David looked back and must have caught something in her expression because he stopped, pulling her by the leash until she bumped into his chest. "You're the hottest thing in this place." He lifted up the chain between her breasts, forcing her to arch. "Act like you know it," he commanded.
She'd sucked in her breath when he tugged the nipple clamps and she continued to hold it, waiting for him to release them. He didn't. Instead, he pushed her against the stone wall and opened the alligator clip on one. She gasped at the pain of the blood returning to her tortured nipple. Before she could wrap her mind around it, he slapped her breast, then lowered his head and took the raw bud into his mouth. He swirled his hot tongue around it, laving away the pain, sucking the stiffened peak.
She struggled for balance, her bound wrists making her rock against the cold stone. Without lifting his head, he reached behind her and tugged the ribbon binding them loose. He took a wrist in each of his hands and guided them up to meet on the top of her head. Understanding, she interlaced her fingers, lifting her breasts to his view.
He released the other nipple from the clamp, rolling it between his fingers while he continued to suck and nibble the first.
She groaned at the combined pleasure and pain, her sex swollen and hot between her legs. She didn't care if he was David Dean Marone, the man she swore she'd never speak to again, she wanted him. No-one had ever lit her fire so completely before.
He popped off her nipple and left the other bereft of his ministrations. "Now, are you ready to show off my property like you're proud?"
She gave a wobbly nod.
He reached behind her and picked up the leash, threading it between her legs and pulling it taut. It cut a band across her pussy, which made her want to grind down on it, but at the same time, it pushed the tail plug, causing discomfort. He pulled. "Keep your hands on your head, just like that, and walk."
She toddled forward, finding it awkward with the leash between her legs. Even worse, the position humiliated her, as if the leash were a tail tucked between her legs because she'd been naughty. She shook all over, her emotions running haywire. She wanted to cry, or scream, or beg for mercy. She wanted to get fucked, long and hard. She needed release, desperately.
Instead she took small steps, her nipples throbbing, the leash tugging her along in the most undignified way. She couldn't have been more relieved when they reached David's room.
He opened the door and stood back, dropping the leash and holding his hand out, as if chivalry was a habit he couldn't stop, even with a sub he intended to torture. She stopped when she entered the room, staring at the large cage on the floor. She'd heard him ordering it from the Wardrobe, but the reality of it only now set in. He intended to put her in doggy-jail.
She might not be able to handle it. She'd never been caged before, nor had she been interested in that form of bondage. In fact, she had a touch of claustrophobia that came out at odd moments.
David stepped in and gave her ass a slap, jostling the tail plug once more.
She dropped to her knees and crawled to him, licking his hand.
"You may speak," he said, looking down at her with glittering eyes.
"Master, will you please remove the butt plug? I'm quite sore."
He reached down and gripped her throat. He didn't squeeze at all, not even the slightest bit, but the placement of his hand still stopped her heart. He lifted up, drawing her to her feet, before pulling her against his body and tipping her head back, sucking on her pulse. "But I want you sore, little slave. I'm going to treat you to a buffet of pain for seventy-two hours straight." He placed his lips directly over her ear, brushing the shell as he spoke, his hot breath penetrating her. "Does that make you want to cry 'red,' Kitty?"
Her legs barely held her up. She had turned into a boneless mass of zinging nerve endings. She shook her head, not sure if her permission to speak had expired.
"Good," he crooned, biting her earlobe. He squeezed her ass with his large hand, then pulled the tail plug out all at once, making her yelp at the pain. The emptiness came as both relief and disappointment.
#
He'd forgotten all about Portia Sands the food critic, caring only for the trembling sub beneath his hands. His body burned for her, every place her flesh came in contact with his clothed body creating an urgency to remove all barriers between them. He wanted to get at her, skin to skin, to take her roughly and prove his dominance until they both cried out in unison.
"I'm not through with your sore little anus," he said, sliding his finger between the crack of her ass and brushing over it. "I'm going to ass-fuck you until you cry, little girl."
She shuddered against him.
"But if it needs a little rest, I'll allow it. I can make other parts of your ass sore. Bend over the bed," he said, turning her to face away from him.
She stepped forward as directed, folding her torso over the bed.
He removed his belt, doubling it and gripping the handle side. He'd purposely worn a flexible belt, his favorite for whipping. Stiff leather bit into the skin, but soft leather could be applied for a long time, leaving the beautiful "tanned" look, and making a wonderful thwapping sound.
Portia's shapely ass was still a light pink from her earlier spankings and David took a moment just to stand back and admire her. She had long, slender legs with just enough muscle to keep them from looking spindly. Her ass had great tone—like a dancer's or yogi's—and, most intoxicating, the scent of her arousal permeated the air.
He reached out and plucked the end of the tie on her corset, pulling it loose. "Take it off," he said, his voice gravelly.
She lifted her torso and slid the corset off, folding it neatly and setting it beside her. She wore only her knee-high boots, the star pasties and her leather collar now, a sight that nearly made him dizzy with lust.
He brought the belt down, lightly at first, right over her sit-spots. He caressed her with it, worshipped her perfect ass with each kiss of leather, warming her skin back to a rosy glow. He didn't increase the intensity—this wasn't punishment, after all, simply dominance. He continued to whip the same area over and over again, watching as she shifted from foot to foot, her fingers burrowing in the bedspread.
After forty strokes, she began to flinch, shifting and jumping away, no longer able to hold still for him. He pressed a hand to her lower back to help her stay in position.
"You're doing very well, pet," he praised, to give her the stamina to take more.
She let out a long, low whimper.
He continued bringing the belt across her low buttocks. "I'm going to keep this little bottom whipped raw for our entire time together. And you're going to bend over and take it. Do you know why?"
She moaned.
He didn't force her to answer. "Because I own you. For the next three nights, you're mine. And I intend to use you as I please. Understand, slave?"
She let out a sobbing sound and he stopped whipping, rubbing her heated flesh with a light stroke of his palm, then gripping and kneading her cheeks with a possessive force. He spread her cheeks apart.
"This ass is mine. I'm going to spank it, fuck it, and put it on display for my enjoyment every minute we're together," he growled in her ear. "And what are you going to do?"
She whimpered.
"You're going to take it."
He opened the condom he had grabbed from a bowl in the ballroom and ripped it open.
Portia didn't move from her position, her back heaving as she caught her breath.
He unzipped his pants and brought them down enough to free his engorged cock, which was bulging with need. Sliding the rubber over it, he pushed into her, finding no resistance. Her heat enveloped his thick member, her juices slicked the way. He grasped both her elbows and pulled back, using them as leverage to bury himself more deeply in her moist tunnel.
Again and again he slammed into her, fucking with a ferocity, his need so great he couldn't think anymore. The cries she made each time he plowed deeper
sounded of both wanton need, and fear or pain; music to his ears. He lost his head completely as cum surged down his shaft, erupting into the condom in glorious release.
"Come, pet!" he grit through clenched teeth, and Portia satisfied by immediately clamping down on his cock, her muscles milking his shaft, her entire body shuddering.
He found himself on top of her, burrowing his arms under her torso to hold her back tight against his chest. Their lungs heaved as one, the rise and fall perfectly synchronized, even slowing at the same rate. He floated in the euphoria of the orgasm, his mind devoid of thought, his body satiated. Gratitude and affection poured out of him toward his little sub, and he brushed her hair back to look at her face.
Only then did he remember who she was. Portia Sands.
He released her from his embrace and stood up. "Don't move," he said coldly, stalking to the bathroom.
He threw away the condom, washed his hands and splashed cool water on his face. Wetting a washcloth, he returned to the room. "Spread your legs," he commanded, the steel in his voice harsher than it needed to be.
She slid her feet apart, making a 'V' with her long legs.
He wiped the washcloth across her mons and the insides of her thighs, even though he hadn't come inside her. He liked subjecting her to the humiliation of being wiped like a child.
"And now, my pet, it's time for you to go in your cage."
#
Portia's emotional state felt as raw as her ass. Bliss from the orgasm began to tank as David turned cold. The aftercare had started out wonderfully, but when it devolved into a few swipes of her twat with a washcloth, it fell short. Disappointment cascaded into a vague feeling of rejection. Had she done something wrong? Or was this the best the egotistical hot-shot chef had in him?
It was her own fault. She must have developed some kind of expectation. What did she think? He would take her into his arms and rock her to sleep? Tell her how much the night had meant to him? Foolishness.
But even if he had wrapped her in a blanket and held her on his lap, planting kisses across her hairline, she would not be ready to get in that cage. She lifted her torso from the bed, stiff from the pounding she'd taken, her muscles still shaking from the endorphins.
The thin metal wires of the cage seemed cold to her.
"On your knees, slave," David barked.
She hesitated, her eyes traveling from the cage to his face.
He regarded her with a cold gaze, lifting his eyebrows in warning.
Slowly, she sank to the floor, her palms beginning to sweat.
"Crawl to it."
Her stomach clenched. She really, really did not want to get in that cage.
She considered her options. Should she call 'red'? Put an end to the play? What would happen if she did? Would the characters drop and the Master/slave scenario stop? What then? Would they become Portia Sands and David Dean Marone again? She certainly didn't want that. Nor did she want their scene to end. Despite the way he pushed her boundaries, bringing her right up against the edge of her tolerance and trust, he had fulfilled her needs on a level so deep she dared not examine it.
She dropped her head and began to crawl toward the crate, grateful for the throw rug to pad her knees.
He opened the wire mesh door and held it open, still the gentleman.
She stopped at the entrance, sitting back on her heels and looking up with distaste.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smug grin. He said nothing. He didn't threaten or command, but just looked at her until she knew she had no choice but to go in.
Heaving a sigh, she crawled into the cage, trying not to panic at the sound of the gate shutting behind her.
"Good girl. You may speak while you're kenneled, since you can't lick my hand." Her Master stood up and walked away, leaving her to freak out over the small, enclosed space.
She lurched against the cage, trying to turn around to face the door. Her hips smacked the side and she panicked with claustrophobia. She shoved her shoulder against the corner of the kennel to make enough room for her body to swing around. Her feet struck against wire as she scrambled and slid.
"Hey," David said sharply, reprimand in his tone. He crouched beside her, reaching his hand between the wires and grasping her nape. In one swift motion, he pulled her cheek all the way against the mesh.
She gasped, surprised.
"Calm down," he said firmly. "There's plenty of room in there to turn around." He stroked the side of her neck, even as he continued to hold her head against the cage. "Breathe."
He held her captive, waiting for her obedience.
Despite her mounting anxiety, she complied, taking a deep breath and melting against the metal rods. She shut her mind off, submitting to her Master, trusting his control of the situation.
"There, you see?" His voice softened, honeyed with reward. His thumb continued stroking over her pulse. "Nothing to panic about. That's a good Kitty."
They remained like that for what seemed like a long time, with her mashed up against the cage, held by his grip, yet soothed by his voice and his light petting.
Remembering she could speak, she croaked, "I-I don't think I can do this."
"Yes, you can," he cut in. "You can, and you will," he added, firming up his tone. "Did you want to turn around?" he suggested, as if that would fix everything.
She made an affirmative noise and he released her neck.
"Just take it slow. I'm guessing with a body like yours, you take yoga or dance. Show me your flexibility, sugar."
She shouldn't take his observation as a compliment, but his words were a balm to her frayed nerves. Looking at maneuvering within the tight space as a circus act somehow helped distract her from her anxiety. And, in fact, she discovered it quite easy to change position. She simply sank one hip to the side, swiveled her knees toward her chest, then slid them behind her to exchange her head with her hips.
"Very well done," he praised. "Now be a good pet and settle in. You'll be there until I've decided you can come out."
She didn't like the sound of that, but something about the stern tone tweaked her in the way dominance always did. "Yes, Master," she murmured, sinking to one hip again and curling into a tight fetal position.
He walked away and, to her indignation, pulled out a cell phone and sat down on the loveseat to make a call. "Hi Carrie, it's me."
She tensed. Who's Carrie?
"It's me, can you hear me? Ugh, the reception here sucks. How is everything?"
She heard the sound of a female voice talking fast, and it went on and on. She couldn't make out words, but it sounded like she was explaining bad news.
At last he said, "If you think comping her a meal was the best decision, then I'll stand behind you. I trust you, Carrie. That's why you're my maître d."
More talking from the female voice, this time relieved-sounding. So Carrie was just his employee. Why did Portia still experience a stab of jealousy listening to him talk to her?
"Well, talk to Jerry about it. I'm sure he didn't mean to bite your head off. You know he's stressed without me there."
More talking.
"If you want, I'll tell him to apologize. But I think the two of you can work it out, can't you? You're both grown-ups."
What bothered her so much about his conversation? Was she longing to be his real-life employee? Have a hot Dom for a boss? Or was it that she hadn't expected him to be such a human, wonderful-seeming boss? Had she envisioned him as the kind of arrogant chef who tears every staff member a new one every time they step out of line? Perhaps that was it. Except she realized that view of him didn't jive with her memories of him from culinary school. He'd been arrogant, yes, but always charming. He had a sense of entitlement, but it made people want to give him anything he wanted from them.
Except her.
But that wasn't true either. She was curled up in a pet cage for him at the moment. And even though she'd never given into his charm back then, she hadn't been immune to it. Not
by a long shot.
He hung up and didn't acknowledge her, walking out of her line of sight. She heard the clank of a metal bowl and a can opener, and her stomach lurched. If he asked her to eat dog food, she would puke. Her breath sped up, sweat turning her cold. Getting back up on her hands and knees, she tried not to look anywhere but the black mat under her palms.
He returned. "Here, Kitty—your dinner." He opened the top of the cage door and put in a metal bowl filled with... she breathed a sigh of relief. Only canned ravioli. Almost as bad as dog food, but at least made for humans. "No hands, now. Pets don't have fingers. Put your mouth right down and eat it."
She lowered her head and extended her tongue, barely touching the tip of it to the pathetic excuse for a red sauce. She hoped he'd accept a few laps with her tongue as eating.
"What's wrong, Kitty?" he asked, crouching in front of her. "You don't like the food? He dipped his finger into the sauce and licked it. "I can't imagine why not. It was sourced locally, right from the Wal-Mart. Of course, I don't have the perfect wine pairing for it here…"
She heard nothing else of what he said, her body turning cold with shock. He knows. Her heart thundered in her chest. She had to get out of here. Portia began to fumble with the cage door, reaching through to lift the latch.
"Ah-ah," he scolded, closing his hand around hers. "I didn't say you could come out."
Genuine fear set in. She was his prisoner! He had her locked in a cage, and… She remembered she could still scream her safeword. She opened her mouth to do so, then closed it again as he pried her fingers off the wires and brought them to his lips.
She stared with wide eyes. What the hell kind of game was he playing?
"This isn't fair," she muttered.
His lips twisted into a smile. "Oh I think it's perfectly fair. Paybacks are hell, Portia. Besides, fair doesn't matter in D/s. It all comes down to what the top wants. And right now, I want you in this cage."
"I want out," she blurted. "I want out, now."
When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle) Page 29
