by Maren Smith
The sound of metal teeth clicking down a zipper track was pure musical heaven. The heat of him—pushing between her legs, seeking out her slick folds and in a single hard thrust, burying himself within them—was hotter than hell. There was no foreplay; she didn’t need anything more than the feel of his strong arm wrapping her waist and yanking her back onto his impaling cock. His hand fisted her hair, wrenching her head back as he pounded into her.
The stairs bruised her knees and her thighs, but she barely felt it. He was in her, around her, controlling and consuming her. His nipping kisses seared her shoulder and the side of her neck. His growling gasps of pleasure shivered through her, sparking new tendrils of ecstasy that made the walls of her pussy contract, squeezing in tight around him, wanting him deeper when nothing he did seemed to get him in deep enough. He plundered her, conquered and consumed her, bruised her elbows, hips and legs against the steps, drove into her so violently that his cock battered her sex and her cervix and yanked her back into each thrust by her hips and that fist in her hair.
He loved her; he hurt her. She came so explosively that she shouted—actually shouted—every muscle in her body locking down on him, shaking under wave after wave of crushing pleasure too intense to be silently endured. He slammed into her, shoving to get deeper still—once, twice, again, arching stiffly and spitting curses when the intensity met its end too soon. When he wilted over her, their sweat pooled in the small of her back--hers and his, intermingled.
“Good girl,” he groaned, resting his head against her shoulder and panting hard. He untangled his hand to stroke her head, sending soft thrills of satisfaction rippling on latent orgasmic waves all through her belly. “Good girl.”
He shifted and she felt that heightened sense of friction and loss as he slipped back out of her, releasing a hot trickle of semen to spill down her inner thigh. She felt positively boneless. She couldn’t have moved even if she wanted to. All she could do was open her eyes as he rose off her just enough to nudge the front door to swing closed behind them.
Had that been open the whole time? Kaylee turned her burning face into the stairs, hoping desperately that it was raining too hard for any of her neighbors to be walking around outside. If someone had passed by…If someone had seen her…seen them…
She groaned, horribly embarrassed. “What are you doing to me? Why did you come here?”
He settled on the stairs beside her—the most uncomfortable surface ever designed for lovemaking. The heat of his hand came to rest on her hip, his thumb tracing nonsensical patterns over one small bruise, already beginning to form. “I had to know,” he said simply.
“Know what?” She stayed as she was, despite the discomfort. She didn’t even look at him. It already felt too real and she didn’t think she could handle it when he looked her in the eyes and once again told her how this was not a love match.
“I had to know if this was just residual magic left over from three days of really compatible D/s play or…” He hesitated, shaking his head.
“Or?” She stared through the stair rails at the wall opposite of her so hard that it made her eyes burn.
“Look at me.”
Kaylee couldn’t even make herself shake her head. “No.”
The patterns stopped; his thumb fell still. “Bay Kaylee Waters,” he said, in that Tone, the one that made shivers move in icy tickles down her spine. “Sit up. Look at me.”
She opened her mouth to tell him no again, maybe even forcefully, but she couldn’t. She made herself obey instead, pushing up off the stairs and onto her knees. Looking at him took the longest. In the end, he had to cup her chin and help her eyes find his.
“My assistant is getting married next month and her fiancé, understandably, has reservations about her working for any dominant other than himself. She has requested a different position at the castle, and I approved it. I’ve been…thinking about hiring a secretary to replace her. It’s a salary position, room and board provided upon request, vacation time, benefits, medical and dental.” He hesitated, his fingertips caressing along her jaw, a small pass before he took his hand away. “I don’t suppose you know someone who’d like the job.”
For a moment, Kaylee was too stunned even to breathe. “Are you offering it to me?”
“Do you want it?” he countered.
Everything inside her jumped to say yes. It took all she had to rein the errant instinct in. “Can I ask you something?”
He was silent, stroking her cheek and caressing her hair.
“What did you whisper to her, that woman who sent security after her Master? She was crying and you whispered something that made her feel better.”
“The scene you interrupted?”
“Yes. Do you remember?”
Master Marshall caressed her hair again. “I told her, a Master worth having never stops loving his submissive. No matter what she does.”Kaylee almost cried. She had to blink fast to push the tears back. “Can I ask you something else? Before you made me a Little Maid, you wrote Personal Slave on my form.”
“But then I crossed it out,” he said, letting her know he understood exactly to what she was referring. “Yes, I remember that too.”
“Why did you do that?”
His hand in her hair stilled. He was silent for so long, she thought he might not answer her, but then he said, “I knew you weren’t a Little Maid. I knew you’d probably end up coming right back to me, but…I found myself unwilling to send you straight from my bed into another man’s.”
A fragile smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Isn’t this where you should tell me this isn’t a love match?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think since you left.” His fingers dropped from her hair to touch her collar—the collar he had put on her that very first day over a month before. He shook his head. “No, I’m not going to tell you that.”
His fingers moved along her throat, feather-light back and forth caresses that melted her, pass after pass, just a little bit more. “Why not?”
The feather-light caresses ceased and his eyes rose to hers—as blue as an angel, as seductive as the devil himself. “Because you’re mine.”
A proper woman would have protested that; Kaylee didn’t think she knew how to be proper anymore. The Emancipation Proclamation, Women’s Liberation, twenty-first century equality—not one word of any of it entered her mind or crossed her lips.
“I want you,” Master Marshall told her, pulling her to him, and she went, rising up to straddle his lap. Feeling the heat and the scintillating tremor that travelled her when she felt his cock growing and hardening against her pussy. “I want to bring you back to the Castle, get to know you, build a relationship with you. I want to know if this is a love match and, if it is, Kaylee, I want to collar you. You look so fucking beautiful in my collar.” He traced the line of it along her throat, then pinned her breathlessly in place with those angel blue eyes of his when he said, “But I have another I want you to wear.”
He pulled a small package from his pocket—larger than a jewelry box, thin and square, and tied with a blue ribbon—and handed it to her.
Kaylee looked up at him uncertainly, then gave one end of the ribbon a tug and opened the small box. He went to Jared’s. That stupid commercial was the first thing that popped into her mind, although obviously Jared’s was the last place he’d picked up something like this. The collar was thicker than the one she currently wore, a strip of black leather crowned with a lock-shaped pendant that dangled in front. Etched into the shiny silver was a single word: Owned.
No one had ever given her anything like it before. Kaylee began to cry.
She loved it.
The End
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