Under Contract

by Jeffe Kennedy

Her thigh muscles began to tremble, both from the strain of the position and from her accelerating sense of profound helplessness. With her thighs open so wide, air currents stroked the engorged tissues there, so that they ached for more. It seemed she hadn’t orgasmed before or, if she had, it had done little to take the edge off her need. Never before had it felt so imperative that she be able to come, or more impossible that she’d be allowed to. Allowed to. It made her crazy that this one thing had always been so difficult to wrestle, that being able to climax easily, let alone multiple times had always been such a remote possibility with so much effort for so little reward. And now it lay within her grasp for the first time in her life, and yet it remained out of her reach. Because of his whim.

  As if divining some of her thoughts, he stroked her cheek with affection. “You look beautiful like this, bound by my chains and my rules. Suffering for me.” He picked up another length of chain, longer and finer, also running it through the loop at the front of her collar and letting it fall loose. With a close-lipped, taunting smile that set her nerves more on edge, he rose and went behind her. The twin sides of the chain brushed her inner thighs, drawing a despairing sound out of her. Slowly, teasingly, he drew them higher, until the cool, rough texture slid into her labia, tightening to bracket her clit. She trembled in earnest at the sensation, especially as he threaded the chains up between her cheeks and then finished by attaching them to her cuffed hands.

  Though she knew what it would do, she couldn’t seem to help tugging at it—which caused the chain to pinch her clit with greater tension and to drag against her achingly empty vulva. Distressed sounds came out of her and she struggled against the chain, succeeding only in making it worse. Both excruciatingly arousing and not nearly enough to make her come, the bondage would only tear her apart with unrealized desire.

  He stood in front of her again, she realized, though she’d missed him moving in her fugue state, watching her with avid intensity. You struggle so beautifully. She couldn’t quite recall if she was allowed to beg for mercy. “Master,” she gasped, by way of asking.

  He smiled, stroking her cheek again. “Yes,” he said, and opened his trousers.

  Chapter Twenty

  He hadn’t been sure if she’d be able to get back into the right headspace after her meltdown, but Celestina seemed, if anything, even more pliable, diving into the role-playing with even greater abandon than before. Maybe that made sense, that she’d lost some of her defenses, which meant she’d be even more receptive to the whole trip.

  Regardless, she sank into the slave role without reserve, calling him “Master” with a tone of such lustful amazement, with her dark eyes so wide and glistening that he thought the top of his head might blow off. Showing her the various positions had given him some breathing room to cool and control himself, but her subsequent surrender to the chains robbed him of the little leeway he’d gained.

  He had to have her mouth on him or he might lose his mind completely. Might forget what she had and hadn’t agreed to and instead plunder her as if she truly did belong to him, body and soul. The sheer lust to do so gave him pause—a cautionary sober note in the headlong sexual rush—so he took his time freeing his aching cock, though the sight of her pleading gaze and the way she writhed within the simple torment made his self-control teeter on the brink of madness.

  A full catapult into sexual insanity when she closed her lush red lips over his cock. He’d thought to go slowly, ease her into it, but she destroyed those thoughts with the exquisitely eager use of her tongue and mouth. He should have had her bring him off earlier, because he couldn’t possibly last at this point. In point of truth, his balls were already tightening with the sting of incipient orgasm, taking him like a teenage wet dream. And she hadn’t wanted him to come in her mouth. She’d forgotten that in the wave of utter sensual need, most likely, the way she fed on him, drawing him into her mouth tight and deep. Oh yes—she even made a sound of protest when he used his grip in her hair to pull her forcibly off of him.

  One, two, three strokes of his fist on his shaft and he released, spurting over her glorious tits, so perfectly raised and framed by his chains. Thank God she’d allowed that much though she looked as adorably shocked by it as the first time, gorgeous violated. His head abruptly swam with the intense release and he had to sit, feeling not at all masterful, but somehow enslaved to his voluptuous mistress. Even now she gazed at him, lips parted as if she wanted to ask a question, her hips moving in unthinking response to the stimulating chain pulling tight against her mound.

  She should be hyped enough. He’d decided that she would orgasm tonight for him. More than once. A challenge, especially as it would likely kill any possibility of it happening if she knew how much he wanted it for her. For him.

  She just needed to dissolve a tiny bit more. Some of his strength regained, he sat up and took her face in his hands, cupping her jaw and cheekbones. The movement drew her up slightly and she moaned in that erotically vulnerable way that went straight to his gut. Feeling as desperate, he kissed her, her mouth hot and sweet and somehow smoky with lust. She loved to be kissed as much as he loved to have her that way. When he dropped his hands to gently massage his semen into her breasts, she melted into his hold and met his tongue with hers. Yielding and demanding at once.

  Yes, she wanted what he’d implicitly promised, and she might be rocked far enough outside her usual experience to get there.

  Time to deliver on that.

  Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands to bracket her narrow waist and helped her to her feet. She swayed in his arms—no surprise, as long as he’d kept her kneeling like that—and he steadied her, then walked her backward toward the rug immediately in front of the fire.

  He indulged in running his hands over her, tracing her rounded curves, her skin velvety to touch here, slick and sticky there, so available to him with her hands bound like that. She panted into his mouth, her kisses growing more frantic, pressing her nipples against him, their soreness clearly forgotten in the pitch of her desire. All for him. Heady stuff.

  “Lie down,” he muttered, urging her with his hands, forgetting in his own extremity to make her obey, just needing her to do so. She went more than willingly, stretching out on her back on the dark fur rug, her skin gleaming as golden as some exotic animal. One he’d captured and temporarily confined, but wild still, proud and untamed in the dark demand of her eyes. With hunger, she watched him strip off his clothes, rocking her hips against the golden chain that gleamed so enticingly in the folds of her swollen sex.

  Falling on her, he pushed her knees wide and back, fastening his mouth on her distended clit without giving her warning. She cried out, a wordless sound of joy and agony, so on edge she came immediately, her fluids flowing salty into his mouth. Perfect that she’d gotten there already, without time to overthink it. Easier to keep her there now. Without relenting, he kept up the pressure, driving her up again, holding her hips down as she thrashed against him. She screamed, much as she had when he’d strapped her, going rigid and then shattering into a series of convulsions. Darkly pleased, he thrust two fingers into her tight, hot channel, curling them up and sucking hard on her clit, not letting her come down from it or think too hard.

  She pistoned herself on his fingers, crying his name. Not “Master,” but “Ryan”—something that grabbed at his heart with unexpected, even blinding pleasure. Him. He brought her to this. His cock was ready as before, swelling with his ego. Some men never figured this out, the ones who easily attracted a woman, but then missed the concept of pleasuring her enough to keep her. Money made up for poor looks, but pleasing a woman in bed captured her affection more surely than anything.

  He pushed the chains aside to flank the outsides of her labia, making her struggle anew as they scraped over her sensitized tissues. Managing to roll on a condom, he positioned himself at her hungry entrance, bracing himself on
his elbows over her, to find her mouth waiting for his. She arched her back, body begging for the penetration even as her lips pulled at his, pleading moans coming from deep in her throat.

  He thrust into her, going momentarily blind with the searing sensation, both at the tight clasp of her body, like liquid fire, and her shuddering response. She wrenched her mouth away, gasping his name. And he answered, reverentially, “Celestina.”

  Without calculation now, without much control at all, he stroked in and out of her, overcome by the slick velvet of her skin against his, her lush breasts crushed against his chest and the occasional bright grind of the chains she wore. His chains. All for him. She gave herself totally to him as no one ever had, never so profoundly, so utterly without reserve. He took it all, demanding more with every thrust.

  Her body gathered in tension, moving urgently, and she sobbed with rising need. He held off as best he could, increasing his rhythm, stroking deep until she suddenly shattered, coming apart in a flurry, like a firelog collapsing in a shower of sparks. With her sweet cries filling his ears, he let go of all control and flung himself after, burying himself in her and releasing everything he had to her keeping.

  * * *

  As the drugging lassitude faded, she became aware of the bite of the chains first, where the heavier ones dug into her ribs under Ryan’s collapsed weight. Shifting to relieve the pressure, she couldn’t help smiling when his hands flexed on her and he murmured a negation, then almost immediately recovered himself and levered up.

  “My bad,” he muttered, sat, scrubbed hands over his face, then crawled over to the chair to retrieve the keys, she supposed. His scrotum hung flushed and heavy between his muscular thighs, his masculine ass nicely hairy. When he returned and, bleary-eyed, began releasing her from the chains and cuffs, he gave her a bemused look. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice came out throaty. Too much screaming, mostly in pleasure. Unreal. And she couldn’t admit to ogling him. “Just kind of nice to see you rumpled, too.”

  “‘Gutted’ might be more accurate.” He tossed aside the collar and massaged her arms as she gratefully lowered them. “Are you excessively sore anywhere?”

  “I might be able to tell you when I regain feeling in my body. I think I came more times just now than all the times before this.” A hitch of alarm grabbed her. “Oh God!”

  “What’s wrong?” He ran his hands over her. “Cramp?”

  “No, I just—” Should she call it to his attention if he forgot?

  “Tell me.” He stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her softly.

  “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to come,” she whispered, as if not saying it too loud would somehow mitigate it.

  He met her eyes, his smile unutterably smug. “Then you’ll just have to be punished again, won’t you? But not tonight.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his good humor. “This could be an endless cycle then.”

  Stretching out beside her with a contented groan, he nodded. “In an ideal world, yes.”

  Would it be ideal? Never before had she experienced such intense pleasure, or this amazingly delicious languor after. With the few boys she’d fooled around with before Noah, she’d always felt buzzing with energy after, lying there while they softly snored. With her husband, well, for a long time she didn’t mind that it had been the same with him. The time between Ara’s wedding and hers had been the loneliest of her life back then—envying Ara the happiness she’d found and hating herself for begrudging her any of it.

  She’d thought marrying Noah would remedy that and, for a while, it did. At first she’d loved the romance and comfort of sharing the marriage bed, feeling connected and in sync with her twin again. The time she lay awake while he slept became a special private moment for her, while she dreamed of what the future might bring, places they’d travel, maybe a house overlooking the ocean someday.

  Looking back, she’d been naïve. Not just in not predicting how her future, instead of expanding and blossoming, would constrict with tragedy and despair, with no roads out, but in not recognizing the path of her own feelings. Realizing over time that Noah didn’t really love her, not like Steve loved Ara. How she’d gradually grown angrier and more resentful, sometimes indulging in the fantasy of kicking him hard, to wake him up and watch his startled face when she yelled, I am not happy!

  Odd to remember it now, those restless nights, the frustration and emptiness of being married to a man who didn’t even seem to like her, the way he criticized her, much less cherish and love her as he’d vowed. Then it all got wiped away and covered over by real sorrow. And she’d discovered what lonely could truly mean.

  While she hadn’t quite processed all she’d submitted to that evening, some of it a kaleidoscope of images and sensation, the satiation of her body made a marked contrast. Ryan’s heavy arm draped possessively over her did, too. She didn’t quite like the idea that she might need this every time to feel this way, but knowing she could get there made a difference.

  And maybe made her unwilling to settle for less again.

  Though, if it turned out she did need this kind of extremity, then finding another with Ryan’s brand of kink might be a challenge. Though this kind of sex seemed profoundly connected with the man himself, and she couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else.

  But she’d cross that bridge later, after this burned out.

  “You’re thinking awfully hard for someone who should be exhausted,” he commented.

  “Sorry.” She winced. She’d figured him for asleep.

  He levered up on his elbow and propped his head on his fist, considering her. With the fire dimming and most of the lamps on the other side of the room, the shadows intensified the crooked line of his nose and highlighted a white scar under one eye she hadn’t noticed. The face of a brute. Someone who’d been in more than boardroom fights. But his eyes held warmth and kindness, the pretty silver alight with keen intelligence.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Talk to me. Anything you want to ask about? I can’t know if something didn’t work for you if you don’t say so.”

  So funny that he could treat her that ruthlessly, with the implicit cruelty and unrelenting demand he’d shown, and then ask about her feelings.

  “Why is that funny?” He traced her lips with the tip of his finger. “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No.” She caught his hand and, on impulse, laced her fingers with his and drew him down for a kiss. He obliged her, kissing her with heartbreaking tenderness. Just sex and business between them, perhaps, but she’d been friends with clients. It wasn’t wrong to revel in the care he gave her. “Is this part of it?” she asked when they separated. “I don’t remember it in the program.”

  He gave her a curious look, with maybe a tinge of annoyance, but rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s not in the program, because this is what people do after they have sex. They enjoy the afterglow and have conversations. Especially after trying new things, they talk about how it worked for them.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

  “My husband mainly fell asleep,” she confided.

  “I just knew it,” he muttered, on his way to pissed off. “Guys like that are useless as tits on a bull.”

  That took her aback. “He was a good man.”

  “No, he wasn’t. Look what he had in you—an intensely passionate and giving woman, in his bed every damn night, and he fell asleep, leaving you wanting.”

  “It wasn’t like—”

  “Didn’t he?”

  His anger sparked hers and she sat up, pulling her hand from his and raking both through her hair. She was sticky—God, she’d let him come on her breasts again and a bunch had dried there—and she probably looked like a wreck. “I didn’t ask him for more than that,” she snapped out. Angry maybe wi
th herself, for being such a doormat that she hadn’t. “I need to clean up and I should go.”

  “Why not?” Ryan put a hand on her knee, not gripping hard, but insistent.

  It took her a moment to process that he hadn’t asked about her leaving, but was still dwelling on the rest. “Because I was fine. He did his best by me. That was enough.”

  “Was it?”

  No, it hadn’t been. She shouldn’t have married him, shouldn’t have been so envious of Ara and eager to equalize them again that she’d rushed headlong into marriage, knowing even then that Noah didn’t really love her. Another of her mistakes. Not something she wanted to think about. “At least he never told me I wasn’t allowed to come!”

  “No, he did worse. He made it be about him, didn’t he? Made your pleasure be about whether he felt manly, and when he stopped bugging you about it, you were relieved to drop the subject entirely.”

  Astonishment robbed her of the retort she’d been mentally building.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” He looked less angry now but no less determined.

  “I don’t know how you could possibly know that.”

  He made a snorting sound and smiled slightly. “I’m a man. Anyone who says men don’t gossip is a liar. And their favorite topic is women and the bagging and pleasuring thereof.”

  “You know—I saw your face and you looked downright smug...after. You can’t claim that pleasuring me didn’t make you feel manly, too.”

  “Oh yes.” He nodded, that selfsame smug smile spreading across his lips. “I’m feeling excessively manly at the moment. The difference is that I know what to do for you, even if it means pissing you off by forbidding you to come.”

  “You’re a very unusual man. An arrogant one.”

  “Acknowledged. And thank you, Celestina. I was hoping you’d notice.” He picked up her hand, turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist. “What is this perfume? You smell like hothouse roses.”