by Lee Savino
“Disobey and find out. Are you touching?”
My fingers slide against my sweet spot, my flesh growing wetter by the second. “Yeah.”
“Talk to me. Tell me how you get off.”
Oh God. “I touch, um, myself.”
“On your clit?”
“Near it. Kinda above it. Light strokes.” My voice slurs like I’m drunk.
“Are you wet, baby?”
Baby. I don’t know why it gets me, but it does. “Yes.”
“If I was there, I’d make you show me.” My fingers quicken at the tortured gravel of his voice. “I’d make you spread your legs wider and show me everything.” My legs automatically slide apart further. The angle sparks new pleasure and my breath catches. “That’s it, keep stroking. From now on you only touch when I give you permission, understand?”
“Ah, um, okay.” I’m in no position to formulate a logical argument.
“Are you close?”
“Yes.” I haven’t been this turned on before when touching myself. Maybe ever.
“Keep going. Tell me when you’re right on the edge.”
He gets quiet, but his voice, the mental picture of him waiting, watching, dictating my every move drives my pleasure. I touch myself by his leave. Each stroke brings me closer to him and the tipping point.
“Okay. I’m close.” My fingers speed up, grasping for the orgasm hovering just out of reach.
“Stop.”
I make a sound like “nuh”, but he ignores it.
“That was good, baby. You did good. Now go to sleep.”
My pussy pulses in protest. “What? You don’t want me to come?”
“Not tonight.”
“Damn,” I say, and belatedly remember his earlier instruction. “I mean, darn.”
“Will you be able to sleep?”
“Eventually,” I manage, and he chuckles.
“Text me in the morning.”
“Okay.” It’s insane how he orders me about and I just... melt.
I hang up, feeling like I can do this. Whatever game he’s playing, it’s working for me.
“You close, baby?” Bear’s voice heavy in my ear. Fingers strum my clit, making music of my moans. My hips rise, my toes curling. I’m wet and tight and ready. “You’re close,” he mutters with satisfaction and when he slides two thick fingers inside my channel, I begin to shake…
My phone buzzes on my nightstand and I jerk awake. My orgasm rises like a ghost above my bed and slips away. My pussy throbs.
Oh my God. The first sex dream of my life and I almost came. I grab my phone and click off my alarm. My legs wobble as I stagger to the bathroom. My cheeks are flushed, my nipples peaked. What is happening to me?
In the shower, I glide my hands over my wet skin. The memory of Bear’s voice echoes in the small space, vibrating deep in my pussy. I prop my leg on the tub edge and slide a finger over my pussy...
From now on you only touch when I give you permission.
Shit. I mean, poop. I have rules now.
Pussy pulsing, I hurry and finish cleaning up, dashing to my phone. He told me to text him.
Morning. I type quickly and send.
His reply is immediate. Was he waiting for me?
Morning, baby. How’d you sleep?
Once I settled down, I dropped right off. Really well. I had a dream. It worked me up. A good dream. I clarify.
Did you touch?
In the shower. But I stopped! I’m hunched over the phone, towel sagging, hair dripping on my wood floor, waiting for his verdict.
Good girl.
Why do those two words mean so much? I’m happy and relieved enough to feel cheeky. So I’m not in trouble? I chuckle to myself as I poke the Bear.
Do you want to be?
I squirm and drop the phone. I should get ready for work.
But when I return to my phone, heels clicking on my wood floor, the question is still waiting. I like being a ‘good girl’ but what if I was naughty?
Maybe. Will you punish me?
With pleasure.
My nipples pop, clearly visible through my bra and blouse. This is a new dimension to the game.
Text me when you get to work, he orders, and dang if the command doesn’t my make nipples throb. My pussy clenches, begging for relief. How am I going to survive until the competition starts?
This is so unfair! I vent one day to Sawyer by text.
What?
Bear keeps winding me up with no release. I feel like a toy!
Is that a bad thing?
I consider. No, it’s kinda hot.
He sends a smiling demon emoji. I can almost hear his sinful chuckle.
Meanie.
You love it.
I hide my phone as my boss stalks by. I’ve taken to getting to the office early and blowing through my work before noon. Sawyer usually texts me after lunch and once he does, it’s a miracle if I get anything done.
Seriously, why is Bear so bossy?
He likes things a certain way.
No kidding. Today he made me take a picture of my lunch—before and after, so he could be sure I’d eaten enough. If I’m honest, his concern makes me feel good.
But our late-night talks culminating with me begging for orgasm and him denying me?
I’m dying, I text Sawyer. I won’t make it a week. The competition starts Thursday. I’ll explode.
That’s fine, as long as you do it on my face.
Guhhhh. Is that an order?
Yes.
I made a mistake raising the stakes in the sex shop.
“Bear, please,” I beg that night in bed, the phone pressed against my ear and my hands shaking above my pussy, obedient to his order to stop. “Please, please, please.”
“Patience, baby.”
“But—”
“Good night. Remember to text me in the morning.”
“How could I forget?” I mutter and roll over to groan into the pillow. These men are my days and my nights, the first thing on my mind in the morning and the last thing at night. I am a volcano of sexual need, counting the hours and minutes and seconds to our eventual sexy time, my own personal “Cum-mageddon.”
Finally, the day arrives.
Chapter 4
ROUND 1
Bear pulls up in a bright yellow Hummer. It’s been over a week since the carnival and he’s bigger than I remember. Good thing he offered to drive—there’s no way my Civic would fit his massive frame.
He comes around to open my door. He has to give me a boost, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, his hands fitting easily around my waist. He buckles me in like I’m five. His big hand slides down my leg before he shuts my door, leaving every nerve ending in me on high alert.
“Hungry?” Bear asks as he pulls into traffic. I wipe my hands on my jeans. Dress casual, he told me.
He notices my nervousness. “You don’t have anything to be worried about.”
“That’s right. All the pressure is on you.”
“Exactly. You just relax and do what I tell you.”
Ngghhh. I slide down a little in the seat. Don’t know why, but I get really horny whenever he says stuff like that.
“I figured we could have dinner at my place,” he says casually, and now I know the location of Cum-maggedon. His place.
“But first, an errand.” He pulls into the mall.
I sit up.
“You need a dress for your cousin’s wedding.”
“You’re kidding me.” I may have complained about my dress hunting chore one too many times, but I didn’t expect this. “You’re offering moral support?”
“I’m up for a fashion show.” He puts the Hummer in park and comes around to open my door.
My feet drag as we pass a Victoria Secret store, the giant picture of an underwear model blowing a kiss in her skivvies increasing my own feelings of dread.
“Do we have to? Can’t we just get a slushie and then go to your place?” How did I end up with the only gu
y in the world who likes to shop?
I tug on Bear’s hand, but there’s no escaping a guy who’s six four and works out five hours a day. He strolls into the department store, right up to saleslady.
“My girl needs a dress.”
The saleslady blinks up at him. I hang back, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Attending a wedding.”
“Not black then,” she says before I can open my mouth. She heads full steam for the dress section, snatching selections off the rack, with Bear and I in tow.
He is serious about the fashion show. I strip and dress in record time, and promenade past him, carefully avoiding looking in mirrors. Bear keeps his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, totally macho even surrounded by floral prints. His face is impassive, but I catch a shimmer of interest when I emerge in royal blue.
“Lovely,” the saleslady breathes. The fabric of the dress molds to my torso, accenting my waist before flaring at the hips.
“It’s too tight at the top.” I pick at the skirt, which is full and swirly.
“Nonsense,” she says. “You have a perfect hourglass figure. You should show it off. A whiff of cleavage isn’t bad.” She winks.
Not so much a whiff as an endless chasm. I avoid glancing down in case I get vertigo.
“And the blue matches your eyes,” the lady trills. As if anyone’s gonna be looking anywhere but at the cleavage chasm.
“Perfect,” Bear rumbles. “We’ll take it.”
My mouth drops open, but I don’t have a choice. The look he’s leveling at me is new, but I read it perfectly. Just relax and do what I tell you.
I change back and head to the cashier, figuring I can always return the dress later, but Bear already has his credit card out. Before I can protest, he’s paid and secured the dress bag on his arm, me on the other, and we’re walking out of the store.
“One more stop.” He guides me towards the giant poster of the underwear model. Pulling me towards…
Oh no. Oh no.
“No, no, no,” I say, tugging against Bear’s grip. His big hand clamps around my wrist, gentle but strong as a lock.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I wave at the sky-high underwear model. Blown up to cover the side of the building, this woman is a modern goddess, inviting worship. You’d think you’d be able to find some little mark of imperfection, but no. Just flawless skin. Cheekbones for days. Who can compete?
“Come on,” he says before I can sputter excuses about voyeuristic consumers and objectification. The truth is, I avoided a total breakdown in one dressing room, but there’s no way my luck will extend to two.
Bear pulls me into the store. Everywhere is a sexy woman made of cardboard, giving us ‘bedroom eyes’ above mounds of pink and black lace.
“Pick something out,” his order is a hot whisper in my ear, “or I will.”
In a daze, I pivot, arms out like a zombie, and grab two handfuls of polyester. Sales ladies cluster around Bear’s big form, their hearts in their eyes. He sends them scurrying to all corners of the store, and I end up in a dressing room, buried under bra and undie sets.
“Your boyfriend is so attentive,” one lady tells me as she hands over Bear’s selections. I turn into a tomato, round and red. At least he doesn’t ask me to model for him.
I say yes to his choices, if only to get out of the dressing room sooner. Once again, he pays and collects the bags.
“You don’t like shopping?” he asks as I cringe past the picture of the giant model outside the store.
“Not really. I’m fat.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything until we’re in the car.
“Time for another rule.”
I nod, my heart tripping in my chest.
He jerks his head toward the bags in the back. "Before you dress in the morning, you text me a picture."
"A picture?" I ask, heat racing across my chest. Something tells me he doesn't want a picture of my bedhead.
"Yeah, baby. You send me pictures of you wearing two different panties. I'll decide which one you'll wear, if I allow panties that day."
I blink, then realize he's said something else. I lost it for the moment there, somewhere in the haze of lust and bewilderment. "Um, what?"
His voice takes on a sterner edge. "Pay attention, baby. Did you understand your instruction?"
I nod.
He smiles. "And you already understand that not following my instructions means there will be consequences."
It's not a question, but a statement. The way my body flames at this, I have a feeling I might like his "consequences."
"Mhm," I manage to eke out, not trusting my voice.
Then we’re pulling into a numbered parking space in front of a townhome. Bear ushers me in with a hand on my back, unlocking the door and letting me go first. His place is clean with a faint citrus scent. The open floor plan has a sunken living room with two steps leading to a dining area where a black table is laid with six places. Beyond that a bar with tall black chairs separates the eating area from the kitchen.
Bear plants me on the couch in front of the giant TV, fixes me a drink, and starts rummaging around the kitchen while I sit. Is there anything more attractive than a man who wants to feed me?
There’s nothing less attractive than a woman who eats too much. Auntie Jen’s voice scolds when I’m halfway through my meal.
“I should eat less,” I say, and then berate myself. The only thing less attractive than fat is talking constantly about needing to lose it.
“You’re fine, baby.” Bear works steadily through his own plate. “You’ll need the calories.”
I shiver at the promise. Bear is so big; I could comfortably sit in his lap. He’d be a living, breathing, muscly armchair. After we watch a movie, I could turn around and I’d be in the perfect position to ride...
“So, you work out a lot?” I eye his t-shirt, the fabric stretched tight over his pecs. “‘Cause it’s working.”
He grins. There’s a hint of a dimple in his right cheek.
I put a hand to my belly. “I need to work out more.”
“I can help with that.” His hand curls around my neck. “Stick around.” He plays with a lock of my hair for a moment before leaning close. His lips brush my ear. “I’ll work you real good.”
My heart seizes and I freeze, waiting for him to follow through, but he pulls away, stacking our plates.
I follow him to the kitchen on unsteady legs, lingering at the bar while he loads the dishes in the dishwasher.
Three dates each. Essentially a six-night stand. But there’s a garment bag and three Victoria Secret bags in the backseat of his Hummer that speak for something more serious. Why is he going through all this trouble?
He likes things a certain way, Sawyer said. It won’t kill me to go along with his rules. If I had to admit it, I like the way he takes control. My ex and I couldn’t even decide where to go for dinner, and when I insisted he pick because I was mentally exhausted after work, he got all sulky.
I realize that Bear is leaning against the bar, studying me with a slight wrinkle in his brow. “You’re really caught up in your head.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay, baby. You can let go.”
“I don’t know how to do that. Except, I guess, at the bar. I was pretty loose then.” And look how that turned out.
He reaches down and grasps my hips, lifting me on to the barstool. I squawk and flail a little.
“Shh, baby, I’ve got you.” He props me up easily. “Just relax.”
“Oh, right, just relax. Why didn’t I think of that?” It’s starting. Cum-mageddon. It’s finally happening.
Shiver.
“I want to try a little experiment.”
“O-kay.” I don’t point out that this whole endeavor is highly experimental. For me anyway.
His big hand comes to the back of my neck, kneading gently. “While
we’re together, I want you to obey me.”
“Obey you? Like... in bed?” He certainly hasn’t had an issue ordering me around so far. Maybe he’s been easing me into it.
“I think it might work for us.”
Us? There’s an us?
He must’ve read my question on my face because he amends. “It’ll help you. You need to switch off your brain so you can have a good time.”
“I need to get out of my frontal and temporal lobe,” I parrot an article I’d read, when I was researching what’s wrong with me. “Women need to switch off to have an orgasm.”
“There you go,” he says, and I realize I’ve given him scientific proof that he’s right.
“How do you know it will work?”
“It’s worked so far for you? The rules?”
“Yeah. I guess so. I now have a dress to wear to the wedding.” I shift on the stool and consider it. Turn off for a night and just go with the flow? Tempting. Very tempting.
“Are you okay with it? Taking over?” It feels like he’ll be doing all the work.
A flash of white teeth. “Oh, yes, baby. I am very much okay with it.”
“All right,” I shrug.
“First things first.” His hands roam down my neck and shoulders, squeezing away tension, “No more saying mean things about yourself.”
“But—”
“I mean it. If a guy said those things about you, I’d punch him in the face.” He looks so intense I almost recoil, but the way he’s running his hands up and down my arms is so soothing.
“I don’t say anything mean about myself. It’s all true.”
A sound breaks from his throat, low and angry. A growl.
It’s a testament to how safe I feel with him that I ignore it. “What have I said mean about myself?”
“You called yourself fat.”
“I am fat.”
Another growl. His big hands curl over my shoulders and squeeze lightly.
“I mean, I have fat on my body,” I babble.
“That’s not what you mean. The way you say it, it means ‘ugly.’”
Tears prick my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Baby.” His voice softens. “Look at me. You have the body of a pinup girl. You think this,” he smooths down my shirt alongside my breasts, “and this,” he grasps my hips, fingers digging into my ass, “isn’t a turn on?”
