by Jenna Elliot
“Perfect.” I unscrew the first clamp.
“Now, hands behind your back.”
She obeys, eyes still closed.
Her whole body sways when I work the clamp onto her nipple then tighten the screw to hold it in place. She gasps aloud.
“Color?”
Takes her a moment to remember. “Green, sir.”
Good girl. I attach the second clamp. The chain hangs between her breasts, almost to her sexy navel.
“You wear these until I take them off.”
“Yes, sir.”
I point to a work shirt on a hook by the door. “Get my shirt. You’ll wear that while you work, so the guys don’t see anything.”
Her eyes fly open at the mention of other guys, and I watch her wrestle with resistance. She clearly masters it, then walks around the desk. In the security mirror overhead, I see the chain bounce and tug, her breasts tremble with the motion. Her blush rushes back, and I’ll bet money she just figured out the purpose of nipple clamps. She’s in for a ride of constant arousal.
Sliding her arms into the shirt, she pulls the fabric closed. Her eyes widen and she sucks in a sharp breath as the fabric settles over her erect nipples.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Mia.”
“How long will I wear these?”
I meet her gaze and say sternly, “Until I tell you to take them off. If they come off before that, I’ll spank your ass until it’s pink.” I test her. “Then again, I may spank you anyway, for the fun of it.”
I see her jaw clench. She nods. But I have no doubt, sweet Mia will think about that spanking as she works on her fender.
Because wearing those clamps is going to be hard on her. And very arousing.
20
Mia
EVERY STEP I take makes the chain jangle. And with the jangle comes the tug. My nipples stretch just enough to make my breasts heavy and my stomach swoop. So, I try to move less and with more deliberation. Then the shirt grazes my too-sensitive nipples, and the slightest brushing glances that make sensation pool between my thighs.
I can barely think of anything but how horny I am.
When I can think, I feel alternately bold and paranoid that Ethan’s employees—two brothers who introduce themselves as Dirty and Dirtier—might figure out that I’m parading around here with boobs of fire.
I know they can’t see anything. Ethan’s shirt covers me so the brothers wouldn’t even know I had boobs if not for the fact I’m female.
I still worry. I still feel naughty as hell.
Wearing the tit jewelry isn’t the punishment. Fixing my new fender is. I work inside a paint booth the brothers set up. I can’t think of them by the nicknames they’ve told me. Surely they have real names. Until then, it’s “the brothers” because they look a lot alike. And I’m pretty sure they set me up. They propped the fender on top of a table, which turns out to be the perfect arrangement for Ethan to lean against me, showing me how to sand the panel.
His body molds around mine. He totally takes advantage by brushing up against me any way he can. Every time he moves, I move. The chain jangles between my breasts . . .
“It’s a light sand job.” He demonstrates with his hand over mine. “Easy does it.”
OMG. I am overwhelmed by sensation. His body is hard. His scent reminds me of when we kiss. I want to snuggle up against him. No, more like grind against him. I just want to part my thighs and lift my backside . . .
He coaches me to keep the sanding in motion, sweeping circles that tug on my chain. Jangle. Jangle. The motion has a direct line to my crotch. My breasts swell. I inhale hard.
Ethan slants a gaze to me, his amber eyes twinkling. “You okay, baby doll?”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” I’m not talking about sanding.
He knows it. “Oh, you can. Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.”
He would know, I’m sure. I tell myself I can get through this. I will. But I bite my lip as distraction from the constant tugging. The way my breasts sway. I can barely breathe.
And the man is enjoying every second of my torment. “Ready for the next stage?”
“Yes.” I almost throw the sander at him, but won’t risk that much movement. I set it down gently underneath the table.
He hands me a clean cloth and a container labeled enamel reducer. “Wipe down the fender with the oil.”
Of course. Not only a little moving, but a lot. I swallow back a groan and ask, “Is this really necessary?”
“The paint won’t stick otherwise.”
“Fine.” I grind out. But I’m so far from fine, I could slip my fingers into my jeans and take matters into my own hands. I won’t. Because I don’t trust him. Not as far as I can throw him.
Nipple clamps. Spanking. Do I really want to risk whatever punishment he might come up with next?
One question that’s easy to answer. But I am going insane trying to do what he wants. I would much rather be sitting behind a switchboard answering phones. He knows that, too, and I want to slap the devilish grin from his too-handsome face. He loves every minute of this.
Wiping down the panel forces me to lean into each stroke, and he watches my every move like a cat eyeing a mousehole. But I won’t say anything. I’ll concentrate if it kills me.
It might.
But, as long as I’m stuck suffering on the edge of this constant stimulation, I’m going to take him along for the ride. As long as he’s going to stand there and watch me, he’s going to get a show. I lean into the next stroke, bending at the waist. I spread my legs as if I have to brace myself for each stroke, and my pussy gives a pulsing throb with all the moving. When I tip my butt in the air and sway my hips back and forth, I know I have his attention.
I half expect him to smack my ass.
But he only leans against the wall and folds his arms over his chest. His eyes grow heavy-lidded, and success urges me to get bolder. I arch my back with my arms stretched out in front of me, so low the shirt slides up my waist and the chain clinks against the table.
I stroke the fender with the oil, my hands gliding over the surface, my body swaying in time to the inner rhythm of sex. And I’m all about sex right now. My impromptu show is working those chains until each jiggle of my boobs makes me exhale a gasp.
I remember the show at the club. This is our own private show. I stand on my tiptoes and lean all the way over. My jeans pull tight against my ass. I feel his eyes heating up my flesh.
“Are you daring me to spank you?” His voice is hoarse, low, sexy as hell.
I’m so turned on from the clamps, I want him to touch me. Just touch me. I’m past the point of caring how.
I wriggle my hips back and forth to tease him. Then look over my shoulder. He stares at my ass with a hunger in his eyes that heats me up even hotter. My thong is so wet that my jeans must be wet, too.
I’m aroused, horny and getting annoyed that I have to wait on him for release. And my mouth takes over. “You’re all talk.”
In one second, he pounces. He moves so fast, he pins me down with one large hand on the small of my back. With the other, he unsnaps and unzips my jeans. Then yanks them down my legs and leaves them around my ankles.
I try to break away. But he keeps me bent over, on my toes, ass in the air. The nipple clamps and chain are caught up in my shirt, trapped against the fender, tugging each time I squirm.
“You won’t . . .”
“I will.” He breathes the words close to my cheek. His breath is warm. Sweet.
I was going to say, “You won’t hurt me.” Until he rudely cut me off. But I remember what he said about fighting back and pleasure.
I don’t repeat myself. I try to not to think, to give myself over to him.
“You’re going to count off each and every smack.” He sounds excited.
My belly swoops in reply. When he jerks down my thong, I quiver, so horny. I should be freaking out with my butt exposed to the cool air, two brothers just outside the
paint stall, and my butt a bare target for a sex fiend. I’m helpless.
And so tense and aroused my pussy pulses and my bare butt tingles. Ethan is going to spank me, and I am literally quivering in anticipation.
“Spread your legs.”
He doesn’t wait for me to comply. He wedges his knee between my thighs and pries them apart because my feet are trapped in my jeans. The force takes me by surprise. He’s suddenly rougher, and I steel myself to feel pain. But instead of a smack, he palms my crotch roughly, his callused hand dragging along my wetness.
I jump. My nipples ache. I swallow back a groan.
“You are so turned on. You want a spanking, don’t you?”
I don’t have any words. All I can do is push back against his hand, trying to ease this ache, starting to feel embarrassed and mortified that the threat of his spanking, his roughness, is pushing me so close to the edge. I can’t admit that to him. Not even to myself.
“What’s your color, baby doll?”
“Don’t ask me that.” He’s giving me a chance to say no. I don’t want that control right now. If I say, “green,” I’ll be acknowledging a part of me I didn’t know existed until right this second. But I can’t say, “Red.”
I’m scared. Excited. Too aroused to think. He rubs my clit, pushing me further than I ever dared go. My head spins. Every breath tugs my nipples, and I am right on the edge of an orgasm.
“Do you trust me?” His question is a demand.
“No.” I don’t trust him. I don’t trust myself. I only know I’m so tense I might hyperventilate. Every inch of my exposed butt is taut, waiting, ready. He runs his palm over my ass, pinching, grabbing, playing with me.
I want him to place his hand back between my legs. But I know he won’t. Instead, he rubs me harder now, so hard I sway. I’m so aroused I’m going to explode or die. I don’t know which.
“Count.”
His command comes at me sideways. “What?”
“To ten.”
His palm connects to my skin. The sting shocks, and I cry out, completely focused on pain that radiates outward from my bottom, the heat intense.
I’m so stunned by the sensation that blazes from my butt straight to my crotch that I wriggle to get away. That just tugs on my chains and my nipples.
I’m frantic, my body so charged I feel like I’m reduced to one pulsing throb of need.
“That one doesn’t count. Guess we’ll have to try again.”
He flicks my clit and I moan. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting to hear you count.”
“And what if the brothers hear me?” What if they know I’m not only letting Ethan do this to me, I’m aching for him, too? Just the thought sends shame searing through me.
Ethan flicks on a radio, turns up the volume. Then he slides a finger into my pussy and hooks his finger against my G-spot.
“Don’t wait too long or I’ll get another free swat,” Ethan warns.
The tension in me draws so tight. Arousal swells like a tidal wave inside me, and I don’t even care what I think.
“Sir, can I cum?” I grind the words out, hoping if I remember my manners . . .
“Not until after your spanking, Mia.” As he croons out his demands, his finger keeps circling inside me. “I’m going to turn your sweet ass hot pink before I’m done.”
I scream inside at the realization I want this. I’m so ashamed, but I don’t care. The sting of the first slap is already fading, changing into something dark and dangerous that draws me like a moth to a lamp.
He feels so good. His finger inside me is so erotic I know if I don’t follow his directions I’ll cum. Without permission.
“One.” I force out the word and steel myself for the sting.
I’m still surprised when it comes. His palm slaps my ass, and I am swept into a river of heat.
He soothes my sore flesh with his palm, taking away some of the sting but none of the fire. Before I gather my wits, his hand is back between my legs, stroking my clit.
My focus is now on his finger. On the way he slides and caresses and teases. I want . . . I need . . . But I know I’m not allowed to give in to it.
“You control the pace, sweet Mia,” he tells me. “Do you want to stop? Do you?” He flicks my clit and I jerk. My nipples are so sensitive that I barely hold back another yelp.
He smacks me. And the burn is wildly intense.
“Two.” I’m lost in sensation.
He smacks me high. He smacks me across the middle. He smacks me low. Until my butt is so hot I know I’m going to combust. The heat he causes to my ass makes me burn between my thighs. I cry out. I’m counting, I think. I don’t know because the sting is no longer pain. It’s need like I’ve never felt before, never even imagined. I’m sobbing, knowing I’m going to cum if I don’t give him another number. The sneakiness of what he’s doing to me is insane.
I’m insane. Caught in a web of desire so fiery that I scream out, “I . . . can’t.”
“You can, Mia.” He coos. “You can do anything you want.”
He kneads my skin. Slides his hand up and down my crease. Wriggles a finger, then two into my burning ass.
All I can do is arch back into his touch, writhing and desperate. Every part of me begs for release. My ass is full of him, too, and all I want is more. More.
More.
Something is wrong with me. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I like. I shouldn’t like this . . .
When he slides his hand from my ass, I buck like a crazy thing. He spanks me so hard my cheeks shake with the impact. My bottom absorbs the pain, but I can’t stop writhing, begging him to finish this, finish me.
“Cum, Mia.” And he swats number ten right against my pussy.
Pain like I have never felt before sizzles through me. And my orgasm sizzles, burns, then flares and goes supernova. I shatter into a million pieces and climax all over his hand.
21
Mia
ETHAN SPRAY-PAINTED the fender and is now taking me to his house. I’m still in a daze. Sitting on the motorcycle with my sore butt has me questioning my sanity. The man just spanked me. I’ve never been spanked in my life. My parents barely noticed I was alive, let alone disciplined me. And even when I realized negative attention was better than no attention at all, I dealt with negotiations and bargaining tactics, never physical discipline. I don’t think it would ever occur to either of my parents to lay a hand on me. Bully me, yes. Hit me, never.
I feel like I should be angry at Ethan. Or with myself. But it’s hard to feel anything right now but contentment.
Because I liked what Ethan did to me?
He claims pleasure and pain go together like pizza and beer. How can I argue his point when I just proved he was right? But surely this kind of kinky, dark sex is twisted?
Which would make me twisted, too. Makes me twisted because my pussy clenches just thinking about that climax, which leads me right back to contentment.
This scares me. I’m not going to lie. I’m smart enough to know this kind of sex can lead to dark places, twisted places that leave me wanting more and more. They have rehabs for sex addicts, so the problem can’t be all that uncommon.
I don’t want to lose myself to some pleasure addiction. Or some twisted place where I need to submit to get off. The thought frightens me. And the fact that I don’t insist Ethan drop me off at my apartment frightens me even more.
But I don’t tell him to take me home. I just cling to his hard body and rest the helmet against his shoulder. My car fender is painted, and tomorrow after another sand, clear coat, and buff job, I can drive myself back to my real life and take on all the issues waiting for me there.
I have choices to make, and sanity to question. I don’t want to be home alone with my thoughts right now.
Not when I can have more of the best sex of my life.
His house is less than a half mile from his shop. And when he pulls in the driveway, I’m startled from
my conflicted and sex-dazed thoughts. I don’t know where I expected Ethan to live . . . Maybe, a black bachelor pad with a fifty-inch TV and a sex dungeon? But it’s certainly not this cheery yellow cottage with a wraparound front porch with a rocking chair and an immaculate lawn. Hanging baskets of flowers frame an apricot-painted front door, and there’s a picket fence, too.
Chimes tinkle a welcome and the palm trees rustle in the breeze. I kick my leg over the bike, wince as my butt smarts, and strip off the helmet. “How long have you lived here?”
“Six years.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and his tone is curt.
I wonder if I triggered a nerve. Still, this homey place is so unexpected for a man who paints and spanks women, I can’t stop myself from asking, “Always alone?”
He straps the helmet to the bike, still doesn’t look at me. “When I bought it, I was with someone. She’s gone.”
Pet? Girlfriend? Wife?
Did she like being spanked, too?
I don’t want him to stop talking, but I don’t ask. He clearly doesn’t want to open up. My curiosity to know more about this man is killing me, but I make myself let it go. For now.
He opens the door, tosses his keys onto a foyer console. There’s another picture there, his old army buddies and one woman standing close to Ethan. Everyone in the picture is smiling. “Is that her, the one you shared this house with?”
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move, but his entire body tenses.
For a moment I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then he nods.
Now I have dozens of questions, and I’d love to bring down his walls. But he’s only opened a crack, and if I don’t want him to plug it back up, I have to bide my time.
Above the white oak table is a large mirror, its frame painted apricot. The entrance widens into a cozy living area with tan furniture and yellow pillows. Plants are everywhere and the greenery frames double sliding-glass doors that lead to a patio and pool area.
“It’s so cozy.” All that’s missing is the wife and 2.5 kids. I feel as if I’ve discovered another side of Ethan that I never suspected existed. How could I ever attach such a normal home with a man who screws women on the side of the road?
