A year or so later, not terribly long after Eliza celebrated her twentieth birthday, David caught her spying on him. He had just gotten out of the shower and was examining his visage in the bathroom mirror when he caught a glimpse of her in the reflection. He did not let on that he’d seen her, but simply went about his routine, his heart thrumming loud and heavy in his chest. He combed his thick, brown hair back toward his ears, examining the streaks of grey at either temple. He kept himself looking healthy and neat: even after his metabolism had started to slow, he remained a slender man with nicely defined shoulders. He flexed only slightly for vanity’s sake and removed the towel from around his waist. The simple knowledge that she was looking at him made him grow stiff with repressed lust. He was fully exposed to her in the mirror as he splashed on some aftershave, brushed his teeth and applied deodorant. But when he turned around to fetch his clothes, she had disappeared.
And that was only the first of many times he’d caught her peeping. The next time was several months later, when she was home for Thanksgiving. David was making love to Carol when it happened. They switched positions so that he could penetrate her from behind, and when he lifted his head, he spied Eliza, peering in through the bedroom door that had been left only slightly ajar. David locked his eyes on hers then, and she did not look away, enticing him to thrust deeper and more brutally into his wife, who squealed a muffled protestation into the mattress. David placed a hand on the back of her head so that she would not look up and see Eliza there, and he came with an uproarious cry, his eyes never leaving Eliza’s lovely face. He had collapsed into a sated, but guilty, heap atop his panting wife, thinking of how Eliza looked like what Carol must have looked like thirty years earlier; he wished he’d met her back then.
Everything changed one day when Carol took her other two children with her to visit her mother in Upstate New York, leaving Eliza with David after she protested that she had a birthday party to attend and she never went to parties so she just had to be allowed to attend this one. Relenting without much of an argument, the house was nearly empty for a full week, and David reveled in the quiet. He spent hours writing in the garden, he went for walks into town, he did his shopping at a leisurely Sunday pace.
One afternoon after returning home from one of his walks, he climbed the narrow wooden staircase to the master bedroom only to find lithe Eliza naked on his bed, her fingers plunged deep into the smooth, pink recesses of her sex. Her eyes were closed, her head turned to the side and her face pressed against what looked like one of David’s plain white dress shirts. She breathed quickly, the air coming in short bursts as she brought herself closer and closer to climax. He watched her for a while, perhaps not as shocked as a man of lesser ego would have been, and relished the thought of her yearning for him all these years, pining silently under the weight of such a taboo.
Just before it looked like she might orgasm, he spoke, his voice low and sonorous: “Stop.” And her gray eyes shot open even as she sat upright on the bed. Eliza blushed a deep, rose red as she stared at David. She was frozen in place for the span of several heartbeats, her eyes wide as saucers, her jaw hanging open.
“I… you said you were grocery shopping, and I…” she stammered, thick, black lashes fluttering.
“Yes,” David replied, crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest, “I was out. I’ve returned.” Eliza was silent, a trapped animal looking for the easiest path to escape. “What’s that?” David asked, canting his chin toward the crumpled dress shirt beneath her.
“Oh, this is…” She lifted it up to show him. “It’s…” He lifted one dark brow. “It’s… your shirt.”
“Why do you have it?” He continued, relentless.
“I…” She began to pull it in front of herself, to hide her body from his unwavering stare. But he was drinking in the sight of her with unabashed gusto and would not have her hide herself from him again.
“Put the shirt down,” he said quietly, and she obeyed. “Now, why do you have it?”
“Because… it smelled like you,” she said. And that was all he needed to hear.
He closed the door behind him before stepping deeper into the room and unbuttoning his shirt slowly, deliberately, and folding it in a neat square before tugging off his undershirt and folding that as well. Next, he kicked off his shoes and tucked them in line under the bed. He removed his socks, undid his belt, stepped out of his slacks and folded them. Never once did Eliza take her eyes off of him.
Wearing only his boxers, he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands resting on his knees. “I had thought you were raised to be better behaved than this, Eliza,” he said, bemused. “It seems you need to be taught a lesson.” He lifted his eyes to look at her and she knelt, mouth agape, on the bedspread, venturing only a nod of her head. “Come here,” he said, and she did. When she was within arms reach, he curled a hand gently around the delicate arch of her wrist and pulled her forward. He gave a little tug and, with a yelp, she found herself over his knee, one of his arms pressing against her back to keep her in place.
He brought down his free hand onto the curve of her smooth, white bottom, the sound of the smack resounding in the high-ceilinged room. She made no noise, and so he spanked her again, her flesh blooming pink where he’d made contact. Again and again, over and over, until his hand began to ache with the effort. Her bottom was bright red when he stopped, but when he lifted her up, she simply grinned at him and said, “More.”
This truly shocked David, but the smirk on his face betrayed none of his thoughts, he simply forced the girl to her knees in front of him. “Tell me,” he said, reaching out to grab her discarded panties, “how long have you fantasized about this?”
“Since the first instant I saw you,” she said, all of the fear evaporating out of her eyes. “When I came home from school, you thought it was my mom coming in and you came to the door with a magazine in your hand and you leaned in as though you were going to place a kiss on my cheek.” She smiled, lifting a hand to her face, her fingertips brushing lightly over her skin. “And you nearly did, but then you saw it wasn’t my mother and you pulled back. But in that moment…” Her eyes glistened at the memory, a broad smile lighting up her features. “I could see the bulge in your trousers and I’ve wanted you ever since.”
He came around to the other side of her and tied her wrists together behind her back using her flimsy white panties. Then he pushed her down by the back of her head so that her cheek was pressed against the mattress. He situated her so that she was on her knees with her ass in the air, her legs spread wide enough so that her slick, pink cunt was fully exposed.
“And you’ve been watching me,” David said gruffly, salivating at the site of her sweet little pussy. “I’ve caught you several times.”
“Yes, sir,” Eliza said, her words making him even harder than the sight of her prone body. “But one time you didn’t catch me. One time you were laying here, in a white shirt and boxers, and I watched you jerk off. I was in the hall, peeking in, and I touched myself as you did, and I let myself come when you came.”
David’s heart rate picked up as he plunged more deeply into the throes of his desire, titillated by the idea of her getting off watching him stroke himself. He had to touch her – but not yet. Not yet. The waiting would make it all the sweeter.
“My, but you are a naughty little thing, aren’t you?” he said. “And because you have insisted on behaving so terribly, I have more punishment in store for you.”
“I want you to punish me, sir,” she purred. “I want to be your good little girl again.” She turned her face toward him on the mattress even as he stood and slid his boxers down his thick, muscular thighs, freeing his throbbing cock from its confines. He was desperate for some sort of release, but he pulled away even as her gaze landed hungrily on his member.
“Do you often think about me when you touch yourself, Eliza?” He asked, running his fingertips over the slope of her ass, down the cleft between her legs, a
nd along the length of her thigh.
“All the time,” she murmured. “I was fucking my boyfriend last week and I called out your name when I came.”
He went to where he’d left his folded pants and removed his belt, folding it once over and moving to stand behind Eliza. “You’ve been very bad,” he said darkly, and smacked her ass and upper thighs with the belt, leaving bright, burning welts in his wake. She whimpered as he whipped her, the sound of the leather against her smooth skin punctuated by the strangled sound of her cries. He raised his arm back and brought the leather strap down on her already enflamed backside with the full force of his strength and she collapsed forward with the blow.
“Do you want more, you little slut?” he asked, hitting her again and eliciting a wail from young Eliza’s lips.
“No, no, please no more, sir,” she pleaded, and he dropped the belt onto the mattress and reached out to caress the skin he had just abused. He kissed her all over, his hand finding its way between her legs, caressing the smooth center of her sex. He easily located her engorged clit and rubbed it, evoking a guttural moan from the back of her throat. He slid one finger inside of her, pleased to find the evidence of her desire in how dripping wet she was for him. She began to move her hips back and forth against the probing of his finger; she was so beautiful, he could barely stand it.
Standing upright, he untied her and turned her around before sitting next to her on the edge of the bed. “You want my cock?” he asked, and she smiled a sly little smile and gave a curt nod of her head. He leaned back on his hands and waited only a moment before she bent down over him and took the tip of his tumescent manhood into her mouth. That small gesture alone was enough to send a bolt of electricity down his spine, but she continued to take more and more of him between her lips until she had gone as far as she could — about halfway down his eight turgid inches — and used her right hand to assist her. Her head bobbed up and down above him as she sucked him off, her tongue spinning in frantic circles over the head of his cock. He allowed his eyes to come to a close as he tangled his fingers in her hair, losing himself in the sublime sensations of her steady rhythm.
When he felt his climax begin to grow, he threw her off of him with such force that she landed, startled, near the headboard. “Spread your legs,” he commanded, and she did. He crawled forward and plunged two fingers into her pussy, and she squirmed against him. He bent forward, his tongue running along the lips of her vulva before circling around her pulsing clit. She groaned very prettily, her hips rolling beneath him, urging him to pick up speed. He used his fingers, pushed deep inside her, to stimulate her g-spot while his tongue focused on her perfect pink clitoris. “Please,” she cooed, “please fuck me now, sir.” And he withdrew his fingers from inside her, found her discarded panties and stuffed them into her mouth. Because he knew that he would come too soon if she called him Sir one more time.
In one swift movement he pinned both of her wrists over her head, and he wrapped his free hand around his cock to guide it into the small, tight entrance to her pussy. He forced himself into her and she wailed around the cotton barrier of her gag. Being inside her felt like warm, wet velvet and he pounded away at her with delicious abandon, thrusting in and out of her tight wetness. She arched her back, her hips moving in time to the tempo of his thrusts, and she tried to accommodate him so that he could plunge as deeply into her as possible.
She was wound as tight as a spring, stiffening and electric as the tension built inside of her. He felt the muscle contractions of her orgasm around his cock just before he shot his load into her, her pussy milking him for every last drop of his spunk. He collapsed atop her, and lifted his hand to remove the panties from her mouth before he pressed a kiss to her lips.
“You’re mine now, sweet darling,” he said on the wings of a sigh.
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “I’m yours.”
Three: Good Little Pet
The first thing I shall strip you of is your name.
To me, you are Pet, Sweet, or Darling when you behave yourself, when I see you kneeling there, your eyes downcast. This is when you are perfect to me: your knees are splayed, your hands clasped behind your back so that your breasts are pushed forward. Part those plump lips and you’ve become the quintessence of beautiful submission. I adore you this way, supplicant and titillated.
Although you are naked and bared to me, I remain in my suit, a finely tailored Armani in black, my red silk tie the only splash of color. You can hear me circling you, the heels of my Testoni shoes landing softly on the thick Persian rug on which you kneel. Your hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and I enclose it in my fist when I come up behind you, tugging your head back. I bend forward and press a kiss to your forehead and in this way, you know we have begun.
I start with a pair of silver nipple claps that boast a delicate silver chain between them. Rolling the sensitive flesh of your nipples between my thumb and forefinger, I bring them to life one at a time, hardening them through my gentle ministrations. Squeezing the end of the clamp, I attach one, then the other, the chain hanging down between your breasts, cool against the exposed skin of your abdomen. The pain of it starts off intense, but dulls to a pleasant sort of throbbing. Your little gasps echo in the wide, open space that serves as the stage for our games, a room lined with all of bondage’s most alluring accoutrements: whips and crops, floggers and paddles line the walls in neat rows; cages and restraints, toys and devices are tucked neatly away in a trunk concealed by a plush divan in red damask; a St. Andrew’s Cross is lit in feature light at the far end of the room. Your eyes drink in all of this, a shudder running down your spine as you consider the limitless possibilities of how I might use you.
I take the chain in my hand and tug it forward, and your nipples along with it, until you are forced to stand. I lead you by that chain, your breasts stretched ever so slightly forward, until we reach the divan. You know enough to bend yourself over it, on your knees once more, your cheek pressed to the rich, velvety cushion. But your legs aren’t spread, and I tsk quietly as I examine all of the tools at my disposal to correct your oversight. I choose a spreader bar, which I attach to your ankles, forcing your legs to open wide to me, and I am pleased to see how the pink opening of your sex glistens with wanton desire. The sight of you this way makes me hard, and I am practically salivating at the thought of taking you. But not yet. Not yet.
I can feel your eyes on me as I return to the wall, perusing the various whips and paddles: A Cat ‘O Nine Tails, perhaps? A riding crop? A cane? Yes. The switch I choose is long and thin, a reed smoothed down. I take it in hand and return to you, seeing how you drop your gaze to the floor as soon as I catch you watching me.
“My good little pet knows,” I say, my voice a low murmur, “that her legs must be spread whenever she is kneeling. Doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Master,” you say, barely a whisper.
“And yet,” I continue, coming around to the other side of you and gazing down at your luscious backside, “you seemed to require a spreader bar today. Perhaps my little pet wants to be punished. Is that it?”
“No, Master,” you say. “I want to be your good little pet.”
The cane whistles through the air before making sharp contact on your upturned ass, leaving a bright red welt in your delicate flesh. You let out a little cry when it hits, and I smile and bring it down again. I revel in the sound of the lash and grow hard at the sight of the contusions I’m creating. I whip you again and you squeal, wriggling involuntarily, your skin a latticework of pink and white.
“You will remain still,” I command, and you freeze in place, squeezing your eyes shut. I whip your ass to show you that you are mine to do with as I please. And I stop after ten lashes, and press a series of light kisses to your raw flash to show you that I adore you.
I slide a finger between the soft folds of your labia to stroke your clit, a moan escaping your lips the first instant I touch you. You are already dripping wet, and I know I must b
e cautious and stingy with my stimulation, lest you come too quickly. I pull my hand away, my fingertips shining with your juices, and force my fingers into your mouth so that you can lick them clean.
I place the cane back in its spot and procure a riding crop. I whisk it back and forth between your legs so that the smooth, leather tongue hits the inside of both of your thighs. You purse your lips together, humming your dismay, but I elicit a full blown cry when I use the riding crop to smack against your pussy. Your body jolts with each pass as the crop causes blood to rush to this already enflamed area.
“Please stop, Master,” you cry, but I don’t. I hit your sweet little cunt again, and again, until all you can feel is the stinging pain. But after ten lashes, I toss the crop aside, and turn you over, laying you out on the divan. With my hands on the spreader bar, I left your legs up so that you are folded in half.
“Hold the bar,” I command, and you do. I bend forward and begin to lick your abused area, my tongue flicking out to caress your clit. I blow a gentle stream of cool air across your sex and you pant as the pain subsides.
“Is it time for me to take Master’s cock?” You ask, and I cannot help but smile, although it is a breach of protocol for you to speak without having been asked a direct question. I rise to my feet to look at you, your legs in the air, your tiny fists curled around the spreader bar. You have beautiful welts on your ass, and your cunt is pink from stimulation and abuse. And my dick is aching in my pants. I need to fill you up.
Bound for Him: (A Billionaire BDSM Boxed Set - 9 Stories) the Bacchanalia Collection Page 10
