by Meg Buchanan
She smiled that smile again, pushed herself away from the wall and lifted one foot behind her, bent back slowly, one hand against the wall, reaching back with other and took off her shoe. She put it neatly on the floor, then repeated the action, placed the other shoe beside the first one and turned to face him.
Now what? He still had his clothes on, boots and all, and she looked ready to play. Usually because she controlled what they did, he didn’t feel awkward. He just followed instructions. How come women’s clothes were easy to get off, and they could do it in a sexy way?
He nodded at the floor. “Now kneel.”
She dropped to her knees in front of him, hands on her thighs, eyes down.
She still didn’t look frightened the way he wanted her to. In fact, she looked so sure of herself, he half expected her to try to take control back. That he’d be kneeling naked in front of her any minute. That’s the way it had gone for the last five years.
He undid the side buckles of his boots and toed them off. They were soft leather and expensive, but at least they came off easier than the heavy lace-up sort. Natalia moved a little as if to get comfortable on the wooden floor.
Good, he hoped she felt uncomfortable. Kneeling on that floor hurt, and she deserved it. This morning she’d just told him to stay away from her for six months.
Natalia lifted her head enough to study him. He put the belt down, pulled off his socks. Got rid of his shirt. Finished unzipping his jeans. Now at least he looked the part too.
“Beautiful boy,” she murmured, then leaned over, picked up the belt and folded it the way he had, so it hung across her upraised palms, and offered it to him.
He took it and trailed it over her shoulders. Did he really want to hurt her? Because from experience he knew being hit on bare skin by a leather belt hurt.
Arousing but painful, and it left marks. Over the last few summers, he’d kept his shirt on at the beach or wore his rash shirt. He passed it off as being a redhead, and that he burned easily.
Did he want to mark her?
Yep. He belonged to her, and she belonged to him and she needed to be reminded.
“Bend over,” he ordered.
Without looking up at him again, she placed her hands on the floor in front of her and lifted her backside. She looked amazing. He should just give up this plan to teach her a lesson and pick her up, carry her to bed and make love to her. It could be the last time. Because if she stuck with this plan to send him away, this was the end for him.
He moved beside her, raised his arm. The belt touched the wall. Maybe he should get her to wiggle around a bit. There wasn’t much room. No, that would break the mood.
He brought the belt down, not as hard as he could have but hard enough to make her gasp. Instantly a red mark appeared on her skin. And the walls closed in on him.
What was he thinking? How could he have done that?
Chapter Five
He let the belt go. The buckle hit the floor with a clunk. He’d hurt her. God, this wasn’t what he wanted. He dropped to his knees beside her. He tried to smooth the welt. “I’m sorry, Natalia. I’m so sorry.”
He touched the mark with his fingers then with his mouth. She twisted around and took him in her arms.
“My sweet, gentle boy.” She kissed his lips then his chin and his throat. “I wondered if you’d be able to go through with it.”
“Would you have let me?” He rested his forehead against her breasts. The lace of her bra touched his cheek.
“If that was what you wanted. You have always let me do what I wanted with you.” She moved again so she could cup his face with her hands. “I have hit you with a belt and not stopped.”
Then she stood, scooped up his discarded shirt, and slid her arms into the sleeves. It engulfed her and came almost to her knees. She reached down for his hand. “Come. I need you to tell me why you are so angry with me.”
Did he want her to know how much he cared, when she obviously didn’t? “You have a student coming, I should go.”
“No, I don’t. I lied.” She led him into the kitchen, the shirt unbuttoned. He caught glimpses of her body as she moved. Between the trees surrounding the house and the heavy lace curtains on the windows they never had to worry about someone seeing inside the house. It became their own private space. Once the door closed, the house wrapped around them.
“Why?” he asked.
She went to a cupboard and pulled out two glasses. As she reached up, he could see the welt he had made on the white skin. How could he have done that? How could he have imagined it would make him feel better?
“Vodka?” she asked and waved the bottle at him. He nodded. They always had vodka when they were together. A cliché, but their cliché.
She poured the vodka over ice, came back to the table and handed him one of the glasses.
“Because I thought,” she said, “it was for the best.”
“You do care?” He put his glass down and pulled her closer. He ran his hands over her body and then his hands on her hips. He rested his head on her stomach. “You let me believe I was nothing to you.” He felt her hands stroke his hair. “You could just send me away.” He could still feel a little of that anger at himself for not being able to punish her for it.
“Is that why you were angry?” She lifted his face, so she could kiss him. “My Sweet Boy, you are my world.” She slid onto his lap her legs each side of his.
He felt his body respond to hers the way she’d taught it to. She leaned over him and picked up the glass of vodka and gave it to him then stretched back to unhook her bra, taking charge again. They’d done this before. But he knew how he’d take the control back.
He took a mouthful of ice and vodka and held it in his mouth as she slowly shed the shirt then slid the shoulder straps down her arms and released her breasts. Those perfect heavy breasts used to keep him awake at night, before she allowed him to touch them. He put his lips on her skin, drenching it in vodka, and slid the ice against the nipple with his tongue.
He took another mouthful and moved to other breast. When the ice had melted, he bit down on the nipple still being rougher than he usually would. He still felt that need to punish her. He heard Natalia gasp at the sensation and felt her thighs tighten around his.
He turned enough to put his fingers in the glass and take out some of the ice. He moved his hand between their bodies and slid the ice between her legs. He felt her rear up, throw her head back.
“My Sweet Boy,” she gasped and then pushed against his hand. The ice melted over his jeans. That wasn’t enough. He wanted her to feel the pain of the ice in every sensitive part of her body. He knew them all. When the ice had melted, he tipped the rest of the cold vodka over her breasts and covered her gasp with his mouth.
“Shhh,” he breathed and lapped at the wetness. Then lifted her in his arms and stood, took the step to the table, lay her out on it and arranged her legs and arms wide.
“Noah?” She raised herself a little onto her elbows. “Make love to me, Sweet Boy.” She said it in Russian. He understood because they were the first words she’d taught him. He wasn’t fluent in her language yet, but close. He could obey her, drop to his knees and use his mouth to bring her to her climax, or get out of the wet jeans and plough into her, but that wasn’t what he wanted.
He shook his head, stood between her thighs, leaned forward and pushed her down again. He took her wrists, placed them above her head, held them with one hand and put a finger over her lips.
“Don’t talk,” he ordered. “And stay still.” This was his scene. He wanted to be in charge for once.
She lay there watching him, eyes wide, cheeks reddened and lips apart as if waiting to see what he would do next.
He dropped to one knee, ran his hands up the silk stocking to the lace top. He unclipped the front dome then felt under her thigh for the other. Between her legs looked redder than usual. Maybe he’d hurt her with the ice.
No, she would have told him to stop if s
he couldn’t bear it.
He touched the redness with his mouth and felt her shudder and then her hands in his hair as if she wanted to hold his mouth there to finish the job.
“No.” He stood and put her hands above her head again. “You can wait.”
He went back to removing the stockings and then the suspender belt. Naked, she reached for him again, but he moved away.
“Stay there.”
He went to the kitchen, found a crystal bowl and put it on the bench. He saw Natalia move her head enough to watch, but she didn’t ask.
He opened the freezer door, took out the two ice trays. A few cubes were missing, but this would be enough. He tipped them all into the bowl then picked up the bottle and poured the rest of the vodka over the ice cubes.
He half expected her to ask if he felt very thirsty, but she didn’t speak. She had started to obey him. He brought the bowl back to the table and put it beside her. He fished in it and pulled out a cube.
“Now, where were we?” he asked.
Her eyes followed the cube. He touched her bottom lip with it then her eyes closed as he ran it over her chin, down her throat, between her breasts, all the way down her body, until it was melted.
He looked back up to her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, and her skin flushed. So beautiful.
He wanted to keep the memory of the way she looked at that moment seared into his brain. If he had to go away, he’d make a million memories first. He leaned over her, slid his fingers into her hair and tucked it back behind her ears.
She murmured again in her own language. “Make love to me, Sweet Boy.”
He shook his head and dug his hand into the crystal bowl. This time, he had two ice cubes. One he placed in his mouth and let his lips explore her jawline, tasting the softness of her skin against the hardness of the ice and the coldness of the vodka. The second ice cube he pushed inside her and held it there as she squirmed against his hand. Then another and another.
“My turn,” she said, once the ice in his mouth had melted. He could feel her hands against his chest almost trying to push him away from her but not quite.
“No.” He pushed her back down. If she really didn’t want this, she’d say.
She let him play with her body and with the ice and the vodka, her nails digging into him, her hands touching then grabbing at his shoulders, as he made her come, or took her close and then changed what he was doing to delay her release. He played her body until the ice and vodka had gone.
They’d played games before, but normally she’d take control back way before now. Usually she talked, called him Sweet Boy and told him what to do and how he made her feel, but tonight she’d been silent. She just let him do whatever he wanted to.
“Are you fine?” he finally thought to ask, and she nodded, watching him.
“Sweet Boy. You must be ready to make love to me properly by now.”
The throaty sound of her voice, the rasp in it from the ice changed things. He saw something vulnerable in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Perhaps he had frightened her. The craziness in him had gone. He didn’t want to punish her any longer, just bury himself deep in the familiar welcoming body.
He knelt between her knees and ran his hands up her thighs with soft gentle strokes and kissed the flesh abused by the ice.
Then she sat up, and he finally took off the wet jeans. She ran her hands over his chest, down to his cock, aching and throbbing, more ready than he could ever remember being. The touch of her fingers was almost too much.
God, he wanted her now. He pulled her to the edge of the table, hooked her legs over his shoulders, his hand between her thighs again opening her.
“Noah,” she gasped as he thrust deep and hard into her. A shock ran through him. She hardly ever called him by his name. Only if others were around or she wanted to tell him something serious.
Chapter Six
Next morning, he studied Natalia in the early morning light. She slept with both hands tucked under her cheek, together like she was praying. Her lips still looked puffy. That had to be from the ice. He leaned closer and kissed her gently. How could he have hit her? And how could he have used the ice that way last night?
Her eyes opened slowly. “Good morning.” She smiled sleepily at him.
“Good morning.” He kissed her again then touched her swollen lips with his fingers. “I’m so sorry about this.”
She shook her. “Sweet Boy, it is what we do.”
He nodded. He didn’t know what others did when they made love, but with Natalia it was everything from pain to pleasure. It made being with her exciting.
She sat up and he saw her wince. She reached for her robe, still on the end of bed where she must have left it after her shower yesterday morning. She stayed sitting as she slid her arms into the sleeves and wrapped the robe around her body. It settled in folds on the bed. He was puzzled. She never protected her body from his gaze. She always walked around naked in front of him completely unselfconscious. Yesterday morning she’d even made a performance of putting the robe on. So why not this morning? Something was wrong. Then she stood carefully, and he saw her wince again.
“Natalia?” He watched her ignore the question in his voice, keep her back to him and tie the belt. He reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled her back on the bed. She twisted enough to land on her side, still holding the robe tightly around her body.
Maybe he really had hurt her. “Let me see.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She tried to loosen the hold he had on her wrist but was no match for him.
He pushed her hand away and tightened his grip feeling strong enough to do whatever he wanted to her now. She still resisted as he forced her onto her stomach then pushed the robe up to her waist.
The welt had gone from the violent red it had been last night to blue and black.
“Shit.” He gently stroked the perfectly shaped backside usually so white and flawless. “God, Natalia. I’m so sorry.”
Natalia hooked her hair back behind her ear, turned her head, so she could see him, and smiled. “You don’t know your own strength, Sweet Boy, and then you used all the ice, so I have nothing to cool the damage with.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled again. “I taught you this is acceptable.” Belts and ties had always been part of what they did. But usually he was on the receiving end.
“And the ice?”
“You were inspired with the ice. But for both things I will punish you.”
“How?” In the past if he’d transgressed, she’d been very inventive. She’d taught him everything he knew about fucking, and part of the whole deal was pain mixed with pleasure.
“So, kneel,” she ordered, the same way he had spoken when he arrived her house yesterday.
That seemed fair enough. He’d really hurt her. He changed position, on the bed the way she had knelt on the floor last night. He expected to be told to go and get the belt and felt himself harden at the thought.
She touched the rigid flesh with her foot. “No, Sweet Boy, not that. Your punishment is you will be my slave, and you can’t fuck me again for the rest of the time you are here.”
“Really?” If she stuck by that, it would be a first. “But with Eva coming we only have six more nights.”
“Yes.” This time the touch with the foot closer to a kick. “But you are my slave now.” That old game. “And when a slave turns on his mistress there are always consequences.”
He could play along until she forgave him for hurting her. And the game did have its compensations.
Another kick. “If I allow you to touch me, it will be very slowly and very gently. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Not much of a punishment. She’d been more creative in the past.
“And you have to ask permission first. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“You will pamper me.”
“Yes.” Pampering he could do, for a while.
“Pro
ceed,” she ordered, and stretched out still face down on the bed.
“Am I to touch you?’
“You are, but you will stop when I tell you to stop.”
His hand moved over the welt then his lips and tongue. He took his tongue deep down into the split flesh.
She exhaled. “Keep going.” The instruction came muffled by the pillow.
“You’re not too sore?”
“No.”
He ran his hands up between her legs slowly, and felt her thighs clamp down. “May I touch you there?”
“Only with your mouth.”
So he did.
And it went on. Anything he wanted to do, she would change it a little. All day.
His cock ached. He could feel her skin beneath his fingers, soft and silky and warm. He could touch, he could taste, but only so far, and never any release.
But eventually she’d tire of the game. He’d wait her out, and then they could go back to what he wanted, what they had missed out on because of his need for revenge and were missing out on now because she wanted to punish him.
Then into the night as well. It became a slow dance of temptation and frustration. Unhurried, measured, deliberate torture. The smell of her, the touch of her, the taste, soaked into him and teased him.
Death by a thousand touches. He wanted her under him, her arms around him, and touching him as he made love to her, his cock where it should be as they both climbed higher and higher until they went over the edge.
Even in bed that night she still didn’t touch him. He should never have hit her. She still held all the power. All day he had caressed, stroked, kissed and tasted, cooked and cleaned and fetched and carried, had run a bath and washed her carefully, massaged her and rubbed in oil, but still she didn’t tire of the game. He was sick of it. He ached for her.
She rolled onto her side and opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet. She handed him a vibrator and a tube of lube.
“Use this,” she said and lay back, knees bent, legs apart. “Not that.” She lifted her foot and kicked his penis again.
