He stood next to her, quite an imposing figure because of his size as well as his unhappy glower as he looked down at her, big fingertips resting gently atop the small of her back. "While I am glad that you told me without making me have to drag it out of you, I'm very unhappy with you for doing that, Miranda. You know what I wanted to do for you in regards to your studio. I have to have you happy here or it's not going to work. If I'm not worried about the money that I'm spending then why should you be?"
Why, when he spoke to her like this, quietly and calmly chiding her, did he so easily succeed in making her feel like an ungrateful chit when she was the furthest thing from it? She was trying to save him money, after all, damn it! There were tears in her eyes already, just from his soft upbraiding, and she knew that there were much more to come. Especially when she heard the distinct, unmistakable clink of him loosening his belt buckle. She couldn't really drum her feet as she would usually since they were barely touching the floor, thanks to the pillow. But she did kick them up in protest about what she knew he was doing and what that meant for her.
"Settle," was all he said and her legs went still immediately, in time to hear the sound of leather being pulled through slick fabric.
Miranda couldn't help it. She began to mewl at what she knew was going to be happening to her within the next few minutes. He hadn't used his belt on her very often – for which she was eternally grateful – but the few times that he had were downright horrible, and she couldn't imagine that this time was going to be any better. In fact, he'd said that he was unhappy with her and that probably meant that things were going to get much, much worse.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, honey, but I refuse to argue with you about this any more. You are mine," and he dearly loved saying that out loud, "and I will do what I think is necessary to make you happy – whether it's fucking you until you faint beneath me or taking my belt to your backside because you've way overstepped your bounds, or buying you a brand new mansion."
Even though she was already crying – much to her mortification – she couldn't stop herself from issuing a yowl of protest at the idea that he might buy her a house. And he didn't miss that reaction at all; that wide, flat palm of his applying ten tremendously hard smacks to her behind, leaving her squealing even before leather met flesh. "That's not something over which you have any control. I know that you're chafing partly because I'm being so strict with you, and you're finding that you have less control now, probably, than any other time in your adult life. And believe me, if I thought you didn't like exactly that—" He moved to stand behind her, at her bottom, and she felt him use one of those enormous feet of his to nudge her ankles further apart, until they were not only spread wide but forward considerably, so that they bracketed the legs of the couch. Miranda caught her breath when she felt her lady bits being exposed to the cool air.
He crouched down behind her, his head level with her rear, one hand on the small of her back to remind her to behave, she was sure, and the other reaching boldly between her legs and cupping her, palm up, his fingers delving eagerly between her folds to find exactly what he expected.
She was, quite literally, sopping wet.
"And here's indisputable proof that you do." He didn't sound triumphant or as if he was trying to make her feel embarrassed by the eagerness with which her body responded to pretty much everything he did to her, but rather was simply stating a neutral fact. "I know that eager, overactive mind of yours is always hard at work trying to make you feel conflicted about your submission to me, but my arbiter of what works in handling you will always be your pussy, because it's never conflicted. It loves everything I do to you, even the things that make you scream in a bad way, and this is definitely going to be one of those times. And, in fact, the sterner I am with you, the wetter you get."
"Noooo!" she wailed, railing against her own nature.
"Yes, Miranda. I can't have you countermanding my orders like that, honey. I won't have it, and if this is what it takes to help you learn that that kind of behavior is no longer an option for you, then I'll do this to you every night if I have to."
Chapter Five
At least it wasn't the nearly three inch wide one he usually wore with his jeans. She supposed that was something. Instead of a well worn, but still rough in some places brown belt, this one was shiny black leather and much stiffer, which she knew would more than make up for its narrowness, since it was only about an inch or an inch and half wide.
He held the buckle against his palm and wrapped the excess length around his hand until there was only about seven or eight inches left – just about right for what he intended to impart to her. Mace stood next to her, staring down at the rear end he was about to set on fire. "Don't get up, Miranda Kiley LaVoie, or I will start again from the beginning." He knew exactly how hard it was going to be for her to do what he'd just asked of her, considering how badly the belt made her dance and scream. But this room was sound proof – something he'd required when he'd renovated it a few years ago – and he knew he didn't have to worry about her frightening any of the hands or his housekeeper, Dolores.
The first stroke was always the worst – until the second came along, and he was viciously accurate with that thing, laying down angry red welts that remained individual for as long as he could manage it, but then, eventually, the majority of her flesh was already mottled – not one square inch remained untouched. So he began the process of decorating her bottom again, over the current shade, achieving a crimson he'd never seen on her before with every wicked stroke.
She had long since stopped being able to scream – somewhere in the middle of the first round of licks. Her mouth remained open and she still continued to jerk up at every connection of that viciously wielded belt to her vulnerable behind, but although she was screaming from her soul, no sound could get past her ruined larynx and out to his ears. Her sobs were silent, too, tears streaming down her face unheeded to drip from her jaw and chin onto the huge dark spot on the cushion directly beneath her. The straps that he had shown her were wrapped so tightly around her wrists – and she had clung to them so desperately as he whipped her – that they were literally cutting off the circulation to her hands, but she didn't care.
At least one part of her was numb.
When he thought he might stop, he added ten more powerful strokes – the hardest he had ever given her – wanting the impression to last, leaving her in a rictus of pain that she adopted at the first of that last set and remained in even after his arm was no longer rising and falling.
Then he simply let the belt fall to the floor where it was and he immediately unwrapped her hands, noting that they had taken on a bluish cast. He rubbed them briskly, then on up her arms, putting them down along her sides to recover. As soon as he touched her to comfort her, the body that she had been holding so tense while she was punished collapsed down onto the couch, as if she hadn't the strength to support it any longer.
Miranda wanted to move, but she wasn't at all sure she could, and she thought that it might just behoove her to let him do with her what he would. She couldn't believe she was thinking that – and she would never tell him – but he appeared to be depressingly right; his sternness appeared to be getting through her stubbornness. So she simply lay there, sobbing silently as he stood at the end of the couch, admiring his handiwork, then she heard him sliding down his zipper, and seconds later, she found herself completely full of him. He fucked her hard, reaching down to grasp her wrists and hold them up, using them to keep her from being able to arch away from the way he was plunging into her with tremendous, bone jarring efforts.
She couldn't have protested even if she'd wanted to. She had no voice, and no hope of wrestling herself away from him. He had truly subdued her, taking her body for his own pleasure and paying absolutely no attention to hers, or he wouldn't have been fucking her like this, when every thrust of his hips against her behind renewed the abominable throbbing sting in her behind. And the mere idea that he
was treating her like this had her dripping juices around him. But she tried to cling to the idea that she didn't like the reality of it at all.
Mace leaned a little further over her, moving his hands to her elbows to force her back against him that much further as he shoved himself up into her with powerful thrust after thrust, making her feel more submissive to him than she'd ever felt in their relationship, which to her horror, made her even hornier than she already was.
It was just her luck that, as she was finally allowing herself to realize just how much she wanted him, how the God awful sting in her rear and his borderline painful thrusts had her clit throbbing at least as badly as it did when she was in his mouth, he jammed himself up inside her three more times, shooting his load within her with an animalistic bellow accompanying each spasm. Miranda didn't want to think about the fact that him treating her like this got her so unbelievably hot. She just wanted to deal with the result. She wanted relief.
He swatted her, hard, once as he pulled out, making her arch and try, unsuccessfully, to cry out as if he'd used the belt on her again, which is exactly what it felt like to her over-sensitized flesh. Then he reached down to lift her into his arms, carrying her through a well camouflaged door that looked like just another set of bookcases into his bedroom, where he laid her down on her side and left her only long enough to get undressed and relieve himself. When he got back, he pulled the two of them under the covers, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him, spooning her.
She was so small against him that she nearly disappeared into him, but she adored that about him, and she'd told him that in a weak, probably drunken moment. Because that was when he'd pulled all sorts of shit out of her that she would never have told him sober – and he'd remembered that. Now after nearly any punishment, she found herself here, literally surrounded by him, held fast in arms that would require she provide him with a very good reason why she wanted to leave them or she wouldn't be allowed to.
She tried to tell him what she wanted, but Miranda didn't have any semblance of a voice left with which to speak to him. Instead, she tapped his shoulder insistently and turned as much as she was able to within his hold, mouthing and whispering as best she could, "I have to pee!"
By the time she finally conveyed what she wanted to him, she was damned near to bursting. He let her up and turned to watch her walk away from him, but although she rose to her feet quite steadily, her legs had born a lot during her punishment and his subsequent ruthless possession of her. And they didn't much want to cooperate with bearing her weight right now, so she very nearly landed in a heap on the thick pile carpet.
Luckily, Mace had a very protective streak that meant his eyes were nearly always on her when they were in the same room, and he also had very quick reflexes, catching her easily before she hit the ground and scooping her up to carry her to the bathroom, going so far as to set her gently down on the commode and then stand back a ways from her while she did whatever it was that she needed to do.
Despite the pain that sitting on the toilet was causing her well-roasted butt, and desperate to pee – but not in front of him! – Randa leaned forward, nearly falling over again, to thwack him soundly on the thigh just above his knee, mouthing, "Get out so I can pee!" She became concerned that it was a grave miscalculation. As she looked up at him, she could see the wheels turning in his head, and then watched him make his decision without him saying a word to her. To her great relief, he did leave the bathroom, but deliberately left the door open, and she could see him – if she looked – leaning against the door jamb waiting for her, those massive arms crossed over his chest.
She made as if to get up to close the door, and his presence immediately filled the doorway, quite literally. "Sit back down, princess, and do what you need to do."
All she would need is to get her behind blistered again. She knew she was weak willed enough that she would do nearly anything to avoid such a fate. So she backed away from him, pouting exaggeratedly, until she felt her heels against the cold porcelain and then sat down gingerly in consideration of her poor beleaguered bottom.
He resumed his stance at the doorframe while she spent her time trying to convince herself that she should pee. "You do know that I can hear you peeing even when I'm in bed, don't you?" he said unhelpfully, and, she suspected, deliberately adding to her frustration and humiliation. She tried to groan, but ended up just holding her head in her hands.
Finally, it got to the point that she could hold it no more. She'd hoped to just tinkle softly, even if her bladder burst in the meantime, but her body took the choice away from her – as it was beginning to have an alarming tendency to do in more situations than just this – and she couldn't impose any control on it at all, blushing at least as bright red as her behind was, knowing that he was listening to her.
When she was done, she wiped herself, almost forgetting that he was there until he appeared in front of her and reached down to lift her into his arms again, even though her legs were probably fine by now. She had to concede that it was nice to be cared for like that. Miranda melted against him, wrapping her arms around his broad neck to Mace's delight, and he wished he had an excuse to carry her further rather that just the fifteen or twenty feet from the en suite to the bed.
Again, he wrapped her up in himself, happy to do something that was so easy – to say nothing of it being something he wanted to do – that made her so happy, expecting that he had exhausted her completely and that she'd be asleep in a few minutes or less. But she surprised him, as she often did, by moving restlessly against him, arching up against his hold, moving her legs and seeming to chafe against his tight hold on her.
He would have been asleep himself except for her fidgeting, and, one of the few times he completely missed what she was trying to tell him at first, he chided softly, "Miranda, keep still." For emphasis, his hand closed around one of her still impressively hot cheeks and gave a little squeeze. Mace was amazed that it had her panting and arching in a manner he finally realized he recognized only too well.
His woman was horny.
He was, quite frankly, amazed. She had taken a very serious punishment, one that had been bad enough to completely ruin her voice, and then been fucked to within an inch of her life – while he paid absolutely no attention to her pleasure at all. And yet here she was, her breath coming in short bursts, her body writhing as best she could within the confines of his arms. She was in heat, and he was loath to leave her like this overnight, knowing that a good hard orgasm – or eight – would only help her get the good night's sleep he'd been trying to aid her in achieving since he'd found out she had problems with insomnia.
Chapter Six
What Mace did next might have seemed contrary to a casual observer, but he knew what his woman liked. He had as many intimate details about what she enjoyed catalogued in his encyclopedic mind as he could glean from her, most of which were added through his own observation rather than her coming out and telling him what it was that she found hot for him to do to her body. He squeezed his arms around her, completely eliminating her ability to move, while at the same time making sure that his right hand ended up hovering – almost threateningly – over her mound – not quite touching it, but with his fingers landing very lightly over the top of the very edge of her lips, his palm just below her belly button.
Then he made sure that his mouth was right next to her ear. He had found that he could use his voice to quite an advantage with her. He'd found that her responsiveness in that way to be not only one of the highest compliments any woman had ever given him, but also an incredible turn on. He loved saying out loud to her the things that he intended to do to her in the future, or talking about things he had done in the past while he held her helpless and inexorably stroked her into pure bliss.
As he let his fingertips feather their way down to almost tickle her outer lips, completely without forcing them between her legs, he whispered sternly, "Miranda, love, open yourself to me. Yo
u know you must when I ask." He added that last part for effect, feeling her body give a short spasm that he knew her body cut off because her mind didn't want her to comply with his orders. He liked watching her conflict, knowing he could end it at any moment and simply force her to obey, but delighting in her struggle to do as she knew she must.
When she finally began to separate her knees, he immediately insinuated a foot between them, catching it behind her knee and prying it apart as she tried to fight him, but, as always, to no avail. He held her open wide, draping her calf over his then carefully placing his other leg over her foot so that she had no hope of moving it.
"You are at my mercy, little one, and you know what a small reserve I have of that commodity. You'd best obey me or the belt – and you – will sing again tonight before I let you find your pleasure." She tried to throw herself against his arms, writhing and twisting and fighting, but he wouldn't allow her to move enough to make any headway at all. When he took her like this, he used that deep, hypnotic bass of his to say things like, "Surrender to me, Miranda."
Let Me In Page 5
