Hot, Rich and Dominant 4 - Making a Scene

by Amy Valenti

  I returned to his side, noticing that he’d donned a pair of very flattering leather pants while I was away, then hurriedly returning my gaze to the floor, mentally drooling at the image.

  If Marc had noticed my minor transgression, he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he hooked his finger into the ring on my collar and pulled me a step forward. Then, as if to himself, he said, “No, I have a better way.”

  Before I could process his words, he had slid his fingers between my thighs. Despite the fact that I’d cleaned up in the bathroom, the sight of the leather pants—and the realisation that I was naked in comparison—had been enough to get my juices flowing again, and he encountered no resistance as he eased two fingers up inside me. Then, as I accustomed myself to the sensation, he hooked his fingers against my G-spot and took a step backwards. “Follow.”

  A rush of shocked arousal surging through me, I allowed him to lead me by the pussy to what looked like a modernised version of medieval stocks.

  These stocks were slightly different from the detention equipment of old, I saw once we got around to the other side of them—the wood they were made of was sleek and varnished, stained so dark it was practically black. There was also a spanking bench attached, so I wouldn’t have to stand while he did…whatever he was going to do with that cane.

  “Kneel,” Marc instructed, withdrawing his fingers with a light, teasing brush of my clit.

  I knelt at his feet gratefully—I was back in that strange, tunnelled mindset where my focus was so in the moment that nothing mattered outside our dynamic. Hyperaware of everything Marc was doing, even if I wasn’t allowed to look at him directly, I waited while he opened the stocks and set a small table to one side of them.

  “Stand up and come to me.”

  I did as requested, something inside me relaxing when he put a warm hand on the small of my back.

  “Green?” he asked, and I took a moment to contextualise the question. If red was ‘stop’ and yellow ‘slow down’, green was…

  “Yes, Sir. Green.”

  Marc tapped the lowest level of the spanking bench. “Kneel here. Lean your body weight forwards onto the upper level and put your neck and wrists in the stocks.”

  The bench was padded yet smooth against my knees. I tentatively lowered my torso onto the upper level, which was at a slight upward angle. I laid my neck in its designated space, feeling a little like a guillotine was about to fall and behead me. Stocks had a grim history, and to have them used in a sexual context was slightly unnerving, but also kind of a taboo turn-on. I adjusted the position of my body before putting my wrists into place as well.

  Marc smoothed his hand down my back, then lowered the top half of the stocks down. There was no way I could withdraw my head through the hole for my neck, but my wrists were thin enough that I could probably… I tried experimentally, but the holes were just narrow enough that I couldn’t fit my wrists through. I wondered if the top part of the stocks had an adjustor to make the holes smaller, but couldn’t see with my head trapped the way it was.

  The distinctive click of a padlock snapping shut made my stomach lurch with excited, anxious finality.

  “Now you’re satisfied that there’s no escape…” Marc walked around behind me, and I waited for whatever would come next, my body tense. With gentle firmness, he eased my knees apart so he could reach in between my thighs to caress my pussy. “It feels to me like you’re enjoying this, but you should show me just how much. You have permission to wriggle as much as you need to, by the way.”

  Gasping, I tilted my hips to stroke my swollen clit against his fingers. He pressed firmly, but let me do all the work to stimulate myself. At first I felt a little self-conscious, writhing into his touch, bucking my hips to gain the friction I needed, but soon my pulse was pounding so hard that I just didn’t care. Almost panting, I rubbed frantically against him, chasing the orgasm I knew I could take if I could just reach it…

  “Should I let you come, Eleanor?” He removed his hand as he spoke, and I half sobbed with frustration.

  “Please, Sir…”

  He waited an agonising moment, then said, “No, I don’t think it’s quite time yet. Maybe later.”

  I bit back a whimper and remained still with an effort, unsure if I was still allowed to wriggle if he wasn’t touching me.

  Marc walked back into my line of sight, and I lowered my gaze hastily. In doing so, I noticed the prominent ridge in his leather pants and gave a soft, wistful moan at what I couldn’t have. How could he restrain himself when I was lying here, helpless and wet and wanting him? For all my fantasies about controlling Marc’s pleasure, I could never have been a Domme—I just wouldn’t have been able to draw out the suspense before having my wicked way.

  Suspense—one of the many things of which Marc was a master.

  “I’m going to blindfold you now.”

  He slipped something that was kind of like a sophisticated, kinky sleeping mask over my head…and everything was blotted out. I blinked, but my sight had been obliterated, except for slight hints of light in my peripheral vision. Nothing I could focus on.

  Marc’s voice in my ear made me shiver. “If at any point you can see, even partially, I want to know, Eleanor. Is that clear?” I respectfully agreed, and he touched the top of my head lightly. “I’m going to lay out the canes I intend to use on you. I’ll be nearby.”

  I relaxed into position as his footsteps receded, though not too far. Within a minute or two he was back, and I heard the sounds of equipment being set on the table he’d positioned nearby.

  “Now, do I put a butt plug in you while I cane you?” he mused casually.

  Trapped in place, I took deep breaths to keep calm. I’d done a little anal play with previous boyfriends, but we’d never gone further than a finger or two, and the idea of a butt plug seemed at once enticing and terrifying. I knew theoretically I could take more than just a couple of fingers, but wouldn’t it hurt?

  “Colour, Eleanor.” It was a demand, not a request, and he rested a hand at the small of my back when I hesitated.

  “Green, Sir. I think. Probably.”

  From the tone of his voice, he was obviously amused. “We’ll see how we go.”

  His hand fell away, and I heard a scuffle nearby, but nothing I could pin down. Then Marc brought his fingers back between my legs, penetrating my soaked slit firmly. I rocked back against him with a moan, but before I could get into a real rhythm, he drew out and rubbed the moisture he’d gathered against my other entrance. Just the outside at first, but as I relaxed and grew used to the sensation, he worked the tip of his finger inside.

  He drizzled something shockingly cold and wet over my hole—lubricant, I realised belatedly, and he probably hadn’t warmed it up on purpose—then began to use his lubed finger to penetrate me deeper. “Take this like a good sub, Eleanor.”

  By the time he’d worked his way up to two fingers, I was past understanding anything but the fact that I wanted more, for him to give me this maddening pleasure. So many times, I almost pleaded with him, but I bit my tongue without speaking, fucking myself wantonly on his fingers in a way I’d never expected to, gasping and moaning but always coming up short of orgasm.

  “Look at you.” Marc spread his fingers—no, too much, but oh, so good—and I cried out incoherently as he drove them deep. “So shameless. You’d love me to take your ass right now, wouldn’t you?”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question, and I wasn’t going to risk him taking his fingers away by speaking out of turn. My body quivering, I concentrated on the climax that was just out of reach, drawing closer, thrust by slick thrust.

  “You have a way of making me want to abandon all my devious plans just to fuck you until you scream. It’s really quite inconvenient, Eleanor.” With his free hand, he delivered a sharp slap to my rear, and I yelped at the sting, so close to the raging pleasure of his fingers inside me, yet so different. “But no. It’s just too rewarding to make you yel
l out like that.”

  Marc eased his fingers out of me, and I all but wailed in protest, the release I’d been craving ebbing out of reach as I shuddered with need. I could have cried.

  Then something new pushed against my hole, eased smoothly inside, helped along by a new coating of lube. It was thick, more solid than his fingers, and just as I identified that it was the butt plug he’d been talking about, he’d pushed it in all the way and my body had accepted it, clamped around the narrower stem before the flared end.

  I tried to catch my breath, adjusting to the new sensation. It felt larger than Marc’s fingers, but not too bad. Not that pleasurable now it wasn’t moving, but it was acceptable.

  “Colour, Eleanor.”

  “Green.” I nodded breathlessly, though I had no idea if he could see it. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Marc tapped the end of the plug, sending a tremor through me, before moving away. I heard something else being picked up, though I wasn’t sure what, and steeled myself.

  “I’m going to warm you up with the first cane. Just relax into it.”

  The first cane? How many is he going to use?

  I swallowed the exclamation before it reached my lips and tried to relax, but my apprehension made it impossible. I can do this. Just breathe.

  The light, gentle taps against my ass-cheeks almost made me break into hysterical laughter. Far from the swooshing and agony I’d expected, the cane seemed to be hitting me from a very close proximity, bouncing back, hitting something that sounded like flesh, but wasn’t mine—Marc’s hand?—then bouncing off that and back to my butt, many times in rapid succession. It felt good; not painful at all.

  I relaxed, the way Marc had ordered, and let my mind drift a little as he warmed up the skin of my ass and the backs of my upper thighs. The strokes gradually got harder, but there was only a minimal amount of pain.

  When the whole area felt pleasantly warm, he stopped and set aside the cane with a click. I tensed slightly, but with nowhere near the anxiety I’d had before.

  The next strokes were farther apart, and landed with more force. The first two didn’t do more than startle me a little, but the third landed as a thin stripe of fire across my ass. I cried out, and Marc immediately smoothed his hand over the area, massaging the pain away.

  “Colour.” His voice was slightly rough. Was he turned on?

  God knew I was. The butt plug was still lodged inside me, and when the blow had made me flinch, the plug had shifted a little, making its presence known. I wanted more, even if it hurt. Because it hurt, even.

  “Green, Sir.”

  “Good girl,” he growled approvingly, and dropped his hand from my body again.

  He hit me at around the same intensity as the last stroke, and this time I only caught my breath a little. Again, and I gasped. Again, again, again, each stroke igniting a sharp sting that slowly faded to a hot tingle, even as the next fell a little lower down my butt, then down to the crease where the cheeks met my thighs.

  I struggled for breath, agony flaring, but before I could find the air to call ‘yellow’, Marc returned to my side. He smoothed the sting into my cheeks with a hand that seemed cool in comparison to the boiling blood beneath the surface of my skin.

  “You’re doing well, my sub.”

  The validation made my heart soar, and I would have taken anything for him, just to hear it again. I almost thanked him, but stopped myself after the first syllable. Marc gave my ass a light spank—or was it light? Was I just too used to the cane there, so it seemed light in comparison?—and moved back.

  More sounds of canes being set down and picked up. I wasn’t sure what the difference was between them, except that each one seemed to successively hurt more.

  I was ready for more…until the dreaded sound I remembered from the movies swooshed through the air.

  Chapter Five

  I cringed instinctively, but no agony flared in the wake of the sound.

  The cane whistled through the air again, and once more I flinched, but nothing followed. A third time, it cut audibly through the air, and I trembled, waiting for the moment it would actually fall onto my skin.

  Then Marc was there, scratching his fingernails up over the lines of pain on my upper thighs, then tugging the butt plug partially out of me while I gasped, reeling at the combined sensations. “Oh!”

  He didn’t reprimand me, so he must not have counted it as speaking out of turn. Instead, he worked the butt plug in and out of my stretched hole, never pushing it in all the way, just teasing me with it until I forgot my fear in a rush of need. I swallowed the urge to beg him to take me with difficulty, riding the surges of pleasure as they gradually increased in intensity.

  He pushed the plug back in and stepped away once more, while my entire body cried out in protest. “Colour, Eleanor.”

  “Green…” …you bastard.

  Marc must have inferred the unspoken insult from my tone, and this time he really did bring the third cane down on my skin, though without the dramatic sound effect. I yelled out, verbalising to deal with the sting, wriggling to try to ease it, but gaining no relief as it slowly faded to a bearable tingle.

  The second stroke seared a line of agony farther down my cheeks, and I sobbed, unsure if I was actually crying into the blindfold or whether it was just a hitch in my breathing.

  Seconds passed, the pain faded, and…

  “Ahhh!” I cried, the third blow almost too much. Writhing on the bench, I tried to get away from the smarting pain—as stupid as that was, since it would have followed me—and only succeeded in shifting the plug lodged inside me. Pleasure bloomed to temper the pain, making it easier to bear.

  “Colour?” Marc massaged my skin again, smoothing the hurt away.

  The blindfold felt wet—I really was crying, although I was unsure whether it was from the pain or from frustration.

  I searched myself—was I okay? Could I handle the rest?

  “Still green, Sir. Keep going, please. Don’t stop.”

  He kissed my tailbone gently. “Atta girl.”

  Taking deep breaths to brace myself, I listened for the slightest cue that another stroke might be coming. Instead, something narrow and smooth pushed between my labia from behind, startling me, then sending my pulse skyrocketing again when he rubbed it gently back and forth over my clit.

  “Canes aren’t just instruments of discipline, Eleanor. Remember that.”

  Arching against the slow, back and forth glide of the cane between my legs, I murmured a wordless response.

  Too soon, he stopped, and the next cane strike came almost immediately, flaring twin lines of heat across my upper thighs. I groaned, weathering the sting as it bloomed and faded, and another strike followed, slightly lower, shocking the breath out of me again.

  And again. And again. And again.

  I sobbed, twisting my hips, fighting the stocks for control of my wrists although I knew there was no escape. Every time the cane came down, my flinches jolted the butt plug and made the strokes worthwhile. My entire ass felt as if it was on fire, almost unbearable now, and I sucked in oxygen frantically, searching for a way to cope.

  Another blow, and… Oh, god…

  The pain was gradually receding—I still felt it, but as if from a distance, as though it didn’t really matter. The sensation of the butt plug also seemed reduced, and I drifted through the strange, disconnected experience in a haze, unsure of anything, even my own name.

  “Colour, Eleanor.”

  I heard Marc’s voice as if from far away, and smiled to hear it. I was safe with him. “Green, Sir…”

  Faint flares of pain as he massaged my inflamed skin again, but nothing like it had been before. I was good. I could take way more than this. I already had.

  “No, you’ve had enough,” he said, and I felt a pang of loss.

  But, Sir… I wasn’t sure if I’d thought it or said it out loud. Either way, Marc didn’t respond, but trailed his fingers up my spine as if coming around to th
e front of the stocks.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but I was fine with floating on through my private reverie, my pulse pounding through the areas Marc had been hitting.

  My perception tilted a little, and then there was warmth—skin against mine. I wound my arms around Marc and nuzzled his skin, loving his scent, everything about him.

  The next thing I knew, I was cocooned in a blanket, held in Marc’s arms, with only a vague idea that I’d been taken out of the stocks. The blindfold was gone too, and I smiled up at him. “Hi.”

  Marc loosened his hold on me enough to get a good look at my face. “Hey. You’re back.”

  I reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes, and his expression softened. After brushing a kiss over my forehead, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

  I took stock. My ass and the backs of my upper thighs felt bruised, but apart from that I was fine. “Good, Sir. Did I fall asleep?”

  “No, Nell.” He looked amused, though I thought I’d glimpsed a shadow of relief, too. “You went into subspace. It’s an altered state where your body distances itself from pain to deal with it.”

  “Okay.” Still a little disoriented, I tried to snuggle farther under the blanket.

  Marc reached over my head, then held a small bottle of water in front of me. “Drink.”

  Now that he said it, I was thirsty. I took the bottle and gulped down half the contents within almost no time at all. By the time I’d finished, the strange, intense, headspacey feeling had been much reduced.

  “Swap?” Marc held up a chocolate bar, and I grinned, exchanging the water bottle for it immediately.

  “Are you sure I didn’t die and go to heaven or something? You’re feeding me chocolate now?”