by Joey W. Hill
“Please, Master...”
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, leaving hers in with a quick squeeze of her wrist. A shudder racked her from that, even as he added to it by removing the bullet, dragging it across her swollen tissues. “Move your fingers inside of you. Thrust in and out, slow, like you’d want me to move inside of you.”
She complied, her breath panting shallow and hot. He reached up to the hook, figuring out how to lower it until it was within her reach. Taking her other hand from his biceps, he pressed a kiss to the palm, delicately teasing the crevices in between with his tongue. By the time he folded her fingers over the hook, every nerve in her body was begging for release. But he picked up a coiled strap she’d laid out, wanting to have a variety of restraint options, and looped it around her wrist. He secured her one hand to that hook, then retracted it back toward the ceiling until her arm was stretched out, her side arched, hair spilling over her opposite shoulder. Her ass just barely touched the stool, but her legs held her upright, spread and threaded through the lower slats. She lost rhythm, so overwhelmed by the additional stimulation, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. “Keep fucking yourself with your fingers. Do you want my cock?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want it in your cunt?”
“Yes. Please, Master.”
“Do you want my brand? Wherever I decide to put it?”
“Yes. Goddess, yes.”
He leaned forward then, brought his mouth over hers, teased her lips apart and used a hand on her jaw to hold her still as he traced them, dipped inside and stroked her tongue with his. His eyes were on hers as he withdrew. “Then you keep that pussy nice and wet, while I go choose the mark I’m going to put on you.”
Part Ten
When Tyler left her, moving across the floor to the brazier, Marguerite blessed her foresight, placing those four mirrors at different angles around the area where she’d teased and tormented him. Because though he was behind her, she could watch him walk away, the sinuous movement of upper body muscles, the tight ass and long thighs shifting beneath the jeans. He’d always moved in a way that drew attention. The controlled power and grace of a sexually confident, more-than-a-little-bit dangerous man was irresistible to female eyes, and she was no exception.
From the first time she’d seen him at The Zone, she’d been hyperaware of him, though she’d denied it to herself, and they hadn’t come together for months. The attraction had made no sense to her, because he was a Master, she was a Mistress. But it had continued to grow.
It had started with her noticing any occasional sighting of him at the club. Then she’d found herself dwelling on how he sounded when he spoke a courteous word to her as they passed one another, his murmured “Mistress,” in his cultured Southern voice. He’d flick those amber eyes over her, appraising her in a way she told herself to ignore, but the regard lingered like an unexpected caress.
On the rare occasions when she’d mingled with other Mistresses and Masters, he’d initiated short conversations, innocuous shop talk over a punishment or restraint type she’d employed during a session with a submissive. She’d noticed how closely he listened to her responses. He’d offered her a standing invitation to his home for his famous private parties, but she’d declined every time, denying herself for reasons she didn’t care to face.
In hindsight, she knew he’d been a sensual predator, circling closer and closer, pretending interest in the gazelle herd surrounding them, when the entire time he’d had his eye on the lioness hunting the same game. She had been his target.
She’d hated him for it at first, hated what he could do to her. But he’d opened a part of herself that had been a festering, cancerous wound. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t backed away. He’d weathered the fallout, helped her begin to heal, and become a vital part of the cure. In every darkness she now experienced, Tyler’s light was there. Warming her, guiding her, giving her comfort and faith. She needed him more than she needed anything else in her life. And what had taken her all the way across that bridge to acceptance was finding he felt the same way about her.
Now she watched him, standing over the brazier, his feet braced, head slightly tilted. She followed the appealing line of his skull, canted toward his broad shoulder, which led her attention to his curved biceps, taut waist and cocked hip. When he reached forward, shifting the irons to determine what shapes and designs she’d left for him, his back muscles rippled. Great Goddess above, everything spiritual and needy aside, he was the sexiest fucking man she’d ever seen. Not a single pretty thing about those hardened muscles, the directness of the amber eyes, the lines carved into his mature, handsome face. The firm lips.
She was playing right into his hands, staring at him like this when he’d already made her so aroused. And was keeping her aroused, by ordering her to maintain that slow thrust and withdraw motion of her fingers into her soaking flesh. Her cunt convulsed every time she pushed in deep and came back out. Her clit ached for any contact—her knuckles, her thumb. She would go off in seconds if she gave it just a few swipes of friction. But she’d restrain herself, and not just because he’d ordered it. She wanted it to happen with him inside of her, after he’d placed his mark on her.
She knew what he was seeing. Simple shapes for strike branding. As an experienced Master, he knew how to do it, but he’d only done it at the request of submissives he’d been training. He’d never done it to a woman that belonged to him. And she was secure in the knowledge he’d never wanted to do so – until now.
Apparently having chosen the one he wanted, he rolled the cart holding the brazier back to her. When he did, he saw her watching him in the mirror, not bothering to mask her avid pleasure in the view coming back, the wide chest, the prominent arousal beneath his straining jeans. He made a tsking noise as he reached her. One hand reached up to wrap in her hair, draw her head back as he captured her mouth, plundered, the brazier so close to her body she felt the heat, but his mouth was even hotter. He kept kissing her until she was straining into him, her one bound hand clutching the hook, her other trying to keep that rhythm he’d mandated, and getting all the closer to climax.
He pulled his mouth back to stare hard into her eyes. “You keep going, Marguerite. You tell me when you’re close, when you can no longer hold back, when you want to come for your Master.”
“Tell me when to come, Master. That’s what I want. Tell me when to come, and I’ll do it.”
His jaw tightened, his hand shifting to cradle her jaw, raise it higher, putting her neck at a straining angle. “I want my cock inside of you, Marguerite. I want to put it in there and never take it out, fuck you every second of the day. That’s the brand I’d put on you if I could. In your mouth, your ass, your cunt. When I do this, for the next day or so, you won’t be wearing anything around our house except panties, so you better be prepared to call in sick to work. Because I’m not going to let anything touch your flesh until it’s healed. Except me.”
Thank Goddess. She swallowed, her pulse ratcheting up higher. “Master, please...”
“Come for me, Marguerite. Prove you serve your Master. Prove you belong to me.”
She began to come as soon as he spoke, so the next two commands were harsh whispers against her temple when her head jerked right, pressing into his mouth, as she was overcome by the power of that long denied climax. It rolled over her so hard, she didn’t know how she would have stood if he’d not given her the stool, but as it was, she jerked enough it wobbled beneath her.
Placing his foot on the bottom rung, he anchored it. It let her hook her heel onto his calf, his thigh pressed against her bare hip. Reaching around her back, he closed his hand around the upper arm of the hand that was inside of her. To steady it, keep it out of his field if she flinched.
Then he lifted the brand from the fire. She saw the orange-hot color of the metal, a blur in her lust-hazed vision. She didn’t tense, didn’t do anything but let herself surrender to that climax, to him, embrace what he was about
to do, so he could see that willing acceptance in her face. His attention passed over it, one last assurance, before he pressed it exactly where he’d said he would. The soft flesh just above her navel.
It only took several seconds to do a strike brand. Even aroused himself, Tyler was precise and controlled. The pain seared through her nerve endings, but the brand was already gone. Metal hit metal as he tossed it back into the brazier, then he had both hands on her face, and was kissing her again, saying “I love you” against her mouth.
The orgasm had stuttered from the pain, but he was already pushing her back over that cliff edge. She moaned as he closed his hand over her wrist and withdrew the fingers she’d obediently kept moving inside of her, even through the branding. Bringing them up to his mouth, he tasted her honey. When he let them slide down and curved her fingers over his hip, she clutched, begging him to come closer, to press his need against that mark, against her spasming flesh.
The feel of his cock, so hard beneath his jeans, made her cry out into his mouth. Tears were part of that moisture, too, her reaction to what he’d done, what he’d given himself as well as her. She wanted him to be inside of her, but she also wanted him to come, spill his seed on the brand he’d made upon her. He’d chosen a circle, as she knew he would.
He was the beginning and the end, and he’d made it clear on her flesh.
He pulled back too soon, keeping space between the brand and himself, but he compensated her by continuing that kiss, and closing his hands over her breasts. All he had to do was squeeze the nipples with those clever, sensitive fingers, and the climax that had receded just out of reach suddenly swamped her again, tearing a cry from her throat. It renewed her convulsions, her body bucking and arching in a way she couldn’t control. As she got even more violent, he dropped his hand, curving it under her ass to hold her up and make sure she didn’t pull too hard against the hook, putting too much strain on her shoulder.
It took a long, long time, but eventually the climax, denied and then allowed, pushed back by pain and then brought back by his demand, ebbed. Or she should say the hardest, most ruthless waves of it did. She was still in the surf, her body shuddering in cycles that seemed to please him intensely, if the way he watched her, how helpless she was in her reaction to what he’d done to her, was any indication. She couldn’t move or think, didn’t want to. But then, she didn’t have to.
Picking up a horse blanket, he draped it over his shoulder, then released her hand from the hook. He ducked his head under her arm before the tired, depleted muscles let it drop. It rested limply on his shoulders as he slid his other hand under her knees and guided her feet out of the slats of the stool. Then he lifted her in his arms.
Despite her height, he always made her feel like Scarlett O’Hara going up the staircase in Rhett’s arms when he carried her. A faint smile touched her lips despite the arousal, the throbbing skin under the brand, the need coiled so tight in her she couldn’t speak. But he saw the smile.
“What, angel?”
She told him, and though his eyes warmed, he didn’t smile. As he looked at her, raging need and conflicting emotions were behind his eyes. But he cleared his throat, deepened his drawl. “Well, Southern men like carrying our women. Harder for them to run away.”
Closing her eyes, she let her head rest on his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her temple. At the touch of the wind, she opened her eyes to see he’d taken her outside, to the back of the barn, where they were looking down a rolling slope of green pastureland and the distant marsh. Sleek horses grazed in the foreground, completing the picture.
He let her feet touch the ground, but kept a hand securely around her waist as he shook out the blanket. Letting her go only to spread it out properly, he turned to her, his eyes on her face, seeing everything, the way the nerves still made her tremble, her breath so short, the aftermath of the arousal and the branding, pain and pleasure mixed, but there was still something missing, something she craved. She didn’t have to know or understand what it was, because he knew. He always knew.
“Lay down on the blanket, angel. On your back. Arms over your head and your legs spread, shoulder width apart. Keep them that way, no wider.”
His steadying hand was there, of course, because her knees wouldn’t stop shaking. Her teeth were almost chattering with it, those tiny little shudders that, despite her climax, seemed to originate between her legs and keep her in a mindless state of need.
Subspace. She took subs there all the time, but he’d plunged her deep into it, and she didn’t want to let it go. She’d obey and do all he wished, holding onto that moment of absolute closeness, when he was everything. Masters as well as Mistresses fed on it like ambrosia of the gods, seeing their submissives deep in that well.
As she lay back, seeing blue sky and her Master’s amber gaze on her bare skin, she closed her eyes, giving it all up to him. Her right to see, to breathe, to be. It was all his. Her knuckles brushed the blanket above her head, feeling the prick of the grass beneath the soft fabric.
“What do you want, angel? Tell me.”
“You. Just you.”
A rustle of clothing, and she didn’t have to see to know that he’d opened the jeans, pushed them down, removed it all. Then he rested a knee between her legs, taking himself down upon her.
She made tiny formless noises as he guided his cock to her pussy and pushed slowly into that welcome, wet grip, her tissues clutching all along his length as he came into her.
Any contact on a brand while it was healing felt like fire, but the breath she sucked in as he lay down between her legs was acceptance, preparing for it. He was still mindful of her care, though. Gradually, he brought his body down upon hers, until his muscled abdomen hovered just a space above throbbing, inflamed flesh. His elbows braced on either side of her neck, his hands closing over her arms as he rested there, and her eyes opened.
“Please, Master.”
He gazed down at her, his face so serious it had that sternness to it that always made her want to trace his mouth, seek his teeth to bite her fingers, remind her of how he could take control. But a lot more was going on, so she remained still.
“I love being your Master, angel. And you’re right.” He glanced down her body, allowing himself a leisurely look at her breasts, the aching nipples, before he moved his attention to the circle burned into her pale skin. “Seeing this mark on you makes me fucking hard all over again. But it also destroys me inside, to cause you any pain. To know why you need that, to know the simple fact I love you can tear you apart. It fucking kills me.”
She swallowed, her gaze holding his. She had no answer for that, only needed what he could give. Hungered for it. “Please,” she whispered. “You and no other.”
“Damn right.” He allowed the seriousness of it to be overcome by something a little less intense, but then he lowered his body that fraction, closing the distance.
Fiery heat radiated out from the brand point like a sun, goading her overstimulated nerves, making her arch and twitch beneath him. Her pussy contracted on him in a way that had his eyes flaming as if that sun had reached him, too.
“I’m not going to move, angel. I want to feel your body shake and quiver, get wetter and hotter from the lack of motion, until your pretty pussy is squeezing me harder than any other part of you could, a climax you can’t stop, because your body knows what I require.”
Limiting the abrasion would also prevent a much higher level of discomfort or infection risk while the brand was still fragile. She let out a half sob of acceptance and crazed need both. He curled his hands in her hair, making her look up at him. “You remember the night you branded Brendan?”
She nodded.
“You taunted me that night, didn’t you? Rubbing yourself against his back with your bare breasts, stroking those new brands you’d given him with your loose hair, this waterfall of moonlit silk.” His fingers stroked it as well. When his thumbs found her mouth, the corners, she parted her lips, let him tease
that hinge, put pressure there.
“You talked about rubbing me down like a fractious stallion. I have my own equine fantasies, angel.” His eyes gleamed. “I’d take two roses, facing in opposite directions. I’d place the stems in your mouth, push them up against the corners of your mouth like a horse’s bit. When I made you bite down, you’d feel the prick of the thorns on your tongue, against the sides of your mouth, at the same time you’d smell the blossoms brushing your cheeks like silk. You’d hold them while I put my mouth between your thighs to make you come, your legs spread wide and cunt gushing for me.”
Her breath had moved from soft gasps for air, managing the pain and arousal, to tiny pants of need. His cock moved inside of her on its own, telling her he was getting harder, seeing her arousal accelerate, or maybe also from the picture he was painting. She made a quiet, panicked noise, but her gaze didn’t waver from his, from the knowledge in his eyes of what he was doing to her.
She was lost in amber fire, and wanted nothing more than to obey him. To come without any movement at all, because what was churning inside her was turbulent enough to realign the universe.
Part Eleven
He combed out her hair on either side, letting her feel the tug on her scalp, a hint of his strength. The pressure of his body on the brand made her think about how long she would have to wait before he’d agree to do that navel piercing he’d described. Knowing Tyler, he’d have the barbell and cuff custom made, set with a diamond, and inscribed with his initials. Present it to her as her birthday gift, a few months hence. She shuddered, imagining him touching that piercing and the connecting brand.
