He presses the fabric between my teeth, and my mouth is full of it. I moan into the damp cotton, knowing he’s soaked it because it’s going to be inside me for a good long time and a dry gag gets unpleasant quickly.
“Can you breathe okay?”
I take a few deep breaths through my nose to confirm and then nod.
“Good. I don’t think you want your neighbors knowing what we’re about to get up to.”
He chuckles as I blink wildly and reaches for another square of fabric, folding it into a strip before fastening it over my mouth and tying it behind my head. When he’s done, he reaches up and squeezes my fingers around the ball. “Don’t forget.”
When I’ve nodded and whimpered my agreement, he turns his attention back to his toolbox.
“And what shall we do with you, pet? It’s been a while since I’ve been able to play with you. Did you miss me?”
My sinuses swell and tears prick at the backs of my eyes. Yes. I missed you so much. Please don’t ever leave me. He must notice his question has called up more than desire because he comes to me and strokes a thumb across my cheek, murmuring in my ear, “I missed you, too, mili. Every day. All the time. I never want to feel that way again.”
I mewl and rub my face against the scratchiness of his jaw.
“Do you want to stop? We can do this later if you want.”
I shake my head. Hell, no. I’ll revel in the aftercare, the closeness when he holds my body against his, but right now? Oh, the kink, the sex. I want everything please. The corner of his mouth kicks up in that cocky smile I love. “That’s my good girl.”
He brushes a kiss over my temple and turns back to his bag of tricks.
“I bet you’ve missed being filled, haven’t you?”
His meandering meditations don’t require an answer, but I give them with every question anyway. He’s teasing me, I’m sure. He planned this out while he walked the aisles, making his selections. Thinking of him trying not to get hard in public while he picked out each of these things, contemplating how best to torment me, sets me on fire; my hips thrust forward of their own accord.
He picks up the bubble wrap and scissors and cuts a rectangle before grabbing several rubber bands.
“Next time you’re in Kona, we’ll play with the proper equipment, but a little creativity never hurt anyone.”
I watch as he rolls up the bubble wrap and fastens the cylinder with the rubber bands. Is he going to—
A grab for a condom tells me yes, he is. He rolls the latex over the length of the makeshift dildo and holds it up like his first finger painting. Such a smug bastard. He walks over to me and pins my body against the door with the length of his, the hardness of his erection digging through his jeans and into my stomach. Why won’t he fuck me?
But instead his fingers explore, dipping into me to gather wetness he slicks over my clit, rubbing first in slow circles and then faster as my movements encourage him.
“No coming, pet. You know the rules.”
I groan around my gag, my protest registering as a muffled moan as two of his fingers find their way inside of me. There’s not much play between his hard body and the door, but I rock on his fingers, wishing for more. I squeak my objection when he withdraws and earn a slap to the side of my breast.
“You’re awfully noisy today, even with the gag. Do you need a reminder about what happens to bad girls who make too much noise?”
I shake my head, though I wouldn’t mind a spanking at all. But he won’t give me one while I’m not completely healed from my run-in with the USS Slade. It’d be something else, and the man is devious clever. He holds up the filled condom and spreads me open with his other hand.
“This should take away some of that ache I know you get when you’re feeling empty. You’re such a naughty little thing, liking all your holes stuffed full.”
He eases the dildo inside of me, teasing with shallow strokes before forcing it home. It’s a strange sensation. Not firm, like most of the toys I’ve had inside me, but a space holder. I won’t forget it’s there, especially when he presses against it, urging it further.
When he’s satisfied, he untethers my wrists and lowers my hands to my sides, rubbing as he goes. The ropes aren’t very scratchy, there aren’t any abrasions to look out for, but my fingers had started to tingle. He grabs another hank of the cord and winds a quick rope bra around my chest, putting my bare breasts on display and using the ends to fasten me against the door. When he puts a bulging handful of clothespins in his pocket, I blanch. My nipples are sore from earlier, and being clamped is going to hurt. Not in a good way. But he also takes up the snake bite kit, cracking the blister pack, and pretends to read the directions. I roll my eyes at his theatrics. This isn’t the Home Shopping Network, nor are you some male surfer version of Vanna White. Get on with it.
He takes out two yellow plastic pieces that look like thimbles and presses them between thumb and forefinger, studying them. It’s then I realize what they’re for. He pinches a nipple and tugs before squeezing one of the thimbles and placing it over the sensitized peak. When he lets go and the plastic surrounds my nipple, it creates a suction that make me gasp and he repeats the motion on the other side.
Now I’m really curious what he’s going to do with those clothespins. But I don’t have to wait long to find out. He removes one from his pocket and pinches my earlobe before applying it there. He tugs, and the sensation shoots all the way through my body. Before doing the other side, he pumps the cups on my nipples.
So this is his game. One pin, one pump. Clothespins might be lowbrow, but they’re a fun toy. They offer anything from a reminder to some serious ouch. Crispin’s going for somewhere in the middle. He decorates me, another pin on each earlobe, one on each fingertip of the hand not holding the ball. Fingertips? I didn’t know it before, but hells yes. I’m confused when he untethers my ankles—until he tells me to stay put and affixes a few pins to the inside of each thigh. Those are the ouchiest and a good reminder to not close my legs, no matter what he might do to me, including affix the last six pins to my labia.
Between the pressure of the pins, the suction on my nipples, and the feeling of fullness, I’m writhing against the door, and constant small noises are being absorbed by the gag. When he’s pleased with his work of art, he takes up another bandana and folds it into a makeshift blindfold, holding it up for me to see and giving me a chance to refuse before he ties the soft cloth over my eyes.
When I’ve been plunged into darkness, he tugs pins at random. I never know which one is going to be pulled or whether there’s going to be another pump to my nipples, but whatever he does, wherever the sensation originates, it ends in a pulse of pleasure in my core. When I think I can’t get any more desperate for him, he slicks fingers over my clit before pressing the bubble wrap further inside of me. I’m so close to the edge, and he must know, must be able to see me tremble, watch my muscles work as they strain toward him.
And that’s when he starts to remove the pins, kissing and licking and sucking in the wake of each one, leaving me more desperate than when he started. After removing one of the cups, he takes my nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, not skimping on the teeth, and it takes every ounce of will power I have to keep my climax from ripping through me.
When I’m freed of the wicked clamps and pumps, he releases me from the door, leaving the rope bra in place, and leads me—still deprived of sight and speech—to my bed. He urges me to my knees on the fluffy pillow-top and doesn’t speak. In the silence, he arranges me as he pleases, attaching my wrists to the headboard, pressing my head and chest into the bed, and bending my knees, urging my hips back to my ankles. I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat while he secures me with a spiderweb of knots over my shoulders, ribs and hips, using more strands to hold my thighs apart and give him access to the most private parts of me.
Still I clutch the ball, and he squeezes my fingers around it, reminding me of the emergency switch if this gets t
o be too much. It’s not. It’s just right. Being held all over like this is… I’d like to say soothing, but I’m anything but soothed. More like safe. Yes, safe.
I lay waiting, as if I could do anything else, and pick up the rustle of clothing. Then the weight of him is on the bed behind me.
“You look awfully pretty like this, kitten. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be than inside of you.”
And that’s when a lubed finger makes its way into the only place I’m not already filled to bursting. He strokes in and out a few times, adding another finger and then a third, preparing me thoroughly because it’s been so long since we’ve been together. Then the fingers are gone, replaced by what I really wanted. He eases in slowly but inexorably, his pelvis hitting my cheeks and this, oh, god this. All of me is his. I belong to him, and he’s claiming every part of me. A tug at my hair gets my attention, as do his words.
“You’re perfect. I’m never going to let you go.”
Then he moves inside of me, slow withdrawal and reentry moving on to insistent thrusts, and when he reaches around to pinch and tug on my clit, I shake with need. Please, Crispin, please.
“Come on, pet. Come for me. I want to feel you come.”
I let the walls down, and my climax pours forth, rushing over my body and sending waves of convulsions through me. My body pulses around his and urges his release. I feel it inside me, and the hard pull of my hair and a vital groan confirm. He collapses over me, spent, and I love the weight of him, the feel of his torso covering my back, his warm breath gentle on the back of my ear.
“For such a naughty girl, that was awfully good.”
I shake my head as well as I’m able, and wait while he disentangles himself and releases me from all of my bondage. He pulls me tight against him when he’s done, rubs my sore limbs, strokes my hair, kisses my forehead and tells me how beautiful I am, what a good girl I’ve been, and how pleased he is. He says these sweet things over and over while I come back into my body, and as soon as I find it, I fall asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
‡
The shrill sound of my phone echoes through my darkened room, and I jerk awake. Crispin’s heavy arm slung over my ribs keeps me from sitting bolt upright, and I choke on the gasp in my throat.
It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m disoriented. Why is my phone ringing? No one calls me except Crispin and he’s in the process of waking beside me, his first reaction being to clutch me tighter. I squeal at the pressure on my ribs, and he lets go, shoving a hand through the curls drifting over his forehead.
“Whassat?”
“Phone.” I reach over him to where the thing is vibrating on the bedside table and check the number.
Rey.
I’ve always felt the promise he made—“You need me, you call, I come.”—went both ways. Despite being so angry with him that I’d punch him in his pretty face if he were here, that vow still applies. It always will.
“Rey?”
“India, I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night. I’m sorry to call you at all. I’m sorry.”
His flurry of apologies is alarming. Rey is never flustered.
“Don’t be sorry. What’s going on?”
Crispin wakes up enough to turn on the bedside lamp and settles himself behind me to hold me tight.
“I need your help. A former client of mine just called. Her master attacked her and she needs to get out.”
“You need to call the police.”
“If it were you, would you want me getting the police involved?”
The thought sends shudders down my spine. Depending on the people involved and the sensibilities of the officers who showed up…a titillating story for the newspapers, jobs lost, custody battles fought, blackmail, who knows. I give my honest answer. “No.”
“She’s not far from you. Maybe half an hour? I’ll be down as soon as I can but in the meantime…”
My overwhelming response is yes, of course. I’d do it for Rey in a heartbeat. Not to mention this poor woman. But there’s one thing holding me back, a hook in my skin I don’t want to rip out.
“Is she in the local scene?”
“Yes.”
People involved in kink are, as a rule, discreet, but there’s an exception to every rule. Her partner seems like the kind of shithead who would call someone out on this very private part of their life. There’s a reason why I don’t play here, why I’ve taken pains to not be associated with the local kink community in any way. Why do I give a goddamn if someone in Tulsa knows I have a fondness for bondage and impact play? I don’t. But someone where I live? Who I could run into on the street with a colleague? That trips me up.
“I know what you’re thinking and I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t ask unless I absolutely had to.”
“I know. Give me a minute.”
“Is Cris with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring him with you, but she’s going to be gun-shy.”
“He’ll be on his best behavior.”
Rey gives me the woman’s name and address. The name of the street gives me pause because it sounds familiar, but half the streets in San Diego likely would, so I brush it off. Her master should be gone, but Rey says he’ll get back on the phone with her and keep me in the loop in case he comes back.
“Be good, be careful.”
“I always am.”
Our standard farewell sets off throbbing in my chest as I disconnect the call. I fill Crispin in, and within seconds, he’s out of bed and pulling on clothes. My heart is racing as I pull my hair back into a tangled mess. I grab a zip-up hoodie and a few extra sets of clothes from my closet and am about to push out the door when Crispin snags me by the waist and pulls me close.
“She’s going to be okay. And you’re not going to get burned for doing a good deed.”
I nod, even though anxiety is clawing at my stomach.
Crispin cups my face. “I know you’d walk through a fire anyway. You forget I’ve seen under those spikes of yours. You’re a good person.”
Warmth trickles through my system at his praise, and I turn my head to kiss the inside of his wrist. I take his hand and we head down to my car.
*
As we get closer to our destination, that fleeting prick of unease I felt when Rey gave me the address gets stronger. I’ve been in this neighborhood before. And it’s not like it was to go to a pool party, though I bet each and every house on this street has a nice one, complete with cabana and pool house. It’s pretty swank.
The feeling of déjà vu ups the tension in my body. When I turn into the long driveway, I know why. I’ve been here before. The mission style of the house isn’t distinctive, but there’s something about the military precision of the palm trees lining the drive and the excessive height of the privacy hedges that block off most of the property from sight. I’d come to a political fundraiser here last year, and I remember thinking when the valet helped me out of the car that the impenetrable shrubbery would be perfect if you were into outdoor play.
My stomach lurches as I remember shaking the hand of our host, one of San Diego’s most influential land developers. He was clearly a D-type—an older, attractive one, too—but something about the way he’d looked at me made me strap on my most professional armor and beat back the submissive on my shoulder. It wasn’t purely my usual instinct not to cross the streams, either.
Now I’m glad I did, but that pint of relief is drowned by a gallon of panic. I know this guy. We move in the same circles, and if I have to confront him to get her out of here… I’ll do it, but it could get ugly. He’s gone. Rey said he’s gone. Please stay that way, I pray as I pull up to the house and get out of the car.
Rey’s instructed me to go around to a side entrance. As I knock, Crispin waits a few feet back, careful to stand in the glow of the lamp over the door so he won’t look like he’s lurking in shadows.
The woman who comes to the door is blonde, a few inches taller tha
n me, with a voluptuous figure that makes me envious. But the split lip and the bruise on her cheek that’ll get a lot darker before the sun comes up—those make me cringe.
Most of the kinky couples I’ve known have some of the healthiest relationships I’ve ever seen, but in the few and far between where abuse was taking place, they were especially nasty. Domestic violence can be particularly insidious when the lines are so carefully drawn and outsiders can be callous and clueless, even if the victim musters the courage to seek help.
The woman’s been crying. Her eyes are puffy and red as she regards me with suspicion through the vertical panes of glass in the door. She’s talking on the phone, and I’m guessing she’s telling Rey that a short, black-haired woman is standing outside her door. When she’s got confirmation I’m the one Rey’s sent, the deadbolt unlatches with a thunk.
“Hi, Allison. I’m India, this is Cris.” Bile sloshes around my stomach as I give her my real name, but I need her to trust me. I can’t play Kit right now.
“Hi.” Her answer is abrupt, uncertain. I stand still, not wanting to frighten her, not wanting to upset this cautious truce.
“I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve known Rey for a long time. He asked me to help you until he can get here. You’re welcome to come to my apartment, or we can go to a hotel if that would make you feel safer.”
It’d make me feel safer to go to a hotel, so she won’t know any more about me than absolutely necessary, but I’ll leave it up to her. I wouldn’t blame her if she found the prospect of being somewhere as public as a hotel unappealing, given the state she’s in.
She peers over my shoulder at Crispin, eyeing him with suspicion. “Is he your master?”
“No. He’s my boyfriend. He tops me when we play, but it’s not twenty-four seven. He’s not going to hurt you, I promise.”
Her brows hovering close to her blue eyes tell me she’s not convinced, so I offer a deadpan, “He doesn’t like blondes.”
I have no idea if this is true. Any or all of Crispin’s former subs could’ve been blonde for all I know. I’m also wondering if I’ve made a miscalculation when she blinks a few times, her expression blank. But then her pink bow of a mouth, marred by a bloody streak, twitches up and she laughs. “Okay.”
Intimate Geography Page 16
