It was like she was trapped in the tumble of it, the pull, and then there was his hand again, rubbing the ass cheek he just slapped.
Making it better. Making it worse. Somehow taking all that confusion and smoothing it, not away, but down through her body to make her clit seem to glow.
With a hunger she was surprised didn’t make her implode, there and then.
“If I have to tell you to count again, Rory,” came his implacable, ruthless voice, “I will double the amount to ten.”
“Two, thank you, Sir,” she forced herself to say, though there was something in her throat. She felt thick and agonized. Somehow both hideously connected to everything that was happening to her and as if she was across the room, watching him spank her.
All the while her clit pulsed, sending a different sensation rolling through her, until it all mixed together and was too much—
The next time he spanked her, it was exactly the same spot as the first. He did it again on the other side. She did her best to count.
Each wallop was worse. While inside her, everything was chaos and that rawness, too big, too tight, too much.
She didn’t realize that she was sobbing until she felt the tears on her cheeks. And that only made her cry harder.
“Stop tensing,” Conrad said, his voice descending as if from on high somewhere. Dispassionate, disengaged.
And even that seemed to work in her like heat, going directly to her pussy and sharper into the pain.
Rory tried to make her body obey her. She strained against the cuffs, too aware as she sobbed of that stiff collar around her neck.
She thought, then, there is no part of my body he’s not in control of right now. There is no part of me that doesn’t feel every single thing he’s doing, and he knew it. He knew what this would do—
But that last slap was cruel.
He hit her low on her ass so that the reverberation lit her up, everywhere. From that collar to the clamps to the cuffs, and her poor, red ass, because she could feel it. Sharp and bright and painful.
“Five,” she somehow made herself get out, though she was sobbing so hard she was surprised she could form words at all. “Thank you.”
And she wasn’t sure she could get the last bit out. She wasn’t sure... But there was something about the pain. About that rawness inside her. If she focused, on him, it wasn’t like it went away, but it felt less overwhelming. “Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
She thought she heard him murmur something, probably good girl, or some other such thing that should have outraged her.
But it didn’t. She felt scraped clean, a jangle of sensation she couldn’t quite sort through. Especially when everything was tipping all over itself, again.
Rory hardly recognized that she was on her feet again, because Conrad was the one doing all the work. Holding her and moving her around as if she was some kind of doll.
A notion that should have appalled her, deep into her core.
But instead, it had the opposite effect. Because his hands were big and he knew how to hold her. And she went with him willingly enough—or more to the point, it didn’t occur to her to resist—as he took her back to that archway. She was trying to figure out how to breathe in a way that she didn’t set off that same chain of sensation—collar, cuffs, clamps, and ass.
And her greedy, impossible clit.
Though there was so much noise inside her that, after a moment, she couldn’t separate one sensation from another. It was too complicated to pull one strand from the next.
There was nothing but that noise, everywhere.
Except him.
Conrad was the center of everything, still and strong. Stern. Unmovable.
Rory focused on him. She looked at him in that huge mirror. His dark blond head to the black clothes he wore that made him look dark and dangerous, but not nearly as much as he really was. The way the floor seemed to rise to meet him where other men simply stood. The more she centered herself on him, the more she felt less like one great cacophony.
The more she felt, instead, like she was in a kind of mountain pass with noise on all sides, but Conrad there as the horizon.
And the more she concentrated on him like the sky, the more she felt all the noise...combine. Into the greedy pulse in her clit, as if all the other things—the pain and the noise, the fear and the delight—was fuel for it.
It was only when he pulled those chains closer, the ones she’d been doing her best to forget, that Rory realized she hadn’t bothered to look at herself yet. She’d only been studying Conrad in that reflection.
She looked...like an extraordinary mess. Her face was red and blotchy. Her eyes were swollen. But that collar around her neck kept her chin up, and there was something about that, about the way it pressed against her throat, that streaked straight through her, to pool in her pussy. Her breasts looked obscene, her brown nipples clamped tight, and the more she concentrated on them the more the jagged edges of the clamps seem to dig in.
But then it all got worse, because Conrad was attaching the delicate little chain between the clamps to those chains. And then pulling on the slack until she yelped.
And when his gaze returned to hers, she felt it like another smack against her ass. Except this time, it seemed to hit her everywhere.
“Perfect,” he said, looking as if he was enjoying himself thoroughly.
He left her standing there, and she watched in the mirror as he went behind her and picked up a chair with a high back. She began to breathe, sharp and heavy, as he set that chair up in front of her. He eyed the chains again and made some adjustments.
“You’re doing very well, little one,” he told her as he worked. “Now you get your reward. There’ll be pain, of course, but I think you’ll find that as it mixes with pleasure, it creates its own cocktail. I suspect you will find it addictive.”
She was afraid she already did and, for the first time, was glad that she wasn’t allowed to talk and tell him so. Conrad finished with the chains and moved to her face. He studied her expression, then wiped the water from beneath her eyes.
It amazed her how much she craved his touch. How the tenderness seemed to mix itself up with a dull ache in her nipples. How it turned into something molten as it sank into her pussy and made her clit seem to swell.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said, so stern, so commanding. “If I want you to do something, I’ll tell you. Unless I do, assume that everything is precisely as I want it to be. I don’t want you to help. I don’t want you to do anything at all but surrender yourself into my hands. Can you do that?”
Rory didn’t know the answer to that. She didn’t know what he was talking about—which she assumed, at this point, was part of why he’d said it. She didn’t know anything, but she knew that there was really only one response.
Because the idea of surrender didn’t make her want to cry any longer.
“Yes, Sir,” she said, and whatever uncertainty there was inside her, it seemed to flip over into something like joy when his mouth crooked in one corner.
“Good girl,” he said.
And then his navy blue gaze was all fire.
He moved her back a few steps, bringing the chair with him. She stood there, aware of the chains connecting her to the ceiling, but not sure why. Conrad straddled the chair, facing her.
Then, his gaze hard on hers, he unzipped his trousers.
And Rory thought she had never been so excited for a glimpse of a man’s cock in all her life.
But his took her breath away.
Because he was huge.
He held her gaze while he stroked himself, grabbing his own thick length in his fist. The way he moved that fist made her think that he was doing nothing so much as preparing yet another tool to torture and tempt her.
Rory’s mouth watered.
Conrad reache
d into his back pocket and pulled out a condom packet, and then she watched him roll a condom into place with the same brutal efficiency.
She couldn’t quite understand why watching this was charging around inside her, more thrilling than it should have been. When it was just a cock. A condom.
But then again, it wasn’t just anything. It was Conrad.
He sat down in the chair, then pulled her over him. So that, if her arms had been free, she could have gripped the back of the chair as he settled her down on his lap.
But as he pulled her down to him, she felt the resistance from the chains attached to her nipple clamps. The bite. She sucked in a breath.
Conrad’s eyes blazed. His hard, wicked hands held her hips and positioned her where he wanted her, so that she could feel the whisper of his cockhead against the outer lips of her pussy.
“Stop helping,” he ordered her, and even with his cock out, clearly about to enter her, he sounded...exactly the same. Cool. Remote.
She shuddered.
“You’re a fuck toy, Rory,” he said, the way other men might read love poetry. “You’re a tight, hot pussy I’m going to use to get myself off. You don’t have to do anything at all but take it.”
Those words tumbled through her, leaving marks she couldn’t identify. They could have been wounds, badges of honor, or new tattoos she would wear proudly—but all of them felt like fire. Conrad gripped her, his fingers digging into her ass, and then he slammed her down onto his cock. Sheathing himself fully in one hard thrust.
Rory came in a delicious, almost terrifying rush.
But that didn’t stop him. He lifted her and then he slammed her down again.
Over and over.
That first orgasm was vicious, thorough. It about knocked her out, but there was too much happening for her to let that happen, to fully fall off that edge.
Every time he slammed her down hard, he buried his cock completely inside of her, and each time he was almost too big. So big, she thought it might have hurt if she hadn’t been quite as wet as she was. The fact that he had neither checked, nor made certain, made something thorny and bright unfurl inside of her.
And some part of her wished it had hurt a little, so she could revel in that.
He was absolutely true to his word. Conrad held her tightly and levered her up and down, over and over, creating the rhythm he wanted.
The truth was that Rory couldn’t have helped if she’d wanted to. Her toes touched the floor, but they had no purchase because he kept lifting her up and slamming her down as he pleased.
And those chains were demonic.
Because every time he was thrust fully inside her, the chains from the ceiling tugged on her nipples. Just enough to make those clamps bite at her, as if they were new.
Her wrists were still bound behind her back, so she was nothing but an offering to him. A fuck toy, as he’d said, and the more those words careened around inside her, the more she felt them like his mouth on her clit.
Her breasts were thrust forward in this position and the way he was holding her, arching her back, she could do absolutely nothing but feel the twin wallop of his cock so deep inside her and that bright tension in her nipples.
The second time she came, she screamed.
But Conrad kept going, fucking her deep and hard, giving no quarter.
His eyes were so dark and that stern expression had given way to pure intensity.
His fingers dug deep into her ass cheeks, pulling them apart as he lifted and dropped her, and that added to it. A wicked little stretch where she least expected it, and somewhere in there, between all those points of pain and the relentless onslaught of wild orgasms, the pressure at her throat and her bound arms, the way her toes kissed the floor but never held, Rory felt herself...bloom.
It was almost as if she lost track of herself, even though she had never been more aware of every square inch of her body than she was now.
She was more aware of Conrad. His cock like a weapon, like a blessing, hard and huge and something like magic as he worked it in and out of her, never in any kind of rhythm that she could anticipate. Never anything she could get used to.
And there was a point at which she could no longer tell if she was coming or about to come. It was all coming, it seemed to her, and something far better and brighter than a mere orgasm.
The more she simply let it happen, the more it happened. The more she seemed to feel herself spin out and fall back into all the ways he held her—collar and cuffs, clamps and his cock, the more she felt like herself.
But when she thought of herself, she thought of him. As if he amplified her. Enhanced her. As if in that place where his cock was too deeply buried in her and she was too wide-open to bear, they were the same.
Rory came again at that thought, in a bright, delirious wave of forever, and then he held her there. He kept her down hard on his cock, then held her there while she jerked and moaned. Something flashed, dark and wicked, over his austere, beautiful face.
And then she felt him tug at those clamps. But this time, he removed them. She opened her mouth to thank him, but that was when a new, different kind of searing pain shot through her, burning up from her nipples, connecting to all the other sensations inside her, and hurtling her into a deeper, harder abyss.
“That’s the blood coming back,” Conrad told her, his voice still completely unaffected by what he was doing, which only made the way she was falling apart worse.
Or better.
And then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her cuffed hands to the small of her back. He held her and he fucked her, hard, so that everything was that pain, and everything was pleasure, and she was nothing but a lush streak of sensation, existing only for every deep, life-altering stroke of his cock.
Rory thought that part lasted forever.
She wanted it to.
And when Conrad finally came, she joined him once more. Then she felt herself disappear completely, with the oddest, strangest notion that she had never been more desired. Or more beautiful. Or more appreciated.
Or more inexplicably safe than she was in his arms.
CHAPTER NINE
CONRAD FELT SOMETHING LIKE...shaken.
Rory was slumped in his lap, her head against his shoulder. He was still deep inside her, and there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to simply stay right there.
Forever, something in him whispered.
But that was foolish. He almost laughed, because that was the response of the newbie that she was, not the seasoned master he’d been for years.
It was endorphins, he lectured himself. Not emotions.
He should know the difference.
Conrad pushed away the clamps and the chains that still dangled down around them, though they were no longer connected to her flesh. Then he angled Rory back, so he could check the state of things. Of her.
Her eyes were closed and her lips parted, but her color was good. When he reached down to test her nipples, she murmured something, but he couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or protest—both, perhaps, at this point. She should have been good and sensitive.
He lifted her off him, then switched places with her to deposit her in the chair. He dealt with the condom, then tucked himself away. And when he turned back, he took a moment, because his chest tightened almost unbearably at the sight of her.
Conrad had thought she was remarkably pretty when he’d first seen her, standing in his chapel, surrounded by his equipment—even though she shouldn’t have been in that room. But now she was so much more than that. She was naked, save for the cuffs that she held to one side, that still pushed her breasts forward as she lolled there in the chair. And that play collar around her neck like his hand.
Like a brand.
Like a wish, something in him offered.
He ignored that. Or t
ried.
He squatted down next to the chair, and had the uncharacteristic urge to push her hair back from her face when it didn’t need any rearranging, but he didn’t. Because somehow that felt tender in a way he never was in these moments, and he didn’t think it would be wise to follow that urge to its conclusion. He released her hands instead, pulling her wrists in front of her so he could rub them and make sure that her circulation was as it should be. Because his duty to her was not about his feelings here. Her physical well-being came first.
“Any numbness?” he asked her, his voice quieter than before.
She murmured something vaguely negative, her head still lolling back against the chair and her eyes still shut.
And his cock stirred all over again at the sight of her in nothing but a collar he’d put on her.
Stop, he told himself.
He made himself remove the collar, and then he stroked her neck as well. He felt for her pulse, making certain that while she was likely depleted after the intensity of the scene, that was all she was. When he was satisfied, he stood and scooped her up into his arms.
And the tight feeling in his chest intensified as she nestled into him, one hand coming up to rest just over his heart.
He was sure she could feel it kicking. Hard.
Conrad carried her through the living room, grabbing a throw from the back of an armchair as he went, then continuing straight on through the French doors and out into his garden.
The night was cooler than before, so he draped the throw over her as he carried her down the stairs, taking her beneath the thick canopy of trees that protected them both from prying eyes and the buildings looming overhead. He took her over to his gazebo, where a hot tub waited and comfortable, cozy chairs and chaises ringed it. He settled her on a chaise, tucking the throw around her.
Her eyes stayed shut, so Conrad tended to the practicalities. He made sure the water was bubbling hot. He checked her vitals once again, then left her for a moment. He returned with a glass of water and a small plate with a selection of sweet and salty snacks, placed them down on the table beside her, and picked her up again. Then he settled them both down on that chaise, with her resting against his chest, between his legs, and cuddled up warm and safe.
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