by Liz Meldon
Abruptly, Reid stepped back, and she almost sagged at the loss of contact. Her first thought was to reach up and touch the collar, but she knew better. Lydia waited, arms at her sides, willing her breathing to even out. He’d be so disappointed if he knew how out of control she felt tonight already.
“Tell me, Lydia,” he started, voice a gruff half-whisper, “were you late enough to warrant nipple clamps?”
She cursed—silently, of course—and tried to hold back a wince. Maybe Reid wasn’t a boob guy, given how cruelly he liked to punish hers. Or maybe he just knew how much she hated the clamps.
“I leave it to your discretion to decide which punishment fits the crime, sir,” she answered with some difficulty. If it was possible, her nipples had hardened further at the thought, and she felt a tingle from them when Reid’s gaze dropped down.
“I think…” He reached out and pinched one, hard enough to elicit a strangled whimper from Lydia. Then, as one might examine a ripened piece of fruit at the grocery store, he cupped and grasped each breast in equal measure, then tweaked the other nipple just as hard as the first. She was ready this time, holding back her whimpers as he appraised her.
When he was through, Reid gave the underside of each aching breast a light pat, smirking. “I think I will save that for another time.”
“Thank you, sir.” The words tumbled out as relief flooded her system, but Lydia bit her lip when he tugged at a nipple again.
“Don’t push your luck tonight,” was his final word on the matter. Reid then hooked a finger through the metal loop hanging from the front of her collar and led her down the hall at a brisk pace, half dragging her behind. A flash of disappointment crossed her mind at the thought that he might need to rush through their session, especially if he had another client scheduled, but she put an end to the thought fast. Whatever he saw fit to give her was enough.
He led her back into the living room, then settled himself on the edge of the armchair. Lydia stood beside him, hands threaded and head bowed, waiting for the next command. When his eyes snapped to her, she startled, her heart hammering.
“Over my knee,” he ordered, and when she started to crawl over him, he added a brisk, “now.”
Scrambling, she did her best to move quickly and efficiently, with minimal jostling for them both, draping herself over his lap. The position was a familiar one, and Lydia planted her palms on the floor, the tips of her toes barely reaching on the other side. Reid sighed impatiently, the sound causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise, and she swallowed a whimper when he tugged her panties up, the fabric stretched between her exposed cheeks and tight across her slick sex.
The first slap landed so hard, so firm, that she gasped. Blinking back the fresh sting of tears, she bit her lips as the sweet burn bloomed across her skin. The second hit was even harder, the third more so, harder and harder, in rapid succession, so that by the end of an eight-count she cried out.
“Lydia,” he warned, his hot hand smoothing over the stinging flesh. “You know the rules.”
She nodded, blood rushing to her face, fighting the urge to shy away from his wrath. At this point, she knew better. In the beginning, every flinch had only made the punishment worse.
Which, of course, made it better, but she hadn’t learned that until many sessions in. Reid gave her the best climaxes of her life, and this was all part of it.
She pressed her lips together, face crinkled in concentration, and fought the urge to vocalize the delicious sort of agony she had come to crave. He was relentless, eight counts for each round, drifting down to her thighs on occasion, the blows making her twitch and squirm about on his lap. Movement was fine; retreating was forbidden—that was the whole point of a safe word, after all.
At the end of her third eight-count, her poor cheeks were positively on fire, and Lydia was up on the tips of her fingers, arms shaking and legs threatening to fold up to shield herself. As if sensing the urge, Reid placed one hand on the undersides of her knees, caressing her undoubtedly cherry-red ass with the other. They sat in a heavy silence, Lydia tossed over his lap, her breath coming in uneven, strangled gasps, eyes wet with tears. Every so often, she would feel his soft exhale on her back. But as always, his breath was even and constant, as though the act required no physical exertion on his part.
Swallowing hard, Lydia closed her eyes and forced herself to slow her breathing. She let herself fall into the gentle sweep of his hand over her punished backside, using the familiar rhythm to calm herself. When it stopped, so had her tears, though her heartbeat continued to thunder between her ears.
“Up,” he snapped at last, grasping the base of her neck as she pushed herself into a standing position. Her raw, red cheeks screamed for attention, and it certainly didn’t help to have her panties wedged between them. She shifted about in front of him, both of them waiting for the blood to drain from her face and for the room to stop spinning. Reid’s hand hovered over her hip to stabilize her, and she bit back a knowing smile; it was something she had always appreciated about him—the way he looked after her. For all the dangerous games they’d played since this began, she had never once been hurt. Sore enough to feel a twinge for a few days after, sure, but that was the point.
“You know, I had plans this evening,” Reid remarked coolly. He then tapped the toe of his leather shoe—oxfords, as usual—twice to get her attention. “These were supposed to be polished for an event tomorrow, but I’m sure the shop is closed now.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Not yet you aren’t.” He snapped and pointed to the ground, and Lydia immediately knelt in front of him, her hands behind her back and her chest thrust out, assuming the usual position. Reid glowered down at her, the look in his eye enough to make her shiver, and then settled back in his chair. “I suppose you know what you need to do to make it up to me.”
She gulped and glanced down at the shoes, unsure, and then took what she considered a risk. “Shall I fetch the toothbrush?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d had her detail-clean something as a punishment, always in barely-there lingerie.
“No,” he said curtly, one hand tightening to a fist. “You will not.”
She returned her gaze to his shoes, which, to be perfectly frank, looked clean and polished enough already. When she hesitated, she heard him sigh impatiently again.
“Perhaps I’ll have you do it wearing nipple clamps too, then, if you’re going to be disobedient.”
Anxiety flashed through her, and she hastily bent over, coming face-to-shoe with a grimace. When she didn’t immediately start doing what she knew he wanted her to do, he began tapping his other foot. She bit her lip. This was pushing her luck. Her nipples grazed the floor as she shuffled lower, skin covered in goosebumps at the feel of the cool hardwood against her painfully stiff peaks. Her knees ached already, but she had learned to ignore that kind of pain a long time ago.
Taking a soft breath, she stuck out her tongue and ran it along the length of the shoe.
“Make sure you get all of it,” he growled, his other foot ceasing its tapping as she worked. “I can’t have a speck of dirt on them for tomorrow. Corporate types are so judgmental. They really just need someone to put them in their place, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” she managed when he leaned forward and stared down at her. She flicked her gaze up, the tip of her tongue at the tip of his shoe, and he nodded before settling back. Reid had mentioned dirt, but the shoes smelled new, the leather still crisp and unyielding. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, but it was what she deserved; she had been late.
Lydia made sure to get every inch of the shoe save for the soles. Every nook and cranny, she licked, and when she was finished with the right, she moved on to the left. These had to be new shoes. He couldn’t have worn them outside, at the very least; Lydia may have had to use her caution safe word if they were actually dirty. She enjoyed humiliation, punishment, most forms of pain—the works. She had no interest,
however, in being forced to eat dirt. Soft, verging on hard limit.
But this was good. Better than good, even. With each slight movement, she could feel, sometimes hear, her soaked sex. With her hands behind her back, hand clasped to wrist, she shuffled around at Reid’s feet, not stopping until the job was done, no matter how awful the taste, how her knees hurt, or how her sensitive nipples dragged across the wood panels. She saw her punishment through from start to finish, only sitting back in the appropriate stance when she was sure she had done her job right.
Jaw clenched, the scrumptious angle of it making her squirm, Reid inspected each shoe. She held her breath when he rubbed at one spot, worried she had actually missed something, then let it go when he stood and brushed by her. He walked confidently, the strut perfected over years—the sign of a man in total control. She bit her lip, trying not to blatantly stare, then sat up at attention when he stopped in the corner of the room.
“Come here.”
Nodding, Lydia crawled across the hardwood, then resumed the same position at his feet. Her heart fluttered when she spotted a clasp attached by a thin leather strap no more than half a foot long to a metal loop drilled into the floor.
“Do you know what this is for?”
She nodded. More than likely, that clasp would clip onto the ring on her collar, effectively chaining her to the floor with very little wiggle room.
“I had another client scheduled after you,” Reid told her, arms crossed and expression severe, “and now you’re about to cut into her time. Do you think that’s fair?”
“No, sir.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He crouched in front of her and hooked a finger through the metal loop on her collar, then firmly guided her down to the clasp. She winced, adjusting her body along the way, her full breasts and painfully hard nipples thrust to the floor again. Her sex clenched, however, at the sound of the clasp locking around the hook, a pleasurable throb humming through her body. When Reid straightened, she realized she’d been right; with no more than a foot of give, she was effectively shackled to the floor in the corner of the room. She bit her lip. This was new. He’d tied her up in all sorts of configurations before, and she liked just about every one, no matter how torturous. This felt the most like a punishment—a sexy time-out, as it were.
“Forehead on the floor,” he ordered softly, “and hands behind her back.”
Lydia hurried to comply, swallowing her discomfort. When she clasped her hands behind her back, she stilled at the feel of him looping satin material around them. He started at her wrists, then expertly tied all the way up her forearms, taking a little extra time near the elbows—tying a bow, most likely. Reid prided himself on his handiwork.
“You will stay in this position until I’ve finished with my other client,” he informed her. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
She shifted about, easing the weight between her knees, the floor unrelenting, and then cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. As you should be.” Lydia closed her eyes, breath catching, when he gently gathered her hair and arranged it so it fell like a thick curtain on either side her of face. When he was through, Reid clasped the nape of her neck, squeezing just enough for her to feel the bite of each fingertip. “I will be walking this client by you. Her session is only ten minutes, and will take place in another room. With your hair as such, she will not see your face. Do you need to invoke a limit?”
Lydia blinked, briefly allowing herself a moment outside of their unusually intense scene. The way she was positioned, this client would see her ass, and her soaked, swollen lips protruding through the crotchless part of her silk panties. But no face. Lydia had no tattoos, no oddly shaped birthmarks on display. As much as she needed these little sessions with Reid, no one could ever know. She had worked too hard on her professional reputation for the world to know she loved to be dominated. Lydia would be ruined. However, there was no possibility that this woman could identify her without seeing her face. So, she shook her head.
“No, sir.”
“Good girl.”
His praise always delighted her, more than any she’d ever received from her executive superiors. Her body responded readily now, warmth washing over her as a blush took hold. No one else could make her feel like this: hopelessly exposed, embarrassed, yet utterly safe too. At work, Lydia’s mind raced from sunup to sundown. Here, with Reid, she could just be—even if that meant being tied and contorted, soon to be on display for a stranger. She had complete trust in him, especially when he left her side for a moment and returned to place a small bell in front of her face.
“I’d rather you didn’t use it,” he insisted, the words part of their game, “but ring it if you need me to relieve you.”
The scene would be over then. Lydia had no intention of touching the damn thing, so she just nodded, her blush darkening as he chuckled and smoothed a hand over her still-raw cheeks.
“There’s one more thing…” She heard the cracking open of a lubricant bottle, and her toes curled when he probed a lubed finger into her tightest hole. Her hands fisted, and Lydia forced herself to relax as best she could, ignoring the slight sharpness of the intrusion.
When they had begun their relationship, anal was a hard limit, and at no point had Reid ever brought it up with her after that was established. However, about two months ago, Lydia had decided that if she were ever to try this thing that was all the sexual rage in women’s magazines these days, she ought to try it with him. They’d discussed it after a session one evening, when they were equals again, and Reid had agreed to introduce her to it very slowly.
So far it wasn’t as mind-blowing as the articles made it out to be, but she was only up to a few plugs of varying sizes—which she deduced, as Reid pumped his finger in and out of her, was what she was in for now. She bit her lip and concentrated on her breathing. With her hair curtained around her, she had no visual to go off of—just the sounds of his movements behind her, paired with the electricity of his touch.
As much as she tried to keep it even, her breath still hitched when she felt the head of the plug against her hole.
“Relax,” Reid gently reminded her, a hand on her lower back—an unspoken reminder to arch it. She complied, then clenched her eyes shut when the plug slid into place courtesy of more lubrication. Her entire body tightened at the latest intrusion; it felt bigger than any he’d used on her before, and the urge to look back, or squirm about, hit her so hard she whimpered. When he said her name, the question clear, she calmed herself again; this wasn’t supposed to be comfortable.
Besides, being filled there made her desperate to be filled in other places. The torture was exquisite.
“Green, sir.”
“Good.” He gave each cheek a moderately hard spank, driving her into the floor, ass gripping the plug so tight that she shuddered as a tremor of pleasure seeped from her core. At the sound of his retreating footsteps, she realized she was trembling ever so slightly, desperate to touch herself, to slide a finger into her slick entrance, or play with her swollen clit.
But all she could do was sit and wait. She had made her bed—now she had to lie in it.
Although it couldn’t have been more than a minute that she was left waiting, the silence bore down on her, adding to the discomfort. Reid seldom left her alone during these sessions, and she found she missed him almost immediately. Not only that, but the sound of the door opening and hushed conversation, a woman’s voice carrying over Reid’s rumbly baritone, made Lydia almost—jealous? She bit the insides of her cheeks, her body tightening around the plug again and sending another jolt of pleasure through her.
No. She couldn’t be jealous. Reid had a lot of clients. She’d known that from the beginning.
She’d just never heard one before.
Two sets of footsteps sounded, growing louder and louder, until the woman gasped in the expansive doorway to the warmly lit
living room.
“Ignore her,” Reid said briskly. “She was late this evening.”
“Oh.” The woman sounded young, possibly younger than Lydia—more like one of her assistants, actually. Girlish, her tone already submissive. “What poor form.”
“Indeed.” They crossed the living room behind her, Lydia’s entire body on fire, acutely aware of just how on display she was, plug and all. Suddenly, they stopped, and what Reid said next made her eyes widen in her surprise and her jaw clench. “Tell me, do you think the plug should vibrate in my absence?”
There was a tense moment of silence, until suddenly she heard one of them tiptoeing toward her—the woman, of course. Reid would never tiptoe. The new arrival stopped directly behind her, presence looming overhead, and Lydia tucked her chin against her chest, shielding her face as best she could beneath all that lustrous dirty blonde hair.
She exhaled sharply when she felt the woman fiddling with the plug. Seconds later—it rumbled to life.
And it was agony. Lydia closed her eyes tight as the pair left her, disappearing into the hall, possibly into Reid’s guest bedroom. In their absence, she let herself whimper, the sensation of something vibrating in her ass totally new and utterly jarring. She didn’t dare reposition herself—Reid missed nothing—but she desperately wanted to. The way the plug was shaped, it nudged perfectly against something in there, the stimulation akin to her g-spot, and she found herself quickly panting, coated in a sheen of sweat, fighting the urge to buck her hips.
Surprise flashed through her at the sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by a woman’s sharp cry. Throwing caution to the wind, Lydia lifted her head a little, flinching at the next hit—palm to cheek. A cry. He was spanking her. A ten-minute spank session. She didn’t even know he offered those.
