickered up to her face. Though his eyes were filled with desire, the stern set of his mouth told her she hadn’t yet answered his question to his satisfaction.

  “Keep your eyes on my hand.” Passing his left palm over her thigh, up and up, he pushed three fingers inside of her drenched pussy, following the contours of her slick channel unerringly.

  “Don’t you move an inch, angel. You stay still.”

  The urge to rock forward against him was almost unbearable, but she modulated her breathing, short, tiny expulsions, feeling herself grip his fingers with involuntary need.

  “Put two of your fingers inside yourself, Marguerite. Over mine. Hold onto my arm with your other hand if you need to do so.”

  Even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t pass up a chance to touch him. She gripped his biceps, registering the muscle and damp, heated skin as she lowered her other hand. Using her middle and forefingers, she traced his palm, outlining his life and heart lines, detouring up to caress the base of those fingers that were inside her. Then, when he made a quiet noise of command, she turned her hand over into the cup of his and followed his angle to slide her fingers inside her own heat. It was a tighter fit now, but the feeling was excruciatingly pleasurable, the fullness close but not quite like his cock.

  Giving her a look that was both promise and threat, he used his free hand to fish into his pocket. Ripples of response fluttered through her chest and lower abdomen, knowing what he sought. Ruefully, she realized she should have searched him when she undressed him.

  Not long ago, they’d been to a premier of one of his erotic movie productions. In the darkness, his colleagues only a couple seats away, he’d matter-of-factly removed a small bullet vibrator from his pocket and slid it under her skirt, into her pussy. While they watched, he’d put his hand on one of her knees, applying firm pressure to make sure she kept her legs slightly spread throughout the feature. With the tiny remote control, he’d tormented her for two hours as she got more and more stimulated by what he’d helped create, and the vibration he had going on silently beneath her clothes. They’d barely gotten out of the parking lot that night in the limo before he’d had her straddling his cock, mouthwateringly enormous from watching her. She’d come so hard she’d almost passed out afterward.

  Since then, he tended to carry it around as often as his keys or wallet, and she never knew when he’d use it to tease her. Like now.

  “Put your thumb against your clit, angel.”

  Keeping his other fingers deep and still inside her, pressed against hers in that dark, heated place, he lowered the bullet, positioning it under her thumb so it held the device against that quivering bud of flesh. When he clicked the tiny remote in his pocket, it began its silent vibration against her, a wave of pleasure that instantly shot her up toward a peak, given how aroused she already was.

  “Tyler... Master...”

  “Tell me what this is about, angel,” he said again, his hand catching her chin to make her look at him. “You hold perfectly, absolutely still, keep that bullet against your clit, and you tell me what it’s about.”

  When she didn’t immediately reply, he increased the speed. She let out a low cry, her body shuddering hard as she tried to stay still. Goddess, she couldn’t think when he did this... How did he do this so well? She should be able to stay detached. With all the subs she’d brought t
o this level herself, she should know how to play this game. Except it wasn’t a game. There was no fighting a Master who knew exactly what he was doing, who already knew the way into her soul.

  “I can’t...” she said, though the truth of it was welling up into her, hard and ruthless as a climax at his hands. “I can’t...”

  “Tell me, angel.” Amber was becoming burnished gold, reflecting the fire that was always burning inside of her, her unending need for him.

  “I love you so much,” she gasped it. “Too much. I can’t contain it. It hurts...I need...”

  “You need the pain to handle it. To release it. So it doesn’t overwhelm you.”

  “Tyler, I’m too close... I can’t...”

  It turned off, a mere second before she was sure she would have been seized by the violent orgasm. As it was, it was a near thing, her body vibrating, making tiny spasms as she clutched his arm, her head down. He tilted it back up though, making her look into his face. His own was inscrutable, but she felt his reaction. His strongest emotions often went underground, as if he thought they should detonate where they could cause the least amount of harm to civilians. But she wanted this explosion of feeling.

  “I love you too much,” she repeated, her voice shaking with nerves and need.

  “It’s all right to love me, angel. You know that, right? I’m not going anywhere. It doesn’t have to hurt to love someone.”

  “But it does. It’s the best kind of pain I’ve ever felt. And I wake up at night, and look at you, and I can’t get close enough. I can’t ever get close enough.”

  “You think it’s ever enough for me?” His voice dropped low, rough, and he moved his hand, thrust in deeper, sliding the pads of his fingers along the dense, nerve-rich zone that made her moan, toss her head back like a fractious horse. With the movement of his hand, his knuckles pressed into the tender bending point of her own penetrating fingers. She wanted to move against him, but he still hadn’t told her she could. He brushed his thumb lightly over her clit, where she still held the bullet, and she arched, she couldn’t help herself. If she got any hotter, she would be on fire.