by Ruby Laska
Slowly Chelsea lowered her hand to the textured linen bedspread. Her body still abuzz with the stimulation of what he had been doing to her, her mind was a swirl of confusion.
“I—did I do something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.
“No. Actually, perhaps I did.” Ricardo’s brow furrowed. “In general I believe action is much more powerful than speaking. But I…you are different, Chelsea. You try to project such bravado. You want the world to believe you are so tough. Invulnerable. And yet you are…you are innocent in many ways.”
“I’m not innocent.” Something like panic stirred inside Chelsea, a nameless anxiety that had been her companion for most of her life. If nothing else she needed Ricardo to know who she really was, or all of this meant nothing. “I lived on the street at fourteen. I’ve done things…things I’m not proud of. I’m not some, some pampered virgin.”
“No. Of course not.” Ricardo spoke gently. “And yet you are unfamiliar with this kind of pleasure.” He flicked one of the clothespins gently, sending fresh tremors through her. “It is not exactly my invention. People have been…never mind. I’m not here to lecture, and I am not your mentor.”
As sensations rippled along her skin, Chelsea twisted and shivered. “You can teach me,” she said, “I don’t mind.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands thoughtfully under his chin. “Did I ask if you mind?”
“N-no.”
“Is it any of my concern, what you want?”
“No…” the conversation had taken a decided shift, and a thrill of danger combined with the roiling waves of pleasure. “Sir.”
“Then I shall finish my task.” He dug a handful of loose pins from the box. “Lie back on the bed, please. And be still. No talking. No movement.”
Her legs were still splayed, and as she lowered herself to lying on the bed, she attempted to close them and was rebuffed by Ricardo’s firm hand on her thighs, pushing them apart. He slid a finger under the edge of the thong and yanked it aside, exposing her pussy. As she settled against the fine linen, she felt his finger trace the outer lips of her labia.
Then the shock of pressure as he pinned a clothespin centimeters from her clitoris.
She gasped. Surely he wouldn’t…
He continued to place clothespins up and down the sturdier outer lips, two, then three, then four on each side. Gently, he pushed them toward her thigh so that her pussy was completely exposed. She felt the cool air coming through the window, caressing her clit, her inner lips, and writhed against the sheets.
“What are you—”
“Two more. Can you guess where?”
Chelsea’s eyes widened. “Not—not my nipples, I won’t be able to bear it. Please, please—sir—please not yet, I’m not ready—”
He ignored her and gently flicked at her nipple with the nail of his forefinger. “Unless you are using your safe word, then you may shut your fucking mouth,” he said warningly. Then he pinched her nipple between his forefinger and thumb, easing down the silk bra to give himself access. He rolled the nub slowly, almost gently, causing a riot of pleasure to spiral down. As she writhed and bucked, the pins along her body tugged in different directions, so it felt as though she was connected to an entirely separate being outside the two of them, one that controlled her pleasure and moved in concert with her.
Then he gave her thigh a resounding, stinging slap. “That was a warning,” he growled. “If I have to turn you over and spank your ass while you’re clipped, it’s bound to hurt for real.”
Chelsea clamped her mouth shut, but as he worked her nipples, pinching harder and harder, she was unable to contain the frantic sounds of anticipation mixed with pain and pleasure. Finally, he took two clothespins and in a fraction of a second, they were attached to her nipples, sending searing pain through sensitive nerve endings.
Pain…followed by a different kind of ache.
“Look at you,” Ricardo said, stepping back and regarding her from the side of the bed. “You’re helpless, aren’t you, little putita?”
She moaned, unable to form words. She had never felt so exposed in her life. And helpless didn’t begin to describe the feeling of her skin pinched in two dozen places, sensations everywhere at once, almost more than her brain could process. The slightest movement caused the pins to sway and bend, changing the course of the nerve stimulation. Her pussy was beyond soaked, the ache inside her ratcheting quickly up to desperate.
“There is nothing you can do but submit to me right now, is there, Chelsea,” he continued softly, not without compassion. He brushed his thumb along her lips, tracing a circle around her mouth, and her tongue darted out of its own accord, licking, trying to draw it inside her mouth.
“My hungry whore,” Ricardo said, with a shudder of his own. He slid his thumb into her mouth and worked it slowly in and out. “You need your holes filled. You’re a greedy slut with only one thought in your beautiful mind—getting fucked hard. Isn’t that right? How badly do you want me to ram my cock inside you?”
Chelsea moaned, lapping more furiously. His thumb was slick with her saliva, but he continued to tease, controlling the movements, resisting her efforts to suckle him more deeply.
He chuckled darkly. “You can just imagine how it would feel if I were to fuck your face right now. Grab that gorgeous mess of hair and hold on and pump my load deep down your throat. Do you want that?”
She managed to nod, as he slid his hand down around her throat again. Very gently he squeezed and released. “Or in your ass,” he continued. “My thumb would be perfect to open you up for me, wouldn’t it? Your greedy, hungry little hole, stretched for me…I’d use you until you were ready for my cock, and then I’d drive it all the way home…mmm. I’d take your ass so hard you’d be screaming for me to stop at the same time you were begging me to keep going.”
His stark words were like a switch that directed the current inside Chelsea’s body, and she bucked and writhed, orgasm building deep inside her. If he continued, she would come just like this, she realized, with nothing but his thumb in her mouth—but she wanted more. She did want to be filled, just as he’d said, and she wanted his cum, every drop. Anywhere. Everywhere.
She jerked her mouth away from his thumb, twisting as much as the restraints allowed. Her lips were wet with her own saliva and swollen from his use. “Please,” she gasped. “Please fuck me. Take my pussy. Come inside me.”
He stilled for the merest fraction of a moment, and a dark look passed over his features. The one thing he had said he could not do, and it was what she wanted most of all. Which was probably inevitable. The game they were playing was ruled by taboos, broken rules, and crossed boundaries. He refused to take her that way—so it was what she longed for.
He placed his hand softly against her mound, merely resting it there, a battle taking place on his face, his expression haunted.
“Please,” she whispered, moving against his hand. Surely he could feel how swollen she was, how the moisture slicked his fingers, how desperate she was to draw him inside. “Please, please, please…”
He made a tortured sound of his own and slid one finger inside her. The movement of his hand pressed the clothespins flat, opening her to him utterly. With his other hand, he twisted the pin on her nipple.
The sensations that had been building inside her crested and surged and exploded, and she jammed her hips upward, her orgasm seizing her body in its power, threatening to break her free of the moorings of her sanity as sensation rocketed through her. He jammed another finger inside her forcefully, and then suddenly the row of clothespins stretching from her chest down to her thighs was ripped free, the pleasure and pain traveling the path of the trapped skin and beyond, sharpening her climax to heights she never imagined possible. Her screams keened through the night and she pushed against him, feeling the juice squirt forth from inside her, all over his hands, soiling him, drenching him, and still she couldn’t stop. The screams turned to begging, inchoate
sounds of need. “Please, please,” she continued her refrain, as he plucked the remaining pins one by one from her labia. His timing was perfect…she rode the orgasm through its receding waves as the last of the pins fell to the floor and he slowly pulled his sopping fingers from her, returning his hand to rest softly on her shuddering pussy.
When she had nearly stilled, her body misted with perspiration, her hair snarled around her shoulders, he kissed her gently, pressing his lips underneath her jaw, on her chin, and finally on her lips.
“These did their job, I think,” he said, and gently removed the clothespins from her nipples and tossed them carefully to the floor. “My little cum whore. You performed beautifully, just as I expected. You’re a natural.”
Chelsea let her eyelids flutter closed, not looking at the angry red marks that lined her body. She could feel the ache where each set of wooden teeth had gripped, but the points of pain drifted in a sea of pleasure.
She was spent.
“But you didn’t….” she said.
He laughed again, but it sounded more like a threat. “Not yet. But surely you don’t think we’re finished here?”
Actually, she had…at least, she’d thought she was finished. Ricardo had already made her come several times in one evening, the first man ever to do so, but tonight had been something different. So many sensations, such a precipitous climb to her climax—how could she hope to come again?
She already knew that Ricardo would take his pleasure, however he wanted to have it, and she was more than ready to serve him. Just the thought, the word “serve” going through her mind, caused a little aftershock of pleasure to flit through her pussy.
“You have work to do,” Ricardo said. “But first, I find I’m a bit thirsty. I’m going to get a drink. While I am gone, start cleaning up this mess you made, dirty cum slut.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. Moments ago he’d been so focused on her pleasure, every expert stroke and gesture engineered to bring her over the top. Now he’d switched effortlessly to humiliation…and judging by the quickening of her blood, he’d timed it perfectly.
“Now.”
She couldn’t help noticing that his cock strained harder than ever against his trousers as he left the room and she began picking up the clothespins where they’d fallen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Ricardo returned to the room moments later, Chelsea was smoothing the bedcovers back into place. She had gathered the clothespins back into the box and placed the lid on top. Now she was carefully making the bed like a devoted housewife. No one would ever guess what had taken place on it.
Except for the smell of sex, of desire, that pervaded the room. It smelled like she tasted—both earthy and feminine, like sin and like redemption, and as Ricardo inhaled deeply he felt his erection return to full, raging hardness.
He set the tray he was carrying on the dresser while Chelsea turned to him expectantly. He saw that she had tried, again, to adjust the silk bra and panties to cover her more demurely. He—and his tailor, to whom he had communicated his specific instructions—could have told her that it wasn’t possible.
Perhaps Ricardo had been born with a gift for visually assessing a woman’s precise measurements and proportions—but perhaps not. It was entirely likely that at the moment of his birth, Ricardo had been ordinary.
Spending his childhood at the feet of the finest tailor in Segovia, Italy, however, had ensured that he learned some things. Arturo de Santos, Ricardo’s father, sewed clothing for the wealthy gentlemen who came from as far away as Palermo just to have their suits and shirts made by the master. Long after the business brought in enough money that Arturo could hire assistants for tasks like drafting patterns and cutting the bolts of fine wool and cotton, he insisted on doing all measuring and fitting himself. He traveled to the markets in Milan and Paris twice a year to see the new textile collections; he entertained artists and intellectuals and politicians in his own home. And for all of it, Ricardo was there.
His earliest task had been to hand his father pins as he made his way around a trouser leg or a cuff. Then he was allowed to remove the basting from finished work, carefully snipping the tiny stitches with a pair of embroidery scissors made especially for his small hands by a friend of his father. By the time he was eight, Arturo had encouraged him to guess at a patron’s measurements; when he had come close to the right numbers, his father had rewarded him with a small, hard candy.
So it had been no great difficulty to give the tailor the numbers she needed to create Chelsea’s one-of-a-kind garments. Especially since Ricardo had learned her body with his hands and his mouth in addition to his eyes.
That was how he knew that the bra cups would present her breasts to him like roses in full bloom, that the thong would dip low enough to cling to her cleft. The underpinnings were gifts for him as much as for her, and now that he had stoked and sated Chelsea’s hunger temporarily, he was ready to enjoy them.
“You performed well, little niñita,” he said, handing her a chilled glass. “This limonata is similar to what my mother made. I trust you will find it refreshing.”
He sipped from his own glass while he watched her drink thirstily, her head tipped back and her throat rippling as she swallowed. She had a beautiful throat, and it would be more beautiful still before long when his engorged cock was filling it.
He picked up a folded cloth from the tray and handed it to her.
“The floors in this room are made of wood that was taken from an outbuilding on the grounds of the original mission at Santa Clara. It was torn down in the 1920s when the land was sold for development, an execrable and short-sighted loss. An example, too, of the greed of men with no cultural vision, but perhaps that is a topic for another time.”
She gazed up at him through her eyelashes, her head tucked demurely, her hands clasped in front of her as if trying to cover herself. God, she was such a natural-born submissive, and she didn’t even know it. When he’d toyed with dominance in the past, he’d had to school his partners—even those who claimed to have ample experience—in the subtler aspects of the submission dance, and eventually given up when he realized that perhaps it couldn’t be taught at all. Just because a woman was willing to kneel and beg, or because she asked to be spanked or tied, did not mean that she understood the currents of the ideal relationship. Memorably, one woman had nagged him mercilessly until he relented and took a paddle to her ass one night, only to have her demand to do the same to him half an hour later.
Of course there were switches in the Dom/sub world, those who were comfortable in both roles. And Ricardo’s personal philosophy was never to question what willing partners did for pleasure. But in his mind, the dark beauty of the relationship he craved was not the sort of thing that could be turned off and on like a light. His craving, which for myriad reasons he had always kept suppressed, was for a woman who was unabashed in her needs, who was defined by them as one is defined by any spectacular gift. Like the artists whose work he traded in—like Paganini and his violin or Jordan and his basketball or Angelou and her storytelling—Chelsea was defined by her gift for submission, and though she may still not fully understand it, she would never be able to turn back from it. She was who she was, and he was aroused by the purity of it.
And by so much more.
His hand tightened on the cloth. “Have you drunk your fill?”
“Yes…” she took a breath, then stared at the floor as she handed him the empty glass. “…Sir.”
“Good.” He pretended that the single syllable hadn’t caused his own breath to catch, his cock to strain for release. He set the glass carefully on the tray. “The wood I was telling you about. It was quartersawn, resulting in the magnificent grain, and hand finished. I only allow the housecleaner to use natural oils on it, never chemicals. But she was unable to come this week.” A lie, but one Ricardo justified to serve his greater need. And Chelsea’s.
“Get down on your hands and knees and wipe the floor
clean,” he said gravely. “Start in that corner. Make it shine. Work your way around the room. Do not miss any spots. I will be watching…paying strict attention.”
Chelsea’s gaze flicked up at him in seeming disbelief. Her lips parted in alarm, and she glanced over to the corner of the room that he had indicated. The floor under the bed was covered by a thickly textured rug, leaving a space of perhaps three feet of uncovered wood on three sides. The room was furnished as simply as the rest of the house, so there were few objects in the way.
And, of course, the floor was already pristine.
He narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, cover for his mounting excitement as much as anything. Then he pointed.
“Now, putita.”
#
For several minutes, Chelsea didn’t dare look up. She began as he suggested, in the corner, rubbing the soft cloth on the old, scarred wood. It had been lovingly polished and it smelled faintly of citrus and of the forest from which it had come a century earlier. She checked the cloth for dust and saw none, and then returned her attention to the task, rubbing small circles, bending close to examine the wood.
Her ass was in the air, exposed for all the world to see. Or rather…for Ricardo to see. “Displayed” might be a better word, because she suspected seeing her bare skin covered only by that tiny strip of silk emerging from her ass crack to join the fabric-covered elastic band around her hips was part of his plan.
But…was the rest of it part of his plan, too? The sensation of the rough rug fibers on her knees, blending with the silk rubbing against her clit and her pussy lips and her asshole…and most of all the humiliation of working like a motel maid, moving slowly around the room with her rag? Because she couldn’t deny that she was aroused again, that the sensation of being utterly spent was now only a memory, that her pussy dripped again with urgent need.
Without warning, Ricardo strode across the room, to stand towering over her. She’d cleaned only a few feet, the wood in front of her looking identical to what she’d already dusted.
