by Shandi Boyes
His threat makes my fight ten times worse, but I give it my best shot to remain obedient. I’ve learned many things the past four days. The most significant is that Marcus wasn't lying when he said my punishments would no longer incite pleasure. I never realized an ostrich tickler could be a torture instrument until it was placed in the hands of my Master.
My brows join when Marcus unexpectedly steps out of the shower. After closing the thick glass door in his wake, he secures a towel around his hips and pivots on his heels. A new wrinkle cracks on my forehead when he exits the bathroom without so much of a backward glance.
I still as panic roars through my body. “Master Chains?” I breathe out heavily.
Silence. That's all that greets me.
“Master Chains?” I query again, louder this time. “Are you coming back?”
Horrid alarm makes my skin a sticky mess when my words echo around the soundless room before booming into my ears. I suck in deep breaths as I strain to hear the meekest sound.
Silence. Nothing but endless silence.
“Oh god, please don’t be mean,” I plead, fighting against the restraints tethering me to the showerhead.
Although I’m certain Marcus’s scare tactic is a ploy to curb my disobedience, my panic is rising at a rate I don’t appreciate. I can barely breathe as it curls around my throat, silently asphyxiating me. I’m not just the most sexually frustrated I’ve ever been, I’m the most scared as well.
“Marcus?” I stammer out, not below being insubordinate to force him to respond to me. “Please don’t do this. This isn’t funny.”
Panic grips my heart when nothing but my manic breaths are heard.
“Marcus, please come back.” My words are so raw they sound like they went all the way to hell and back before leaving my mouth.
I stop thrusting against the restraints holding me firmly when the sound of a door creaking open seeps into the room. I slump onto the balls of my feet as I struggle to calm the wild beat of my heart.
“Please don’t ever do that to me again,” I implore, my voice cracking with unshed tears. My panic was so strong, I was on the verge of doing something I never wanted to do again. I was nearly forced to use my safe word. “That really scared me. Silence is a hard limit for me. I thought you knew that?”
Although I am embarrassed about my childish response to a few moments of quiet, the past ten minutes saw my panic surging to a point it’s never reached before. I swear, my heart is thrashing against my chest so hard, the entire town of Bronte’s Peak can hear it.
Some of the panic raring through my body sails out the window when Marcus steps into the shower recess. It isn’t just his captivating face and pussy-watering body that has my heart rate skyrocketing; it's the small silver instrument he is holding in his hand. What possible use could he have for a pinwheel?
I freeze as reality smacks into me. “I didn’t come, so technically you can’t punish me,” I stammer out, breathless with an even amount of excitement and alarm.
Ignoring my statement, Marcus covers my eyes with one of the many blindfolds he has in his playroom. With my vision hindered, my ears pick up their slack. I’ll be honest, half of the ragged pants I’m frantically sucking in are triggered by excitement, whereas the other half are crammed with fear. This isn’t like Marcus. He is usually an informative talker in the bedroom. There hasn’t been one incident the past two weeks where he hasn’t ensured I was aware of what he was doing, and that I was comfortable with the scene we were undertaking. So to say his silence is somewhat off-putting would be an understatement—a major one.
An ear-piercing squeal rolls up my throat when the shower faucet suddenly switches on, drenching me head to toe with icy-cold water. I fight against the restraints binding me to the showerhead. My efforts are utterly pointless. The more I struggle, the firmer my restraints become.
“Oh. . . god. . .it’s freezing,” I mutter through clattering teeth as I give up on my endeavor to free myself.
New goosebumps bristle on my arms when an odd piercing sensation pricks the skin on my erratically panting chest. If I hadn’t spotted the pinwheel in Marcus’s hand, I’d be none the wiser to what's causing the weird scratching sensation to my chest. The skin around my areola pulls taut when my nipples bud painfully quickly. Although the water is beyond freezing, it isn’t the cause of the weird excitement flooding my needy core. It's the pinwheel Marcus is running over my engorged nipple.
The sensation of the pinwheel pricking my skin isn’t overly painful, but it's incredibly arousing. The best way I could describe it would be comparing it to the sensation I assume Marcus experiences when I rake my nails down his back in the midst of ecstasy. It's a feeling that walks the line between pleasure and pain.
When Marcus tracks the pinwheel to my left breast, he increases the pressure on the device. As the little silver prongs dig deeper into my skin, my womb tighten more firmly. Every arousing nip builds the tension feeding the air with heady lust. It also makes me forget about the below-freezing waters numbing my toes.
Marcus devotes the same amount of attention to my left nipple as he did my right, lavishing it with a stimulating mix of both pleasure and pain. By the time he tracks the pinwheel away from my breasts, I am completely mindless, lost to the chase of climax.
My teeth catch my bottom lip when the pinwheel unexpectedly traces over my inner thighs. This is the one thing I hate about being blindfolded. Although my body can intuit Marcus’s closeness, its awareness isn’t precise enough to tell me exactly where he is.
My teeth munch on my lip so harshly, I’m confident I’ll drawn blood when the warmth of Marcus’s breath hits my throbbing sex. “Spread your legs wider, Cleo.” Marcus’s voice so core-clenching deep, I nearly squeeze my legs together instead of apart.
“More,” he demands roughly when the sweep of my thighs isn’t up to his standards.
Placing his hands on the inside of my thighs, he separates my thighs to his desired width. “Keep them there.”
“Ah, god,” I mumble under my breath when he unexpectedly sucks my clit into his mouth.
His unexpected devotion to my clit is so overwhelming, if I weren’t bound to the showerhead, my buckling knees would see me tumbling to the ground. He licks, bites and sucks my pussy at a frenzied pace, arousing every nerve ending in my body.
My breathing turns rampant when my quivering leg brushes past Marcus’s thick cock. Considering the water is a cold as the Hudson in winter, I’m surprised—and utterly delighted—by how hard he is.
After skillfully teasing my clit until I’m on the brink of ecstasy, Marcus withdraws his mouth from my tingling pussy. Before a single gripe can seep from my mouth, the jabbing sensation of the pinwheel returns full force. Its piercing touch stimulates the area just below my navel before it slowly tracks down to the erogenous zone above my heated core.
My pupils widen with each bump of the pinwheel as it moves closer to my throbbing-with-need clit, mere millimeters from an area tightened with anticipation. The desire to squeeze my thighs together nearly becomes unwinnable when Marcus increases the pressure on the pinwheel even more. I grunt, fighting with all my might to ignore the intoxicating ambience of pleasure steamrolling me into a quivering, blubbering mess.
“Do not come, Cleo. Do you understand me? If you come, I’ll punish you.”
What? He can’t be serious, can he? This may be one of the more painful sensations I’ve experienced with him, but it's also one of the most outstandingly fan-fucking-tastic sexual encounters I’ve ever had. Just imagine this: freezing cold water, the warm of Marcus’s mouth on my clit, and a prickling sensation hitting every erogenous zone in my body. This is. . . God. I can’t express how good it feels.
“Cleo,” Marcus barks, snapping me back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes,” I stammer out, my voice nearly a sob. I’m not on the verge of crying because he is hurting me; I’m on the brink of tears wondering what my punishment will b
e when I forsake his threat. My urge to climax is so strong, it’s practically dangling on a very thin thread, threatening to snap at any moment.
I wrap my hands around the satin tie tethering my hands above my head when Marcus growls, “Yes, what?”
My failure to issue the correct reply increases the pressure on the pinwheel. My thighs wobble as every hair on my body prickles to attention. The sensation is so overwhelming, my safe word sits on the tip of my tongue, primed for imminent release. I’m not bowing out of our exchange because I want it to be over; it's because if he doesn’t hurry up and touch me, I’m not below finishing myself. That's how desperate I am to come.
“Cleo. . .” His furious growl sends my libido into haywire.
“Yes, Master Chains, I understand,” I reply when my continued silence infuriates him more. I don’t need to see him to know he is angry. I can feel the wrath of his eyes scorching my skin. It's so warm, it's as if the freezing water soaking every inch of my body no longer exists.
The satin tie digs painfully into my wrists when Marcus runs the pinwheel over the hood of my clit. My nostrils flare as I resist the urge to be swept away in the tidal wave of excitement attempting to overtake me. Because Marcus toyed with my clit until it became a firm, stiff peak, the small prongs on the pinwheel dip into areas previously untouched. It's an antagonizing and amazing experience all at once.
“Please, oh god. Please, Master Chains,” I cry out when the sensation becomes too much to bear. “I can’t hold it back. It’s too strong.”
Marcus remains quiet. The only indication he heard my muffled pleas is when he drags the pinwheel over my clit again, his pace even more torturously slow than his first pass. As if the sensation of the pinwheel scouring my clit isn’t enough, Marcus thrust two of his fingers inside me. My knees buckle beneath me when he hits the sweet spot deep inside my pussy.
Using my slumped figure to his advantage, he finger fucks me at a speed so fast, stars blister in front of my eyes, and my every inhibition about our exchange completely vanishes.
“Ah. . . Please. . . oh. . .”
The tears I’ve been fighting to keep at bay most of the day spring to my eyes when Marcus continues ignoring my begs for release. He works my body to the brink of snapping before he withdraws all contact. Then he does it all over again.
And again.
And again.
I don’t understand why he is being so mean. What did I do wrong that I deserve to be punished? I know my earlier goading would have grated his nerves, but my desire to unleash his dominance has never backfired on me so callously before. Usually, when I tempt him, he exerts his power by showcasing how well in tune he is with my body. He ensures that by the time our session is over, I have no doubt who the master of my body is. He is.
But today he is not doing that. He is using my body against me. He is pairing off my heart and mind in a cruel battle I’m too tired to undertake.
“Why are you punishing me?” I whimper, displaying the barrage of emotions hammering me. I’m the most turned on and devastated I’ve ever been. “Why are you hurting me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
A long, quivering moan of disappointment simpers through my parched mouth when the sound of metal clanging on tiles rings through my ears. Since I can’t see, I can only assume it's the pinwheel dropping to the floor. A second wave of disappointment courses through me when Marcus removes his fingers from my clenching core.
My disappointment is pushed aside when Marcus cups my thighs so he can guide my legs around his sweat-slicked waist. My soft pants of breath shift to feral grunts when his heated flesh nestles the folds of my drenched sex. I wait for his glorious cock to impale me, loving that we’ve finally reached this part of our exchange.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
He does nothing. He remains perfectly still. Not entering me or making a single move. He just rests his sweat-drenched forehead against mine and allows the eerie quiet to speak on his behalf. His silence worries me more than him withholding my climax.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my words hiccupped through a sob.
He remains perfectly still, not even the sounds of his breath are audible. I’d like to say my composure is an exact replica of Marcus’s. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. My breaths are so ragged, my whistling lungs overtake the sound of my pulse shrilling in my ears. My body is shaking with both anger and the effects of the freezing cold water running down my spine, and my heart is beating so fast, I have no doubt Marcus can hear it. But no matter how much my body conveys my devastation, Marcus refuses to acknowledge its silent screams for clemency.
In no time at all, his silence becomes too much for me to bear. He has my emotions on opposing teams, much like my unnatural body temperature. My outsides are frozen from the bitterly cold water pumping out of the showerhead, where my insides are still heated with lust so potent, his coldhearted demeanor hasn’t dampened its excitement in the slightest.
These are two very contradicting viewpoints. The same can be said about how I view Marcus right now. Discovering he paid for Lexi’s enrollment in the Kayldeco program shows how beautiful his insides are, but the man standing before me now is as cold and heartless as the water syphoning from the showerhead.
“Tell me why you're doing this or put me down,” I command, my voice as weak as my demand. “You’re being mean. I haven’t done anything to warrant this type of punishment.”
Silence. Nothing but silence greets me.
“Marcus. . . please.”
The room is so quiet I swear I hear the first crack fracture my heart. The pain is so intense it nearly cripples me. Some people see silence as appeasing, but when you are suddenly stripped of all the noises you loved, silence can be more painful than the cruelest taunts. That's what happened to me when my parents and Tate died. My entire world was stripped of sounds I’d give anything to hear again. My dad telling my mom he loves her; Tate jeering me for using all the hot water, and the comforting words my mom would say to Lexi when she endured a tough coughing fit. Every beautiful noise I loved was gone. Stripped away. Taken in an instant. So, you may see silence as a beautiful thing. But I hate it.
“Pineapple,” I murmur, my broken heart resonating in my low tone.
Marcus’s statured composure doesn’t falter in the slightest.
“Pineapple,” I repeat, louder this time, wanting to ensure he hears me. “Pineapple. Pineapple. Pineapple!”
8
I blink back tears when Marcus yanks my blindfold off my face. It hangs in the middle of my thrusting chest, dangerously close to the area that feels like it's being torn in two. He places me on my feet before his hands lift to untie the restraints on my wrists. The muscles in my arms feel like Jell-O when they flop to my side.
Marcus catches me when my knees buckle, my shuddering body no longer capable of holding its own weight. Tears mix with the droplets of water beading on my cheeks when he draws me to his chest and strides out of the shower. I burrow my head in the towel he wraps around my shoulders, wanting to hide my tearstained face from the horribly cruel world.
The frantic beat of my heart kicks up a notch when Marcus walks us into the master suite. The feverish heat pumping out of the vent sends my suspicions into overdrive. Why would he crank up the heat to such a ghastly temperature? It truly doesn’t make any sense. . .unless.
My eyes rocket to Marcus when the truth hits me like a ton of bricks. He was preparing for this reaction. He wanted me to use my safe word. The only thing I can’t fathom is why. Why did he push me to the absolute brink so I was forced to say the one word I never wanted to say to him again? Is it an alpha-male power trip I don’t understand? Or a mind game I’m too tired to participate in?
A new reality dawns when Marcus places me on the bed. Our eyes only lock and hold for the briefest second, but it's long enough for me to read all the signals his eyes are relaying. He is angry about me leaving with Richard this mornin
g. He’s mad I put my life at risk. He has no right to be angry, though. He has done as many reckless things as I have the past week. He not only endangered his personal safety by bringing me here, he also risked financial suicide. If he wants to be angry, so be it, but I shouldn’t be receiving all his wrath. Some of it should be projected at himself.
“Richard was unhinged, Marcus. Who knows what he would have done if I didn’t go with him. He could have hurt Abel; he could have hurt you.”
“He could have killed you!” Marcus roars, startling me. His voice is so furious it ricochets off the pristine walls of his bedroom before returning to rattle my heart straight out of my chest.
I sit in silence, muted with shock by his brutal response. I’ve never seen him so furious. Usually, he is the calm, contrite one of our twosome.
Marcus stands in the middle of his room. His fists clench open and closed as he battles to leash his anger. It's a pointless endeavor. The tick of his jaw grows as rampant as the white-hot anger blazing out of his eyes.
“Not just today, but last week as well,” he mutters when his composure simmers back to his customary level.
My heart falls from my ribcage when our eyes meet. His squinted gaze is tormented and broken.
“Why are you so goddamn stubborn, Cleo? Why do you always do senseless, idiotic things all the time? Things that could get you hurt. Things that could get you killed.” He chokes out the last word.
“Because it’s who I am,” I fight back, rising from the bed. “He said Lexi was in danger. I believed him. That was the only reason I went with him. To protect my sister.” Unlike Marcus, my voice is void of unbridled anger. I’m too concerned about the pain radiating out of his eyes to engage in a battle bigger than Ben-Hur.
“Your sister?!” Marcus fires back. “Your sister’s safety has nothing to do with this!”
