Crowne Rules

by Reiss, CD

  “Yes means my rules,” he said into my neck and waited.

  “Yes,” I answered, facing the taunt of the dirty dishes. Was he about to make me do chores again? Would he make me love it?

  “Rule one.” With efficient languor, he pulled up my shirt to expose my bra. “You’re in this house until morning, and as long as you’re in this house, you are mine.”

  He was careful not to touch me too much—the full body press of our axe-handling lesson had been replaced by the torture of his fingertips feeling under my arms, along the band of my bra to discover its front clasp.

  “You do exactly what I tell you to do. You do only what I tell you to do. If you agree, you may nod.”

  I nodded

  “Good girl.” He unhooked the bra, and I fell out of the soft fabric. He pulled the bra behind me and maneuvered my arms with it, using the straps to tie them together.

  He paused, giving me a moment to see my reflection in the glass doors. The rain had picked up again, but it did nothing to obscure my red cheeks and open mouth or the yellow T-shirt folded up to my neck and my breasts on display. I was exposed, vulnerable, a body made for sex—ribs heaving with every breath—yet nothing I saw truly revealed how much I needed to hand over control to this man right now.

  Our eyes met in the reflection.

  He saw every one of my thoughts and approved.

  “Turn around,” he said, more as preparation than command, because he took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him, pulling my body against his so I could melt against him, basking in his solid heat and strength, before kissing me.

  His mouth was a vandal, kicking the door open and wrecking the place, corner to corner. I opened my jaw for him, letting him take and take and take while my bound arms couldn’t take anything back. His mouth abandoned mine, and I was left with my jaw slack, wanting more so badly that when he leaned into me, my eyes closed with anticipation, but he reached behind me and swept our dinner plates off the table and onto the floor with a clatter and crash. The decanter shattered on impact, but he was kissing me again, and the blood in my veins was louder, a percussive crescendo of desire. The peaks of my nipples rubbed against the cloth of his shirt, and I felt a rush of heat and shame that I was so exposed while he was still armored in clothing.

  Pulling away again, Dante trailed his hands down my body, outlining every curve with that same unbearable sense of precision and control. When he found the hem of my skirt, he yanked it up and put one palm flat against the damp strip of fabric between my legs, offering just enough pressure to keep me from crying but not enough for anything else.

  “Hold still,” he reminded me before pulling down my underwear. “Step out.” When I got out of them, he gripped my hips and said, “Good girl.”

  Then he hoisted me onto the table. I leaned back on my bound arms.

  “Are you comfortable?” He palmed my knees, hooking his fingers under them.

  “Not really,” I said as he lifted my legs. “But—”

  I’m fine with it.

  The second half of the sentence was lost when he spread my knees apart, and a thick bolt of electric heat shot between my legs. When—still holding my legs open—he looked directly at the throbbing sex there, my whole body leaned on my arms and canted toward him.

  “Be still,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. If you want it badly enough, you’ll learn.” His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. “And you do.”

  “I do.”

  “You want what?” He placed my heels on the edge of the table.

  “Everything.”

  “That’s a lot.” With my feet leveraged, he opened my legs again.

  “Everything you want to give. That’s what I want.”

  He pulled a chair in front of me, and he sat and eyed me over the stretched hem of my skirt, then he slid his hands along the insides of my thighs, chasing the image away.

  “That’s still a lot, my perfect little slut…” His fingers slid along my seam and entered me. I groaned. “Hush. Keep your legs open. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  What kind of question was that?

  I knew when I felt a wet sting of pain followed by an explosion of pleasure. He’d slapped me there. Right there. My knees had tried to close, but he pulled them apart.

  “Should I stop?”

  “Please,” I begged. “Do it again.”

  “Keep your legs open for me, and I’ll do it three more times.”

  He waited. It was obvious he should go on, but he sat there, waiting for the heavens to open or a herd of wild animals or what, I didn’t even know.

  “You want me to beg?”

  “I want consent.”

  “I consent. Don’t stop. Yes, a hundred times.”

  Thank God he didn’t need more than that. He smacked again, and I tried to keep my legs open for the pain to trade more pleasure. Twice more, harder each time and each time harder to keep my knees apart, until my back arched and I felt like a woman going blind.

  Which I was because my head was thrown back and my eyes were closed. So, when his tongue soothed my clit, my brain lagged a millisecond behind what he was doing, compressing all the pleasure into a single moment. He worked me with his mouth and fingers, but he didn’t make me wait too long, ruthlessly stretching me with three fingers while gently sucking my nub, making my back arch with an orgasm before I could warn him.

  When it was done, my legs flopped open without trouble.

  “Wow,” I said.

  He came behind me, pushed me to sitting, and released my arms before pulling my shirt over my head. “Shake them out,” he said, rubbing my arms. “Get the blood flowing.”

  “They’re fine.” When he walked around the table, I looked at him. “Thanks for that.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Before I could reply, he picked me up, throwing me over his shoulder like a caveman. Carrying me to the bedroom, he took advantage of my exposed ass by slapping it with a thwack and a burning sting that wasn’t punishment for misplaced commas, but a reward for being his whore for the night.

  I didn’t just allow it—I allowed myself to love it for one more night.

  “Do you ever take your clothes off when you fuck?” I asked from behind him. “Or is it, like, your cock is so magnificent that that’s all anyone’s allowed to see? Would seeing you totally naked blind me? Is that why you’ve still got all your buttons buttoned?”

  He slapped my ass so hard I yelped.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He kicked open the door to his room and threw me on the bed, skirt hiked, tits out, underwear long gone. He pulled the skirt down my legs and tossed it aside. Now I was completely naked, sprawled on the bed with him standing over me with that monster rod pushing against his pants. He laid his hands on my knees.

  “When you’re here and we’re playing”—he pushed my knees apart, exposing me again—“you offer yourself. Always.” He looked between my legs. “Do you understand the rule?”

  “Yes,” I squeaked. He took his hands away, and I left my legs open for him.

  “I saw birth control pills in your bag,” he said, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Are you taking them?” He opened his shirt efficiently and quickly, shrugging it off as if he didn’t realize what exposing the perfection underneath did to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you were letting that man fuck you without a condom while he was fucking his wife.”

  I bristled a little, and I had a split second to choose between being offended or answering his assertion. Discount Mandy would have spat back at him, but Couture Mandy didn’t need to be liked on anyone else’s terms. Couture Mandy just wanted to fuck.

  “Yes,” I said. “But he wasn’t fucking his wife.”

  Dante smirked and undid the button and zipper on his pants, extending the thin line of hair that started at his navel a few inches. “That�
�s what they all say.”

  He was right, of course, but so was I, and I had no interest in arguing.

  “Wrap it up or don’t.” I laid back, put my hands inside my thighs, and spread myself open for him. “Just fuck me with it.”

  I didn’t usually act like this in bed, but for one night, I could be a little more wanton. A little slutty. A little of what I was accused of being.

  He pushed down his pants and underwear at the same time, hiding his face so I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.

  Couture Mandy didn’t care if she was liked, but if you’re going to fuck a guy, everybody should enjoy themselves.

  When he picked his face up and stood, he was fully naked and magnificently erect. I’d had his dick in my mouth, but the sheer size of him stunned me again. For a moment, I let my hands go slack in appreciation, and he tsked.

  “Open it for me again.”

  So, he did like it. Excellent.

  “Tell me,” he said as he reached into a drawer. “What do you want me to do to you?”

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  “That’s it?” He extracted a condom and ripped the package open with his teeth.

  That was it for the moment, but he was challenging me to ask for more.

  “I want…” I looked at the ceiling because the sight of his hand on his cock as he slid the condom on was too hot for coherence. “I want you to fuck this pussy hard and deep.”

  He crawled over me, his body between me and the world, his face taking up my entire vision. “Not bad, amea.”

  He kissed me again, teasing my lips with his tongue, using his free hand to urge my hips up and against him, where my shape clicked flush with his. Hard pressed soft. Rigid slid along wet. I reached down to guide him in, but he grabbed my hands and pinned them over my head.

  “Did I do it wrong?” I gasped.

  “You forgot to beg.” He pushed along the length of me, every bump and vein a sparking tease.

  “Fuck me, Goddamnit!” I strained my arms against his hands, but he only increased the pressure.

  “Not even a ‘please’ for me?”

  “Now. Fuck me right now.”

  “Or?”

  I wasn’t going to threaten to get up and walk out because getting off this bed unfucked wasn’t an option. I was soaked and spread under his endless, impassive gaze while his dick lay on my belly like a threat of pain and pleasure.

  “Or nothing,” I said through my teeth. “Fuck me however you want. Fuck me slow. Fuck me fast. Stick your cock wherever you want—just do it. I want it. I want it.”

  “Good girl,” he murmured.

  Then he pressed into me, the pressure steady and relentless, stretching me to accept him—and yes, it hurt, but it was so good all I could do was bury my face in his neck and try to hang on. I had never felt anything like it before, this fullness, a sensation so filthy, scraping every nerve ending raw, driving me to the end of myself, where all I could do was try not to scream.

  “You ready to take all of it?” he said with his lips against my cheek.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a ‘please’ for me?” I felt him smiling.

  He was going to win.

  “Please.”

  “Are you mine to use tonight?”

  “I’m your whore.” I tried to move to get him deeper, but he wouldn’t play. “I’m your toy. Anything you want. Take it. Use me. Please,” I begged down to a whisper. “Please.”

  “Good girl.”

  With a purposeful thrust, he buried himself inside me, his body pushing on my clit. My arms were jelly above my head even after he let them go, and I felt myself sinking into a helpless tremble. He stopped, and I opened my eyes, wondering if he was going to make me beg for him again, but his expression probed, checking to see if I was all right as he slid partway out.

  “Yes,” I said with a nod, answering a question he didn’t need words to ask.

  He thrust into me, as deep as possible in one stroke, fucking me with a rhythm that expressed not just his utter self-control and power over me, but his need to fulfill my desires as if he knew them already.

  I released even the idea of my own desire, letting him use me exactly the way he wanted. I felt my orgasm approaching, and it was the only thing I could focus on: the fat head of Dante’s dick splitting me open as the length of him rubbed my clit, the way my rocking hips fell into a tidal cadence I created and he controlled.

  He must have sensed I was getting close, because he pulled me up and repositioned me on top while he crouched with his knees under him so though I was above, I was off balance and he was the top.

  “You need to come.” He tugged my hair hard enough to pull my head back, baring my neck to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Then fuck me until you do,” he growled, giving my hair one last yank before letting go. He leaned on his arms with me impaled on his dick, waiting for me to get it.

  He was giving me control over my orgasm, and by doing that, he totally controlled me.

  “Go,” he said with a jerk of his hips. “Now.”

  “Okay.” I had to hear myself say it.

  I was going to use him and be his little whore at the same time. Moving up, I angled myself for maximum contact and slid down him, groaning at how perfect it felt.

  Dante grabbed my breast, pinching the nipple until it got a beautiful, agonizing shock that stirred me to move faster against him, breathing in bursts of effort. I was bowstring tight, unable to release the arrow.

  “Come,” he said.

  But the need to keep my balance and move with him was too distracting. “I can’t. I never come on top.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He held me up, pushing me into him so deep it hurt, taking just enough control to keep us joined. “Come like my slut.”

  At his command, the bowstring snapped, and I was thrown a thousand feet into darkness but tied to his cock as it throbbed against my own pulsing. From the other side of my orgasm, I heard him groan and knew that, even then, he was anchoring me.

  When I washed ashore a few moments later, he was still rock hard inside me, sliding his dick in and out with slow, steady pressure as he finished.

  I whined a little bit when he pulled out. Feeling sore, used, and satisfied, I rolled onto my back and spread my arms as if I’d died. When his face darkened, I followed his gaze to the still-fresh burns on my hand. I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of myself—after all his obsessive concern for that thing, my pussy had at least temporarily managed to distract him.

  When he spread the fingers open for inspection, I said, “I’m fine, I swear.”

  “Hm.”

  Lightning flashed through the patio doors, then over the pit-pat of rain came faraway thunder.

  “What if I want to do something before I leave?” I closed my fist so he couldn’t get sidetracked. We only had a few more hours, and I wasn’t dead yet.

  “What do you want to do, amea?” His gaze roved over my body with none of his usual clinical detachment.

  “What I want,” I breathed, “is to waste some fucking water.”

  His eyes flicked back and forth over mine as if he were reading a book, then he laughed. “You want a bath?”

  “Please. You can scrub me clean, then fuck me dirty.”

  He laughed as if it was becoming a habit. “All right,” he said, rolling off the bed. “But I’m holding you to that.”

  He grabbed my ankles and yanked me to the edge of the bed before pulling me to a standing position. My knees were still a little wobbly, so he guided me to the bathroom, where I pushed him away to turn on the water as he leaned against the vanity with his arms crossed.

  “I like it super hot,” I said, smacking his thigh so I could reach the cabinet. “I hope you can take it. Ah!” I found the bath bombs and stood up with two. “These were really nice before you busted in.”

  Plop, plop. I tossed them into the steaming water, and he grabbed me, pulling me into him.


  He was hard again.

  “How high are you filling that?”

  “All. The. Way.”

  “You’re going to pay for every inch.”

  He kissed me, and with that, the bathroom ceiling gave way, drenching us in stale rainwater and soggy plaster.

  Chapter 19

  DANTE

  When the ceiling fell, I expected her to react with horror and disgust. Maybe feign an injury or otherwise turn the event into a drama starring Amanda Bettencourt as the Inconvenienced Socialite whose Big Night of Subbing for Orgasms was cruelly cut short by The Evil Weather and This Shitty House.

  But that’s not what happened.

  After I moved her out of the way of the thinning stream, she looked up, naked, plaster chips stuck to her shoulders and tits like slow-moving shrapnel, dirty water dripping down her belly, and she laughed.

  “This is funny?” I said, suddenly the aggrieved one.

  “No.” She took her eyes off the almond-shaped hole in the ceiling. “I mean, yes.” She flicked a plaster chip off my shoulder. “I think if we ever got married, this house would just collapse in on itself.”

  “Good thing I’m never getting married,” I replied before she barely got out the last syllable.

  “Good thing.” She plucked off a paint chip that had stuck to my chest with a familiar tenderness I was a little too comfortable with.

  She… me… us? Whoever was responsible for whatever was happening here didn’t matter. The split second of comfort I’d felt was a drug, and I wasn’t interested in this addiction.

  “We should clean this up,” she said, shutting off the tub. It was suddenly too quiet, and I heard the splash of the leak on the tiles, which had thinned to the width of a pencil.

  “That’s not going to stop until the rain does.”

  “And it’s going to ruin the floor.” She looked up with me and crossed her arms over her chest—not to cover it but to posture seriousness—and again I found myself a little too comfortable with her for my own comfort.

  “If we put a bucket or a pot or whatever under it, it’s just going to get full in an hour,” she said.