“I expect obedience, yes,” Conrad said, and she could hear layers of steel and stone in his voice, then. She could feel it like his hand against her pussy once again. “There are some BDSM relationships that appear to be predicated on the submissive acting like a brat and the dominant punishing that brattiness as it occurs—or not, to the dominant’s taste. But I don’t do brattiness. I don’t much like it in a single scene and I would not tolerate it at all in a more permanent arrangement.”
“Because all of your orders are so perfect?” she demanded. A little hotly, she realized after she threw the words out.
But Conrad only regarded her in the same patient way he always did. “Some people will tell you that BDSM is all a great bit of theater around the fact that despite everything you might see to the contrary, the submissive has control. And on some level, that’s true. Because it is her consent to any act that gives it its heat. Its power. But if you go deeper than that, there is a power exchange. And the power exchange is not about who’s dominant and who’s submissive, who gives consent or who capitalizes on it. It’s exactly what it sounds like. An exchange.”
Her throat was dry. Her eyes felt wet again. What was happening to her?
Conrad’s dark eyes were a blazing thing, hard and beautiful. “As much as you trust me to work within your boundaries, and perhaps push them a little, I trust you to allow me those things. It’s a balance. One can’t work without the other. I could tell you a thousand different theories about why that is, and what it is, but what it comes down to is that BDSM is a highly stylized practice of intimacy.”
This time she didn’t try to make a joke about cilantro or ball gags.
And she thought he nearly smiled again. “Because the difficulty with intimacy, Rory, is not in you. But what you, through the other person, see in yourself. Most people do not enjoy that mirror.”
“Have you had that?” she dared to ask.
“Yes.”
And he offered nothing more. But her ribs seemed to hurt, because all of this was significantly more direct than any conversation she’d ever had with a man before.
But of course, that was his point.
It occurred to her that she didn’t actually know what kind of man he was. Did he play around—either with or without a partner’s knowledge? “Do you have it...now?”
“No,” he told her. “I haven’t had that kind of relationship in a long time.”
“What happened to your last one?” she asked, and was confused when he laughed.
“You sound so scandalized. What are you imagining? That I beat her black-and-blue and she escaped me with nothing but a collar around her neck?” As he had once before, he gave the impression of rolling his eyes without actually doing it. “That is a story of abuse. What I had was a relationship. A mutually exclusive relationship of consenting adults involved in a power exchange. And when it had run its course, we separated. Is there something about that that is inherently more dramatic than your average divorce? Or even a run-of-the-mill breakup?”
“How did she break up with you if she had to ask you permission to speak?” Rory asked.
Conrad’s mouth was still curved. “What makes you think she was the one who broke up with me?”
“Okay, but if you’re the one who broke up with her, why? If this power exchange thing is the be-all and end-all—”
Conrad sighed. “I don’t think you’re really all that interested in my ancient history, Rory. I think it makes you feel braver to question me. I take the responsibility for the kind of sex I enjoy very seriously. That’s part of what I like about it. You have your casual dates. Your curation. But I have scenes in which I sit down with a woman and discuss, frankly and honestly, what is going to occur. And then I arrange an experience to both of our mutual satisfaction.”
“But—”
“And what I think you’re really interested in is spanking.”
She shook a little at that. Maybe a lot. “I wouldn’t say interested, necessarily.”
“Maintenance spankings, in particular. I find them fascinating myself. But don’t worry, that’s more of a relationship thing.”
And Rory, who had never been spanked in her life, felt suddenly outraged that he was excluding her from the option of whatever relationship spankings were.
When his eyes lit up again, she knew he could tell.
“Do you have any other meandering questions or vague accusations?” he asked. “You look so lovely on your knees, I could answer them all night.”
She realized, with a start, that she’d forgotten that she was kneeling.
Something about that struck her hard. Like a gong. The very fact that something that had been so difficult for her to even contemplate seemed almost quaint now... Surely that should have upset her. Surely that should have been something that took a long time to get her head around.
But the reality was, it was him.
The way he looked at her. That voice. His marvelous hands.
He hadn’t even touched her in any particularly sexual way tonight, and he was still the most exciting man she’d ever met—and by far the best sex she’d ever had.
She hardly knew where to put that.
“Well,” she said, considering all of those factors and her own feelings. And everything he’d said. Or better yet, implied, all midnight blue and that relentless gaze. “I appreciate you telling me all of these things. But I have to say... I kind of thought that kinky sex would have a lot more fucking. If I’m honest.”
His expression didn’t change, though somehow, it got significantly more...wolfish.
He smoothed his hand over her hair, and the way he looked down at her made everything inside her tighten.
“Rory,” he said, so softly. Almost gently, if it weren’t for the steel beneath. “How wet are you?”
She was so wet it should probably have been embarrassing. Hot and aching besides. She was so wet it hurt. “What?”
He looked almost tender, if an expression so intimidating, all steel and intent, could be any such thing.
“This is BDSM, little one,” he said, rumbling and dark, and too delicious to bear. He made her heart slam against her own ribs like a mallet. “I like to start it off with a long, slow, lazy mind fuck. Or what would be the point?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CONRAD COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d had this much fun.
He’d had a lot of sex, certainly. And the push and pull of BDSM always made that sex excellent.
But this was on a different level altogether.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a brand-new submissive, because he preferred to avoid them. He didn’t want to waste his time training a woman to his standards, when he only intended to enjoy her for a night. Or a short scene. His experiences with Marie Jeanette, the only submissive he’d claimed—and when he’d been much younger—had left him uninterested in collaring anyone since.
The aversion had faded as the years passed, but these days he hardly had time to play, much less maintain a woman in the way she required.
Because, much as he and Marie Jeanette had suited at the start, things had changed. Things always changed—he understood that—but the way they’d changed had ruined them. Conrad had come into himself as he grew. The more responsibility he took on in the outside world, the more intensely he’d wanted sexual power.
But Marie Jeanette had turned out to want less sexual dominance, and more of a conventional life. The more intense he became sexually, the less in to it she was. And the more she cried and wanted more fancy holidays abroad than scenes, the less he wanted to do any of it. It became unworkable.
These days, Marie Jeanette was far happier with a gentler, kinder dominant partner, who was happy to keep her as she preferred. They had married some time ago, and Conrad had attended their wedding. Happily.
But he couldn’t say t
hat he had been particularly inspired to repeat the collaring experience since then. Or even training a submissive to please him, because he rarely played with the same woman twice.
Until now.
And little as he wanted to accept that Rory was different, he was not in the habit of hiding from truths. However unpleasant. Even if it meant that apparently, he was in the market to train this unexpected—and if he was honest, unacceptable—American.
“Am I supposed be doing something?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Or is this part of the mind fuck?”
“It’s all part of the mind fuck,” he replied. And felt a surge of something it took him a moment to identify.
Affection.
He had to pause a moment to process that. This woman was everything he would have sworn to anyone who would listen, in any club he frequented, he detested. And yet here he was, so hard he was beginning to worry it might actually threaten the limits of his control.
Imagine that.
“The last time you were here, you indicated that you are no stranger to sucking cock.” He let his fingers move over the delicate curve of her ear, enjoying the way she shuddered. “But as I told you, that is a privilege. A little bit of kneeling, however pretty, would never be enough to earn it.”
He watched as the pulse in her neck went wild. And he wasn’t sure she knew, yet, the way her body betrayed her. The way her eyes dilated. The way she swallowed, hard, then moistened her lips.
His cock was becoming a problem.
“Then, of course, there’s spanking,” he said sedately, as if he wasn’t considering throwing her over the back of the chair and finding some relief. “Which obviously fascinates you.”
“I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t say that I’m fascinated—”
But that breathy voice told him otherwise.
“Were you ever spanked as a child?”
She actually wriggled, there between his outstretched legs. “Of course not.”
“Well, Rory, that explains a great deal about you. And I can certainly see that there would be instant benefits to reddening that ass of yours.” He made a show of considering it. “How do you feel about breath play?”
“Is that...?”
He slid his hand to her throat and cupped her neck, gently. Very, very gently. And then, holding her gaze with his, he tightened his grip. Infinitesimally.
She let out a soft little sound, and he could see the shudder that worked its way over her, then. Her nipples punched out, tight and hard, into the fabric of the tank top she wore. Even her goose bumps seemed to have goose bumps. And better still, he could actually smell her arousal.
God, she was perfect.
“I can see that you like it very much.” He moved his hand away from her neck, biting back a smile as she made another sound, this one a kind of grief.
“There are so many ways to fuck,” he mused. “And so many practical things to consider. Those pesky details again.”
“You love those,” she said, and he imagined she meant to sound her usual confronting self. But she couldn’t manage to get her voice above a whisper.
“You should know, of course, that if I choose to fuck you, I’ll want to fuck that ass of yours just as much as I’ll want to fuck your mouth,” he said. Conversationally. “Maybe I’ll fuck you in both of those places instead of in your pussy, and before you ask, the answer is because I might feel like it.”
She shook at that, a flush working its way down her neck, while her gaze stayed glued to his.
“And because it will make you want it more,” he told her. “And because I’m going to like seeing you desperate. Because sometimes, not giving you what you want will give you exactly what you want, in the end.” His mouth curved. “Or exactly what I want. If we’re doing this right, that should be the same thing.”
“Are you going to do all those things?” she asked, breathlessly. “Tonight?”
“Let’s concentrate on protocol.” Conrad made his expression cooler. Harder. “I have been allowing you to question me while you got comfortable, but you look perfectly comfortable to me. Now I don’t want you to use your voice unless I ask you to. Do you understand?”
Rory balked a bit at that, as he’d expected she would. He could see that this was another shift, like that beautiful struggle she’d had to come to him in the first place, down on her knees.
“I understand what you’re saying, if that’s what you mean. The actual words, but...”
“The only time you can violate that rule—speaking only when I ask you to—is if you feel that something is happening that requires a safeword. You mentioned safewords earlier. Do you know what they are?”
Her breath sounded like a pant. “Am I allowed to answer that?”
“No need,” Conrad said calmly. “I may ask you to tell me your safeword, and if I do, you can respond in one of three ways. Red, yellow, or green. Just like a stoplight. Green means everything is fine. Yellow means you’d like to pause, because perhaps you’re overwhelmed, or confused, or think you need to catch your breath. Red, obviously, is stop. Yellow and red are the only two words you’re welcome to use at any time, whether I ask you to speak or not. Do you understand all of that?”
“I mean... I guess I understand the stoplight but why I have to—”
He brushed his fingers over her mouth, quieting her. And finding her lips as soft and lush as he’d thought he would, which didn’t exactly help the wild greed in him.
“No editorializing,” he said, making his voice a little more stern and watching her stiffen in instant response. She really was a natural. “You will answer yes or no, unless I ask you specifically for your thoughts or feelings. It won’t be confusing. I’ll tell you exactly what I want. Do you understand?”
Her eyes were taking on that glassy, glorious sheen. “Y....yes.”
“Good girl,” Conrad murmured, and he knew that she was slipping into the right frame of mind when all she did was moan a little at that. No arguments. No commentary about derogatory language or whether or not she felt demeaned.
He could see that she did not.
And it pleased him that whether she could have put it into words or not, some part of her understood that here, at his feet, was the time to experience power differentials. Not debate them.
“First,” he said, “I want you naked. I don’t want you to stand up. I want you to take off your clothes right where you are. Stay on your knees, please.”
Rory looked like she might topple over, but she didn’t. And she was breathing like she was running a race, but she didn’t argue with him. Her shoulders dropped, and then she shrugged off the summer scarf that had long since fallen to each side. She pulled off her tank top, and the strappy bra beneath it, and set them to the side. She rocked forward on her knees to push her skirt and her panties down, then back again to wrestle them over her knees, and forward one more time to get them off.
When she was finished, she was flushed and looked cross.
But he could see all of her, at last.
And she was a confection. She was a petite little thing, all silky limbs, full breasts, and a pouting pussy.
Mine, something in him growled, dark and deep.
He concentrated on the task at hand. “You spent a lot of time in the past two weeks looking at filthy things on the internet.” And when she started to speak, to answer him, then stopped herself—he smiled. “You must have made yourself come, Rory. Again and again, I would think. Show me.”
He heard the huff of the breath she let out. He could almost see the word she wanted to say trembling there on her lips, but once again, she caught herself.
Even though her chest heaved.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he told her, with silken command. “Put your hands between your legs. Spread your thighs. And show me what you do when you’re alone in your flat, watching dark and ter
rible things that excite you and make you think of me.”
He heard the low, almost pained sound she made, but she rushed to do exactly as he’d requested. She slid her hands to the inside of her thighs, and adjusted the way she knelt there, widening her thighs to give him a better view, and then moving her hands to cup her pussy.
“I don’t know if I can—”
Conrad simply reached out and pinched her nipple. Hard. She made a squeaking, outraged sort of sound, but he didn’t let go.
“That’s called a consequence.” His voice was perfectly calm. “And it was such a mild one, wasn’t it?” Even as he spoke, he was rolling the proud little peak between his finger and thumb, soothing the sharp pain he knew he’d given her. “What did I say about editorializing?”
She swallowed, hard, and he thought she got a little mixed up the way she was breathing, because she made a ragged sound. “You said not to.”
“Indeed.” He flicked his thumb over the crest of her nipple, and she shivered. Her body bucked a little, and he could see that the shock of arousal and pain had mixed together for her. Just the way he liked it. “And when you speak to me, Rory, you call me Sir.”
Her eyes looked damper. Shinier. But they were still fixed to his face.
He lifted his hand to smooth it over her cheek. “You may thank me, Rory, for training you like this.”
He watched her struggle with that, or maybe fight her way out from under the weight of it. Either way, she looked jittery again, as if she didn’t know what her own body was doing.
“Th... Thank you, Sir,” she managed, her voice sounding thready. Insubstantial.
Perfect.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” he warned.
He could see a kind of anguish over her face, then. And he knew what she might have wanted to tell him, if he’d let her speak. That she didn’t know if she could make herself come on command. That she hadn’t done it before, like this. That this was all too much for her, naked and kneeling, her hands between her legs, about to give herself pleasure—by giving him the pleasure he’d requested.
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