Contract Gifted (Contracted Book 4)

by Aya DeAniege

  I couldn’t be in control if he saw me looking at him like that. It was more than a minute, the time I granted him, and while I waited impatiently, he saw none of that.

  He simply knew that I waited.

  I saw him relax and I knew it was time to continue.

  “Again,” I said, beginning to make those circles again.

  My problem with men—whether they were subs or not—was that they were always overeager.

  Or suffered from whiskey dick and blamed me for their inability, but that was a whole different problem. It was a problem that my partners presented with very rarely in the past decade.

  The last time it happened, I had whipped the man until he fled my apartment naked.

  I had discovered early on that the male orgasm was attractive. Call it the ingrained teachings of culture, if you will, but a man coming got me going. Then, I had learned to separate that love of orgasm from everything else.

  I like it when men are pleased. But I also like it when those men are pleased only by me. When I control how and when. When I watch them struggle not to, when they beg me for the ability to do so.

  “Please,” he begged.

  “Stop,” I said, caught off guard.

  I had been distracted by my thoughts and not paying attention. He was red all over. As I watched, he struggled for that control once more. He raised up just slightly off the chair. We made eye contact, and he settled back into his place.

  The flogger twitched at my side as his breath came in shakily, then sighed out in a long sweep. He was focused on his breathing as if that were the only thing keeping him sane.

  I watched in silence, knowing that if I said something, I would interrupt his train of thought. He would tumble over the edge unwillingly.

  If I wanted to make a point, I could have pushed him over on purpose. But this was not discipline. He had been so very good, as Mr. Wrightworth would say.

  He deserved better than to be shocked into reaction.

  He swallowed and looked me over, his chin motioning toward the flogger.

  I swear that was a hopeful motion.

  The flogger twitched against my leg once more as my lips curled upward. The only way to use that flogger, right then, would mean striking a very intimate portion of him.

  And I was all for it.

  But my therapist says that while I loved men, I also hated them. She said I want to kill them all, so of course, I’d love to see him howling in agonizing pain because I whipped his dick before he could pull it out on me.

  He had been good, though. You didn’t just do that to someone on the first playdate.

  “If it pleases Mistress,” he said, spreading his legs.

  What a good little whore.

  I bit back on the thought. I even bit my tongue as I watched his knees grow further apart, as he prostrated that part of him before me, willing to take whatever I gave him.

  “Honey, if I wanted you howling in pain, I have more ways to do it than using this on that,” I said. “Again.”

  There was a hesitance like he didn’t want to. He was willing to take a beating. He was even willing to participate in cock and ball torture but going on with the act of pleasuring himself was too much.

  He reached for himself.

  As he grasped himself, the rosiness returned to his cheeks. I walked toward him, the flogger swinging gently against my hip as I went. I stepped between his legs as he looked up at me through half-closed eyes, mouth open as he struggled to breathe.

  I let the flogger drop to the side of the chair. The sound of it striking the floor made him jump in place, but he kept his eyes on me. My hands settled on the arms of the chair as I bent just that much further. The tips of our noses were mere inches from one another.

  He lifted his head as if trying to pull away and I followed.

  “Come,” I said.

  His breath shuddered out, distressed as he tried to hang on to his control.

  “Be good, Honey, come.”

  Every inch of him stiffened.

  So many inches to count.

  For a moment, he struggled. He tried to keep control of himself and his body.

  And then he tumbled over that edge, letting out a strangled cry as he did so. I slipped my hand up the side of his face and pressed our foreheads together.

  “And now you have pleased me,” I murmured.

  I stayed there a moment longer. Then I pulled away.

  I looked down at the splatter on my shirt and almost sighed. Instead of groaning, I gave him an annoyed look.

  “It’s not new, but I’m going to look stained for the rest of the night, and you are not allowed to mention it,” I said.

  Then I walked toward the door.

  There was a cupboard built into the wall beside the door with all sorts of first aid and cleaning supplies. I opened the cupboard and grabbed a wetted napkin in a package, ripping it open with my teeth to wipe at my front as I turned back to him.

  His eyes were on the floor at that mid-way point once more.

  “Well?” I asked, waiting a moment to see if there was a reaction. “Get over here. I can’t clean you while you’re there.”

  He stood. Not bending over or trying to look small like most submissive males did, but he merely stood, and he was tall.

  And he was broad.

  And he was muscled, and he had some scars.

  If the man had been born in another time, he probably would have been a warrior. He certainly had the look down pat.

  Do I have a type? I think I have a type…

  I turned my attention to cleaning my shirt as he walked up to me. His feet appeared, and I looked down. I looked because something was out of place. Something was wrong. I stared down at his feet, the wet napkin pressed against my front as I tried to comprehend what was wrong.

  It was one of those moments that everyone has.

  The moment when they’re looking at something different, something they have seen a hundred times before, but they know it’s different and yet can’t place the why at the same time. Like our brains fill in the missing information.

  Two feet. Got that. I knew that before.

  Seven toes.

  I counted four times.

  Then I took a minute to ask myself how much wine I had had before we started playing. My finger jabbed without meaning to, and then I awkwardly shifted my weight and somehow stabbed myself in the chest with that same finger as I tried not to be that person, pointing out the obvious.

  He frowned at me, then looked down and back up again.

  We both had an awkward moment.

  “Was that implying something about feet and sex. Or kneeling and sex?” he asked.

  And he sounded concerned.

  Concerned like a man who had just been hit with an emotional train. Whatever he though of, it surprised him.

  I bit the inside of my mouth as I turned and grabbed another wetted napkin and ripped it open before turning to him once more. I did not explain as I shook the wetted napkin open and reached. With the napkin, I began cleaning off his chest and working down as gently as I could. When I was done, I turned and dropped the napkin in a trash receptacle in the cupboard and then closed it back up again.

  “I suppose, we should shower,” I said, as I turned back.

  Only to find dead air.

  I was clearly out of my comfort zone. It took several seconds for me to realize that he hadn’t just disappeared or run off. I even looked around the playroom. Then I looked down.

  He was kneeling at my feet. I frowned down at him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Please allow me,” he said.

  I’m not a complete idiot, but I usually didn’t just allow that to happen. I contemplated playing stupid but then gave in to temptation.

  He was a man who knew how to please a woman. I was a woman who enjoyed being pleased.

  I wanted to see what he could do with his tongue.

  I stepped up before him and reached for
my pants, pushing them down in a quick motion. He kept his eyes on me, as I had done the same with him. He adjusted his height as he reached out, setting his hot hands on my thighs but not grasping them. More of settling there to see what my reaction would be.

  “If you bite me, I will hurt you,” I said. “Though, in my defence, it will be purely instinctual.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he said.

  He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on me until he was right there. Then he shifted, his fingers slipping over my hips as his tongue darted out experimentally. That first taste burned me to my very core, even though it was misplaced and shouldn’t have made me do anything more than smack him on the top of the head because we both knew that he knew better.

  He raised up just slightly higher, tongue darting out again as it slipped over me, thrusting against my being. By the third lap of his tongue, he found that spot.

  The rolling wave of pleasure followed each thrust of his tongue, but the boiling heat against me was like… well. Like bending over in the shower and accidentally having hot water washing over me, but less startling.

  I pushed into the heat instead of immediately squawking and pulling away.

  I ran my hands over the top of his head, fingers sliding through his hair as I wished it were longer, long enough to tangle my fingers in and yank.

  He was relentlessly eager, his tongue every bit as firm as the rest of him.

  That’s not fair in the least.

  I moaned, and he pushed forward. The motion of his head startled me. My footing slipped and I stumbled backward. My hands latched onto the back of his head as I dropped against the wall with a thud. It thrust the air out of me as he nuzzled up against me intimately.

  One of my hands gripped my braid tight, the other reached down and wrapped around the base of his neck, locking him into place as my hips shifted, grinding against him with need. The waves of pleasure boiled through me, making the room feel impossibly hot as I panted out.

  It’s been years since a man made me feel like this.

  One of his hands slipped up my stomach. The other reached between my legs. I felt the heat of his flesh along my inner thigh, of his fingers slipping between my folds, and I gasped out. Tongue and fingers worked in tandem, matching the rhythm and speed, driving a desperate need through my limbs as I struggled to regain my footing and control.

  The wall behind me and the flooring beneath my feet were my only links to the world, the only things that kept me sane as I struggled.

  And lost.

  I moaned as my orgasm came over me, but I didn’t tell him right away. It’s not always obvious to men. So, I let him continue as the waves crashed over me, as I soaked in that much-needed pleasure and the reminder that I could feel good.

  At the touch of a finger, I could feel good.

  Then I pushed him, surprised at how hard it was to breathe, and how cold I became the moment he pulled away.

  I tightened the grip on my hair, trying to get control of my desires as I leaned against the wall for support. I sighed out as I watched him through half-lidded eyes.

  The end of my orgasm meant that there was a heaviness weighing over me, bogging me down and making me want to sleep. To curl up with the hunk of a man still kneeling at my feet, awaiting my orders.

  Right, care for him before me.

  I pushed off the wall and dragged my pants and back up. Then I turned and retrieved yet another wet napkin and turned, handing it to him. He used it to wipe off his mouth and jaw rather carefully, then even had the decency to use it on his hands rather than ignore the possible secondary mess.

  Retrieving the soiled napkin from him, I placed it into the trash receptacle and then closed the cupboard once more. With my back pressed against the cupboard door, I watched him for a long time.

  “Okay, fine, you earned a shower with me,” I said.

  I swear he perked up, like a dog that had been told they were going for a walk. I dragged in a breath and almost groaned it out as I pushed off the wall.

  All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn’t sleep until I cared for him. Others said I was a sub masquerading as a Dom because I was a bitch, but it only in moments like those did I questioned my place in the community. That aftercare for a sub came as second nature to Doms.

  Mr. Wrightworth and Nathaniel loved every second of the cuddling and washing and feeding, even holding the hands of those who submitted to them.

  Me?

  It just annoyed me, and not because I was a woman.

  I made a motion to him and walked toward the door.

  “Come,” I said.

  I walked through the door and realized my mistake. Walking back into the playroom, I watched him, watching me.

  He had a puzzled expression on his face, and one of his feet shifted as if he were almost in motion to follow me but second-guessed himself.

  “Follow,” I said.

  He stood immediately.

  I didn’t bother to see if he followed, trusting that he simply was as I walked to the bathroom. Once in the bathroom, I began running the water. That part I enjoyed, just a little. I played with the water until it was the right temperature, then turned to him and motioned. He slipped past me, into the shower.

  Once the curtain closed, I turned to the mirror and checked my hair. Surprisingly, little had moved.

  I pulled the braid out and ran my fingers through my hair to resettle the bits that moved as I had reached for my hair. Then I stripped off my clothing and tossed it into the bin.

  I glanced at myself in the mirror. I think it’s a habit most women have, especially when they had a new man in their shower.

  I had put on weight. I was no longer a size four. Boobs and butt didn’t help my weight on the scale but fuck a bitch who told me I was fat because I had ten pounds on her and most of it was filling out my curves.

  When I poked my side, my finger didn’t exactly meet resistance.

  The man in my shower was used to rich elite. The thin ones who were either firm or skin and bones. I weighed twice as much as them because I lived a rather sedentary life aside from being a doctor. I worked out less than I used to. Maybe I had been drinking more calories than I before.

  I am not fat. Society is the problem.

  Being a doctor, I knew my weight didn’t count as overweight. I was rather healthy considering the high stress and long hours of my job.

  I ate trash food more often than I had before. Not at every meal, but more often.

  I was unhappy with the way I looked. I felt like the man in my shower would judge me for it.

  I dragged in a breath and slapped on a bit of backbone. I tried to tell myself the things that I had told women in the past. That their body weight issues were not about their body weight, that their man loved them just the way they were.

  Most of the time what women were afraid of hearing were comments from other women.

  I tried to tell myself that, but then I looked in the mirror and realized I couldn’t fit into my new dress without feeling rollipolli. The idea of it upset me more.

  The shower curtain opened just a little. He stuck his head out and looked me up and down. I saw that look as his eyes flowed up and down my backside. He bit his bottom lip as he looked up, and there was that startled moment when he realized that I was watching him in the mirror.

  “Warmer in here,” he said quickly before he ducked out of sight as if he were trying to hide from me.

  I rubbed a hand over my belly in annoyance. An annoyance that the belly even existed.

  Thirty-four years old. When was the last time I worked out?

  And did something strenuous that was not getting to or from work, or taking the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid the people?

  I couldn’t remember.

  Turning, I headed into the shower, slipping behind the curtain as he shifted further down the tub. His hand reached out, then he hesitated and pulled it away again.

  We both just kind of stood there, awkwardly. />
  Did I just use a prostitute?

  That wash of cold through me made me reassess everything that happened in the last hour. I stared at him as he rubbed at himself with soap idly. He caught me staring and hesitated.

  “I’m not to touch without permission,” he said.

  “Said who?”

  “The Master. He said he’d break my bones and let them heal without setting if I did,” he responded as he continued washing. “I would like to. I would very much like to put my hands all over you. But you seem to be having an uncertain moment and I don’t want to override that. You have a right to your feelings and should feel them as they happen.”

  “What the fuck are you?” I asked.

  The soap hesitated. He watched me for a moment, then gave himself a shake.

  “He said something very similar,” he said with a little nod. “Then he said I’d do fine as long as I followed the rules.”

  Mr. Wrightworth knew he had picked someone who would pick up on every little insecurity I had.

  He had kept the man on because of something else, because of obedience or looks. Because he had something to offer that the others didn’t.

  That idea fuelled my curiosity.

  I want to see what he can do.

  It had been a while since I had played with someone. A little longer since the last time I had sex. A lot longer since I had submitted to someone else.

  I only had that night, with no idea how long it would be until the next time. Typically I didn’t switch so fast, which was why I hesitated.

  Normally one waited.

  I usually took my time making that switch. Except a couple of times with Nathaniel when we had tried free-play and our conflicting natures had caused us to rock back and forth.

  But I only had that night. If I wanted to sate my every craving, I’d have to do it that night.

  How I want to do it all.

  “And what if I said that you should have control?” I asked.

  He considered me, then looked up at the ceiling as if he were thinking.

  In the end, he shrugged.

  He probably wanted it but didn’t want to seem to eager. He had played the role of a submissive body before. Submission wasn’t in his temperament, however.

  By making that switch, he would be in control once more. That would offset the drop, if he was experiencing it.