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

by Joey W. Hill

  Her mother had often said that. Don’t frown so much, Celly. You’ll look old before your time. For heaven’s sake, smile when you smile. You look like you’re grimacing.

  Her fingers tightened on the chair seat, but he was continuing. “Now I’m looking at your throat. The way you swallow as I talk to you. Your pulse is jumping. That stiff blouse you were wearing, it was professional, intended to be businesslike, straightforward, but it also showed you have a toned upper body and nice breasts. They’re soft and full beneath the robe, just like the line of your hip. You take care of yourself, Celeste, but you let yourself indulge enough to keep the curves. It’s sexy.”

  Sexy. No one had ever said that to her, straight out. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring directly into his. “Dark and endless,” he murmured. “You can see straight to your soul through your eyes, Celeste.”

  She shut them again. Not sure why, just obeying instinct, but what kind of instinct, she didn't know. Self-preservation? He didn’t tell her not to do it, apparently content to continue looking at her. At least she assumed that was what he was doing. Her body was tingling, her nipples tightening as she thought about him touching her breasts. He had large hands. He’d cup them firmly, squeeze, enjoy them with pure masculine pleasure. Possessive pleasure, because in this room at least, the moment belonged to him.

  She tightened her jaw. Stop it. This was textbook mind manipulation. He’d told her she could leave. She could leave at any moment. She didn’t need his damn permission. But she was here for the tape.

  When he rose, her breath caught, a quick show of anxiety. She kept her eyes shut. To show him he couldn’t rattle her? To close him out? She could barely hear him move on the carpet, but if he went toward that curtained area and touched any scary metal implements or chains, she’d know. She was closer to the door than he was. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about limits…safe words?”

  “What word would make you feel safe, Celeste?”

  She jumped. He was right behind her. His fingertips slid over her collar bone, teasing the edge of the robe. “Tell me the first word that came to mind.”

  Not likely. Not when it brought an ache to her throat, an automatic denial. “I can pay a therapist to do this.”

  He chuckled, a warm, sensuous sound. “But it wouldn’t be as much fun. Tilt your head to the right.”

  When she did, she drew in a breath as his mouth settled on her pulse, tasting her, the tip of his tongue teasing along the erratic beat. Then the press of teeth. The great white shark again.

  “Most people thought I was paying you a compliment, calling you the Knights of the Board Room.”

  “We knew better. You hate us.”

  “No.” She felt like she had when he’d implied she wanted to undermine their donations to the domestic violence center. She struggled for a more rational response, summoning her usual cynicism. “Corporate raiders, doing charity to detract from the—”

  “Blah, blah, blah.” It was a bedroom whisper. Curling his fingers in her hair, he tugged her scalp while keeping her head in place. The contradiction made her belly flipflop. “Page 101 of the media handbook. All corporations are evil, so said while you drink your Starbucks and buy clothes at The Gap. It’s far easier to objectify us, lump us in with general rhetoric, than to admit what it is about us that really bothers you personally.”

  Her lashes flickered at the touch of satin, her shoulders stiffening. “Just the eye mask for now,” he said. “You’re already showing your preference for keeping your eyes closed. This will help you feel everything more intensely, notice the details.”

  “But I won’t be able to see what you’re doing when I want to.”

  “You’ll feel it. Every single thing I do.”

  “Okay then.” She struggled to clear her throat, since her voice sounded thick. It was an odd relief, to not have the choice of seeing. His fingertips were a firm pressure as the mask was secured, but then they were running lightly beneath the sensitive skin of her earlobes. Wetting her lips, she tried for a reasonably scathing response. “You sell a bill of goods. That’s what bothers me. It’s all an image.”

  “Hmm. Closer to the truth, but still not the bull’s eye. Maybe it’s not an image, and you can’t afford for it to be true. You can’t afford for there to be men who stand fast, who protect, who love with all they are. Who don’t leave. Who take honor, commitment, and responsibility seriously. You can’t afford to trust your fate to the hands of another, not even for a moment.”

  “You treat women like porcelain dolls,” she said desperately.

  His chuckle was dangerous. “If that were true, by the end of tonight you’d be shattered in a million pieces. I know the strength of a woman’s soul, Celeste. I’ve held dozens of them in my hands. Fragile as an egg, yes. Perfect, smooth, beautiful. But they contain all the violent power of creation, so when I crack one open, handle it right, I get to see a magic most men never see.”

  “How do you get there?”

  “Through pleasure…and pain. Because the beauty of a mature woman’s soul is created from both.”

  Underscoring it, he dug his fingers into her scalp again and pulled her head back so she felt the strain. Instead of feeling violated, she felt…hungry.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. He was turning her into something she wasn’t. He wanted her to keep her hands clasped over the sides of the chair, and she was clenching them in a death grip. Now she jerked her right hand free. He could fire off some boorish observation about her cowardice, but she wasn’t going to let him play this game with her.

  Instead, his fingers closed around her wrist and held it fast, even when she struggled. Not rough, just strong, unshakable.

  “I gave it sixty seconds before you’d get into trouble. You made it to fifty-nine.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Is that what you want? Again, feel it. Don’t think. I’m not hurting you, Celeste. I’m merely holding your arm. Don’t let your panic rule you. You’re far braver than you know.”

  He waited a bated moment, then took her hand back to the chair. “I’m going to put a mitten on your hand, to hold your fingers together. This cuff will buckle around your wrist, holding it in place. Just the one hand.”

  The mitten he worked over her fingers was a strong nylon, like pantyhose, where she could feel the touch of air, but her fingers were unable to move without strenuous effort. He was comfortable dressing a woman, no hesitation or awkwardness, and that swirl in her stomach intensified, a small dust-devil. She imagined him sliding actual stockings on her legs, working the silky garment upward toward her thigh, teasing quivering skin as he connected it to a garter.

  Okay, she was going into pure fantasy-stuff. She’d never worn a garter in her life. Then she felt the touch of the cuff. The plush liner was comfortable, but the outer wrap was stiff, heavy. With the curl of her restrained fingers, she felt the links on the side of it, which he used to attach it in some manner to the outside of the chair seat. As he locked it down, it held her arm straight and immobile.

  He’d told her what he was doing. Quiet, factual information, but it was still a surreal feeling, imagining herself sitting here, allowing this to happen. Allowing. Just like he’d said about the woman on the public platform.

  He would eventually do the same to other hand, she was sure of it. The thought alone caused a surge of panic, one that tightened her thighs and demanded she jump up, drag the chair to the door with her and scream to get out. It made her start when his hand closed over her other wrist.

  “Sssh. Easy. Only my hand as a restraint right now.” He was exploring her palm with his lips, that clever tongue. His moist, heated touch between her fingers was erotically obscene, like he’d put his tongue into her sex. Her fingers went into a half curl, and she was touching his face. That quivering in her lower belly became a volcanic tremor.

  She opened her mouth to be derisive, mocking, something…instead her mouth was dry. Then Ben O’Callahan knelt in fron
t of her, because her knee brushed what she was pretty sure was the inside of his long thigh. Keeping his grasp on her wrist, he used the other hand to slip the tie of her robe, letting the light silk fall open and bare her to him. Once again it was a confident, easy move, the move of a man used to exploring every crevice of a woman’s body.

  She tried to be casual about it as well, but instead she strangled on her reaction as he slid his fingers down her abdomen, into her Victoria’s Secrets panties, and right into the narrow triangle of space between her closed thighs. It wasn’t a swift, jump-out-of-a-closet kind of move. It was deliberate, authoritative, like he had every right to do it, such that she didn’t think to move until he was where he intended to be. Right over her clit and against her shockingly not-dry-at-all labia. She was wet. Oh God.

  It shocked her even more than her delayed reaction to his invasive touch. Hell with this. She clenched her thigh muscles, squirming, trying to expel him, trying to force her mind to obey logic. He withdrew, but his voice, silky and warm, didn’t sound offended.

  “That’s right, darling. Close your legs tight. Hold them just that way.”

  Now he was at her ankles. “What are you doing?” She sounded shrill, even to her own ears.

  “It’s a rope wrap. Just breathe.” He was winding what felt like a thick nylon rope around her ankles and working his way up, binding her legs all the way to her knees. It didn’t cut off circulation, but it was snug enough to keep her from parting her thighs, emphasizing the fact he was making her more physically helpless. Her breath was catching in her throat enough she couldn’t deny she was one step away from gasping. He kept making those soothing, unintelligible noises, a deep rumble in his throat.

  He hated her as much as she hated them, right? He shouldn’t be like this, careful and almost tender. It was a trick. But there were cameras. A safe word, if she could bring herself to say it. She’d rather die first. Or endure whatever he did to her, a worse fate. Except she couldn’t figure out if she thought that was worse because of what he was planning to do or how she feared she’d react to it.

  He took his time with the wrap, testing the binding, her level of movement. She was perspiring, but not from heat. As he restrained her, things were happening to her. A dense stillness in her head, her chest. “Wha—at…why am I feeling this way?” She knew she didn’t have to explain it to him.

  “The more you give up physical freedom, your dependence on your eyes, your voice, the more your mind cuts free and takes you to a different plain. Think of it as astral projection, but instead of floating off somewhere, you’re in the very real here and now, in a way you normally aren’t. There’s only this moment.”

  “I thought…Jon was the philosopher.” She referred to the quiet and slimmest of the K&A team, the one the business columns called Kensington’s Archangel, for several reasons. His appearance—silky black hair to his shoulders, jewel-toned blue eyes and the voice of a late night DJ; his genius level skills at most aspects of their business—operations, finances, mechanical wizardry; and his rumored pursuit of spiritual enlightenment through yoga and other related pursuits.

  “Well, he’s infected all of us to a certain extent.”

  The warmth in his voice was undeniable. The Kensington men were as closely knit as a wolf pack. Whereas that usually made her lip curl in derision, for some perverse reason, the evidence of affection reassured her a little.

  She made a noise she refused to call a whimper as he tied off the wrap, adding a loop over her thighs and giving it an extra cinch that compressed her clit and labia with the pressure. The rope was both silk and hemp against her skin. “On occasion, I’m going to remind you to wiggle your toes, and I’ll keep an eye on your color. But if you think you’re having any circulation issues, let me know.”

  She wondered if he counted light headedness, but she had a worrisome feeling that was a psychological reaction, not a physical one. “I’d think most guys would want the legs spread.”

  “Depends on the Master. I don’t have any trouble fucking ass or pussy in this position, and the sensation is different, tighter, more precarious. A woman has to trust me more.”

  “We haven’t talked about fucking. I don’t want that. I haven’t agreed to it.” She’d just said that on the tape, so there. If he didn’t want to be brought up on rape charges, he’d ease the hell back with the tone and the touching and…all of it. “I don’t trust you at all.”

  “You will. You’ve already started. Part of the breakdown process, if you want to jot that down in that little notebook you’re keeping in your head.”

  When she tried to shift, it only reminded her how her legs and arm were bound. Only her left hand was free at this point. Which meant she could do the Miss America wave, but that was about the only effective use she had for it. Unless she counted the desire to flail frantically.

  “What’s the point of all this prep, if all you want is to spank bare ass?” She could be crude, too. He wasn’t going to intimidate her by throwing graphic words around. Though the way he said pussy should be illegal. His tone was as honey-warm as the mentioned area itself.

  “Not a damn thing, if my only intent was to give you a beating. You wanted to know what this is about and, because I think you're a good reporter, I’m giving you that. The woman…I have something for her as well. She’s going to find out what it’s like to be tormented to mindless submission, where she’ll beg me for everything she wants.”

  “No.” She shook her head, hard.

  “To get free, to make it stop, all you have to do is use that safe word, the one you won’t admit to me. As far as fucking goes, nice as your pussy is, that’s not the part of you I’m after. Though I plan to enjoy that fully.”

  She understood why the chair had a plain wooden seat. She was wet enough to dampen the silk robe caught under her hips. Though she wore the eye mask, it was like she could vividly see what he was seeing. Her mostly naked body, the quiver of her breasts in the lacy bra, the jut of her nipples through the thin fabric. The vee of her damp sex, delineated by the panties. She had a crazy desire to spread her legs, let him see how soaked she was getting. What the hell was that? Thank God he’d tied her so she couldn’t do something so absurd and shameless.

  Focus, Celeste. There’s a reason these women get so lost in this sick crap. Don’t let your mind succumb to it. Recite the periodic table or something.

  “Okay, this arm here.” He’d bent over her and drawn her left arm around his neck. In the same movement, he unsnapped the cuff of her right arm from the side of the chair. She gripped his broad shoulder with her left hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re just going to lift you up and put a cushion on the chair. Then I’m turning you around and putting your knees on the front edge of the seat. There we go.”

  He did all the work, turning her with effortless strength, guiding her so she was kneeling on the chair edge, her cuffed hand braced on the wooden back. He re-attached the cuff to the slats, curling her fingers over the top edge. “All right. Now a mitten and cuff for the other hand.”

  She swallowed. “I…no. Not sure.”

  “Then use the word, Celeste.”

  “Not fair. It’s not all or nothing. There’s always negotiation…limits…”

  “Sometimes. It depends on the Master and the sub. In this room, the terms you’ve set, what you want, it is all or nothing. You follow my direction or you call an end to it. With that one little word that’s not so little at all, is it?”

  “Shut up.” She closed her eyes tighter beneath the eye mask. “Don’t. Don’t make that part of this.”

  “It’s all a part of it, Celeste. You’ll understand that before we’re done, and it won’t make you afraid.”

  “Stop it.”

  He went silent and stroked her hair. “All right. Give me your hand. Lift it out toward me.”

  She did it, and realized her arm was shaking. He steadied her elbow with one strong hand, directing her to r
est her hand on his forearm while he positioned the mitten. With his sleeves rolled up, she felt heated skin and the soft layer of hair she knew was dark, like those artful strands across his forehead. Then he reclaimed her hand and worked the mitten on. When the cuff was wrapped over it, her pussy contracted at the feel of it, getting even more disconcertingly responsive when that cuff was attached to the back of the chair, next to her other hand.

  He’d moved away and was circling her. A brush of air and silk and she realized he’d tucked the tail of the robe into the tie at her waist. “You look like a pretty mermaid, with your legs wrapped like that. I much prefer those pretty panties hiked up on your cheeks than scales, though.”

  Exposed. She was on display for him and, instead of sardonic outrage, she was feeling something else entirely. A shudder went through her thighs. This could become an uncomfortable position after a while, but he’d thought of that, and not just with the addition of the cushion.

  “I want you under a certain amount of physical strain, but let’s give your legs some help.”

  A strap was run behind her bent knees and then buckled beneath the chair seat, so her knees were held on the edge of the chair. “Now we get rid of this.”

  The cool edge of something trailed over her arms and down her spine. A heart-stopping moment after it was used, she realized it was a knife blade. The robe fell away. She was kneeling backwards on a chair, her legs wrapped, in only panties and bra, blindfolded.

  “I’m scared.” It was out before she could stop herself, and her cheeks flushed. Her voice quavered.

  “You should be. You’re supposed to be. But in a good way, not the way you feel when you’re walking in a bad area of town at night. It’s more like when you’re about to do something that you’re not sure where it will go, what will change. Right? Feel it.”