by Vonna Harper
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
His Voice, His Command
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
His Voice, His Command Copyright © 2009 Vonna Harper
Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book Publication April 2009
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
His Voice, His Command
Vonna Harper
Chapter One
“The door’s locked.”
Although the soft click had already told Rina that, she shuddered. The business suit she’d worn with pride all day suddenly felt too tight, and her heels pinched.
“Don’t move until I give you permission, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir? Hmm. First, you know why you’re here, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you won’t be leaving until I allow you to.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Exactly. Turn around, slowly. Arms lifted and hands behind your neck.”
Rina Richards, who’d mastered the art of multi-tasking during her climb up the corporate ladder, struggled to make sense of the words. She shouldn’t have come here and now it was too late.
“Get started. A full circle.”
Slow and hesitant, she locked her ice-cold hands behind her neck. Her suit jacket rode up and bunched between her shoulder blades. Her silk blouse pulled out of the slim skirt’s waistband.
“I’m waiting.”
She’d been standing with her back to the deep male voice, but whether she was ready or not, that was about to change. Careful to look straight ahead, she began to turn. Her heels sank into dense carpet, and she caught a hint of incense. A single lamp near the wall behind her provided the only illumination. Even before she faced the man locked in the room with her, she knew he’d be in shadow. His form filled the easy chair he was in. Realizing he had a clear view of her while she had no idea what he looked like dried her throat and stripped strength from her legs. Her arms already felt heavy, her sex hot.
“Those shoes are ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? Do you have any idea what they cost?”
“Don’t care. They’re messing up your spine’s alignment. Why do you wear them?”
“Be-because a certain appearance is expected of management.”
“That’s what you are, management?”
“Yes.” Damn it, yes!
“Except it doesn’t matter in here. Keep turning. Did I give you permission to stop?”
“No, sir.”
Praying her legs wouldn’t fail her, she took a step. Even with her mind in tangles, she noted how large the room was. A magnificent window took up most of the far wall, and a four-poster bed had been placed in front of the window.
The prospect of turning her back on him again gave her pause. She wouldn’t know what he was planning, couldn’t see what he might do.
“Enough. There, just like that.”
Fingers still cold and arms aching, she did as he commanded. Seconds ticked away during which her spine, buttocks and thighs burned. He was looking at her, appraising. Eyes undoubtedly tearing through her outfit to her naked body beneath.
“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “You belong to a gym, don’t you? Go in there to sweat and run and lift and hope to hell the rest of management doesn’t see you. Keep your back to me and lower your arms.”
Grateful for the order, she dropped her hands to her sides. Although her pussy pulsed, she refused to give in to the need to press her thighs together. The incense was growing stronger, masculine and primal, earthy.
“Take off your jacket and drop it on the floor.”
The jacket had set her back three hundred dollars, but she attacked the buttons and peeled it off her shoulders. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it once she’d let go of it.
“Now the blouse.”
Getting naked, by degrees. Her hands had gone to her throat before she acknowledged what she was doing. Clothes were a shield against the world, but the man was determined to strip her of her shields and security, and she couldn’t stop him.
“Turn around,” he ordered as she tried to get her fingers to release the button over her breasts.
Breathing in a lungful of man-scented air, she faced her tormenter. He hadn’t moved, his relaxed form speaking volumes about self-confidence. His legs were slightly spread, the area around his groin gripping her attention. Unable to do anything except obey, she tugged and yanked at the tiny buttons until they’d all given way. Trying not to acknowledge what she was doing, she exposed her bra and then her naked shoulders. Silk slid sleek as a feather over her arms. She didn’t know or care where it landed.
“What do you think of your breasts? Are they your own and if not, why?”
Despite her shock, she struggled to give him what he expected. “They’re mine. C-cup. I like them, but they’re starting to sag. I’ve been thinking about—”
“Don’t. Keep them the way nature intended.”
It was an order, nothing approaching an observation. And although she knew it was coming, being commanded to remove her bra set her to shaking yet again. Run. Fight. Get out of here!
But in part because the door was locked and there was nowhere to run to, and he hadn’t yet given her anything to fight against, she stared at the wall to the left of him. She’d selected an underwire, push-up bra that created cleavage where nature hadn’t. Her nipples, already hard, tightened even more the instant the air brushed over them.
“No. Give it to me,” he ordered when she started to drop the yellow, strategically designed bra.
Come closer to him. Feel the heat of his legs against hers.
For a moment she was certain she wouldn’t be able to make her feet work, but somehow they obeyed. As she’d suspected and feared, the masculine legs within whatever he was wearing radiated warmth she couldn’t ignore. Because he was still leaning back, his hands folded on his thighs, she had to reach over his knees in order to deposit the yellow fabric near his fingers. She started to straighten only to freeze when he snatched a wrist.
“Small bones. Not designed for physical work.” Leaving her bra on his lap, he caressed her forearm.
Her toes were being pinched inside her damnably high heels. A tug and she’d lose her balance. The thought of touching him, of landing on his thighs, robbed her of the ability to swallow.
“Do you like your femininity?” His hold on her wrist held. “It makes you feel superior because men have to do things for you?”
“I—no. I never
—”
“Don’t lie. You ride it every day of your life. I can smell it on you.” The hand that had been exploring her forearm reached out, touched a thigh. Whimpering, she tried to backtrack only to stop when he reared forward and hooked his hand through her waistband. He was everything she’d expected, and more. A stronger presence, larger body, self-confidence radiating from his brown eyes. “You know what you’re here for, to face your sexuality.”
Why did his words have to be so in-your-face? Didn’t he understand—
He released her wrist and the waistband at the same time, distracting her. She straightened but then couldn’t think what to do.
“Turn around.”
Once again she couldn’t get her throat to work, and it took a long time to send a coherent message to her legs, but finally she faced away from him. She felt his presence from the back of her head to her ankles. Most of all, her pussy let her know a man was behind her.
Time staggered. She couldn’t tell how long she’d been standing there, couldn’t grab hold of her thoughts. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but the sparse furnishings still confounded her. This couldn’t be her body, her mind, her existence.
Then he took hold of both her wrists and yanked them behind her, and reality closed in from all directions. A scream clawed at her throat, only she didn’t know how to let it loose. She offered up no resistance as he placed one wrist over the other before gripping both with a single masculine paw. Something soft but strong snaked around first one elbow and then the other. By the time she realized he was using rope, he’d released her wrists and was quickly, surely, tying her elbows together. The strain in her shoulders and the way her breasts were being forced out stepped between her and thoughts of resistance.
Freedom. After a fashion. At least his hands were no longer on her.
Because he hadn’t told her what she could or couldn’t do, she stepped away from him before trying to look behind her. There’d be no getting loose on her own.
“What are you—” she started.
“Getting through to you. Teaching you lessons about yourself. Stand there and think about what you’re feeling.”
Sensations swamped her, starting with the smooth slide of his voice through her. The deep tones were measured and sure, a man accustomed to taking charge. His fingers on her forearm had been broad and strong, his strength making it a simple matter for him to tie her. Even more unsettling had been his speed. Before she could start to make sense of what he had in mind, the rope had been in place, the knot secure. A master. She was in the hands of a master.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t understand—anything.”
“Don’t you?” he asked on a laugh. “Let’s try something. How well you handle it might tell you a lot.”
She wanted to whirl and glare at this man who believed he was in control. Even more she wanted to cock her leg and bury the toe of her left shoe where he’d feel it the most. But she didn’t.
“Get rid of that damn skirt.”
Damn? What had happened to the calm and controlled voice? About to let him know he had no right making demeaning comments about the sinfully expensive garment, she flexed her fingers. They weren’t numb, yet.
“You heard me. Get rid of it.”
Hating how awkward he’d made her, she faced him and leaned to the left and fastened her fingers around the side zipper. He was still leaning forward and now fingering her bra. If only there were more light. Concentrating on following his latest order taxed both her unresponsive fingers and her fracturing mind.
At length she’d freed the zipper, but there was still the matter of getting the skirt down over her hips. Determinedly not thinking ahead of this act, she rocked one way and then the other while pushing the garment over first her right hip and then her left. When she could no longer reach her skirt, she straightened and shimmied.
There. Divested of yet one more piece of clothing, this one pooled around her ankles. Feeling trapped by it, she again stared at the man who’d done this to her.
Or rather the man who’d showed her how to do it to herself.
“Starting to make sense, is it?” he asked. “That’s what happens when a person is compelled to get in touch with their bodies. The pantyhose are in the way. Do you want to do the honors, or would you rather I take charge?”
He was already in charge, damn it. Tackling her skirt had left her winded and something else. Skin-hugging pantyhose was much more complex than fabric open at both ends. Not only that, she had her shoes to contend with. But if she turned responsibility over to him, his hands would be all over her.
“Time’s up.” He stood, inches and inches of greater height dwarfing her. “You took too long to make your decision.”
Hell, he was close. Big and masculine. A pullover shirt with a collar stretched over a massive chest. His shoulders were out to there and his legs, his damnable legs!
“No!” she gasped as male fingers closed over her shoulders.
Ignoring her pitiful cry, he wrenched her around so her back was to him. If not for his grip, she would have stumbled over her skirt.
“Yes,” he said, “yes. If I decide something’s going to happen, it will. And you won’t fight.”
What if I can’t help myself?
“That’s what’s wrong with you corporate types,” he went on after a moment. “People have been jumping whenever you snap your fingers for so long you believe that’s the natural order of things. It’s time for you to get things straight.”
He was making a mockery of everything she’d worked and stood for, but how could she concentrate on that when his tone was like lava flowing through her veins? When he again closed her wrists one over the other and started drawing her pantyhose down over her hips, she tried to widen her stance to keep from falling, but her skirt made that impossible. Resigned to waiting and experiencing, she listened to see if his breathing quickened, but if handling her helpless body had turned him on, he didn’t give it away.
How could that be when she was on fire?
Exposing her hips and then her thighs to the night air increased the flames. Instead of trying to tamp down on the sensations, she climbed onboard.
Leaving the nylon around her knees, he trailed his knuckles over the outsides of her thighs. “No, please, don’t!” she sobbed, instinctively struggling to put distance between his hand and herself.
“That’s not going to happen.” Using his hold on her wrists, he pushed her arms up and forced her to lean over. To expose herself to him even more. “Tonight’s all about sensation. And surrendering to me.”
Surrendering? Becoming his what, his sex slave?
Blood was pooling in her face when he abruptly tugged her underpants over her buttocks. Shocked, she tried to straighten only to have him force her over even more. She was helpless, caught, in the grip of a stranger, a big, strong, knowing man.
Oh shit! And he’d just slid his hand into her crack.
“Oh please, please!”
Her outburst earned her a slap on her left flank followed by his hand back at her crack. “Did I give you permission to speak?”
“No. No!” A smooth nail gliding along her puckered opening lifted her voice. She couldn’t remember how to close her mouth. Waiting for him, alive as she’d never dreamed possible, she closed her eyes and concentrated.
“That’s right, you didn’t have permission. And because you disobeyed, you will have to be punished.”
She should be afraid, terrified. But how could her emotions be simple while he lightly slapped one cheek and then the other? Hanging in his grip with her clothes tangled around her lower body and her breasts dangling, she had the insane desire to rub her face against his chest.
Surrender. Yes, that’s what she’d done.
Or rather had been done to her.
Slap led to slap led to yet another, every one more caress than pain. She jumped with each contact, jumped and gasped but didn’t know whether she w
as afraid. Without him she’d fall, but without him there’d be no danger.
Her shoulders were burning, almost on fire. Whenever his palm connected with her buttocks, she envisioned slightly reddened skin. She both hated and loved the way her pantyhose bound her knees, and shuddered at the thought of her underpants clinging to her crotch, her ass exposed. The hand engulfing her wrists completed her.
“Some masters use whips to punish.” With that he stopped abusing her and returned to boldly exploring the most private part of her body. If not for her head’s pulsing, she might have begged him to take a knife to her clothes so she could—what, increase his access to her?
A single finger at her entrance. Slightly rough at the tip. Strong, of course. Take charge. Knowing, mostly knowing.
With a groan, she acknowledged the invasion to her cunt. On a sigh, she admitted how easily he found his way into her, how slowly yet expertly a finger explored her inner passage, how she strained to accommodate him.
No talking, that had been his order. But how could she obey when she had so many questions and so much she wanted to tell him. When hunger cried out to be given a voice.
A whore! That’s what he’d turned her into. Moaning and writhing because he’d found her clit and was running a wet finger over it.
“You’re sopping, little slut. Running like a flood.”
“No I’m—not!”
“Silence.” Although he spoke quietly, there was nothing gentle about his tone. Neither was there the slightest hint of forgiveness in him as he caught her clit between thumb and forefinger and rolled it about. Her knees threatened to buckle.
“No! Oh please.”
“Silence! Did you hear me?”
More rolling of her bud. More of her sex juices soaking his fingers and drenching her clit. More pounding in her head and a Roman candle threatening to go off throughout her. She loved/hated everything.
“I can’t take—why—damn it, why—”
“Call me Master.”
