Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  Oh God, in that moment, she wanted everything. His spanking, his kiss, the taste of his come on her tongue, the feel of his cock in her mouth and buried high in her pussy.

  “Do as I say or suffer the consequences.” His voice thrummed deep inside her.

  Her throat was parched, but she managed to say, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  Then there was dead air.

  She would do exactly as he ordered. She would be mad by tomorrow evening, willing to do anything. Which, she was sure, was exactly what he intended.

  But if she didn’t have Van with her? Her greatest fear was that instead of punishing her deliciously, Mr. Masters would simply send her home. Well, she couldn’t have that.

  Natalie hit Van’s speed dial again. She hadn’t deleted the number yet. He still didn’t answer. This time she didn’t care where he was. She left her own demanding message.

  “If you want back in my good graces, you will be at this address at nine o’clock tomorrow night.” She rattled off Lincoln’s address. Van could map it on the Internet. “Be prepared to let me do exactly what I saw you doing in your apartment.” She paused, thinking, calculating. “In fact, you should be prepared to do anything I ask.” Her next pause was for ominous effect. “Absolutely anything.”

  Punching the End button gave her a surge of power. He would be at her mercy.

  And she would be at Mr. Masters’ mercy.

  Natalie could barely wait for tomorrow evening.

  *

  Thank God. Van had left a message while she was in the shower. Yes, he’d said in a fast, eager voice, he’d be there.

  Mr. Masters had said he would dress her appropriately when she arrived, but Natalie still spent an hour trying on outfit after outfit. Her bedroom looked like a cyclone had blown through. She figured he’d put her in tight leather since she’d described Van’s Mistress Divine’s getup. She’d feel fat and unattractive, but she certainly wouldn’t tell him that, dressing in whatever he chose like the good girl she was.

  She wasn’t usually messy, but she was so on edge she couldn’t think straight. Her pussy throbbed. In five more minutes, she had to lie down on that bed and touch herself again, bring herself right to the precipice without falling off. She was afraid her body would suddenly take over and do it on its own, she was that crazed.

  The two calls from Lincoln today, checking to make sure she was following instructions, hadn’t helped. Or, from another perspective, they’d done exactly what he’d intended, turned her into liquid fire.

  In the end, she chose a camisole that bared her shoulders and a long skirt with a scalloped hem, nothing over-the-top, but something she considered too sexy for work. She complemented the ensemble with five-inch platform sandals. They were too tall for a date with Van, but perfect for Mr. Masters.

  Dressing for a man was foreplay, something she’d never cottoned onto before. Her pussy was wet, her nipples hard, her clitoris throbbing. Okay, she’d been that way since last night, it just seemed more the closer the appointed hour became.

  About to leave, she stopped, drew in a breath, then smiled to herself and lifted the skirt to remove her panties. Mr. Masters had liked that yesterday.

  It struck her once she’d pulled onto the freeway that all her preparation had been with her boss in mind, not Van. She refused to feel guilty about it.

  It was still light as she headed into the mountains, the scenery beautiful, the redwoods majestic. What she wouldn’t give to live in a place like this rather than surrounded by concrete and mini-malls, but even with the credit crunch and the drop in housing prices, the homes up here were still over the million-dollar mark. She found his mailbox at the end of a long, winding downhill driveway. The vegetation was natural, not manicured. The house’s footprint had simply been carved out of the forest, and painted a slate green, the home fit in like part of the landscape. A low-slung bungalow perched on the side of the mountain—it had been built on stilts—the path to the front door was a wooden bridge over the sloping hillside.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the bell, her nerves kicking into high gear. She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this. Yet she’d never considered canceling the deal.

  He wore black jeans and a tight black T-shirt. She’d always admired him in suit and tie, but in casual black, the impact was devastating. She was glad for it because he’d morphed from her boss Mr. Masters to hot, sexy Lincoln.

  Her mouth dried up. Her body was a mass of tingles as if all her limbs had gone to sleep at once, coming back to life just looking at him. Like Sleeping Beauty receiving her kiss.

  “Did you follow my instructions, touching but not coming?”

  “Yes, sir.” She was so wet, she was afraid she’d left a mark on her skirt.

  “Good girl.” He smiled, sweeping his hand in invitation. “Your wine,” he said, handing her a glass the moment her shoes hit the marble foyer.

  He’d emailed about that, too, asking her preference. She’d said sweet and fruity. He’d also requested her shoe size.

  “Sip.” He tapped the stem of her glass, taking her small purse from her hands and laying it on the front hall table.

  Oh, the wine was good. Sweet, heady, cool, delicious. Just the way she knew he would taste. She didn’t ask what it was. She knew she’d never be able to afford it. “I like it.”

  He bowed slightly, accepting her praise, then stepped back to peruse her top and skirt. “I never knew you had such lickable shoulders, Miss Beaumonde.”

  Her face flushed with his compliment.

  “This way.” Taking her hand, he brought her down into the living room. His fingers warm and slightly rough, his touch ignited a flame in her belly. The front of the house had been deceptive in that it appeared to be all one level, yet the three steps down allowed for an eighteen-foot open-beamed ceiling and an amazing view through floor-to-ceiling windows.

  She had an image of herself, hands on the glass, naked, spread-eagled, Mr. Masters taking her from behind. She almost sloshed her wine over the rim. “Your house is very nice.”

  “I’m glad it meets with your approval.” Then he took her hand once more and led her down a hall. “The best is yet to come.” The corridor ended at a set of circular wrought-iron stairs. At the bottom, he swept out a hand. “Welcome to my dungeon.” The slightest trace of laughter laced his voice.

  “Oh my.” She’d been expecting manacles attached to the walls, chains hanging from the ceiling, and all manner of sexual torture devices. This was more like a rumpus room. There were no windows, but the last of the day’s sunlight streamed in through a row of skylights above the outside wall. The room extended beyond the upper floor, an addition perhaps. Of course. Mr. Masters surely had the room built to his specifications. Dark wood paneled the walls with a flat panel TV hanging like a painting. Sofa and chairs surrounded a coffee table. Many of the furnishings had dual or dubious uses: a futon bed, a padded folding table like a masseuse would utilize, sturdy rings screwed into the hardwood floor, and two long ballet bars protruding from the wall, one waist level, the other reachable if she stretched her arms.

  Her blood raced through her veins so loudly she couldn’t hear a thing.

  Mr. Masters crooked his finger, signaling her to follow, and slid open a cabinet door to reveal various devices. Enthralled, Natalie drifted closer, setting her wineglass on the narrow table that stretched beneath the length of the cupboard. She perused the contents. One entire shelf was filled with dildos and vibrators, from glass to rubber to silicon and plastic, some with handles, suctions cups, even dual heads. The size and variety boggled her mind. Handcuffs dangled from hooks. There were little leather straps and donut-shaped rings, metal rods with nylon cuffs attached to the ends, ropes, scarves, blindfolds, paddles, and so much more.

  Her knees began to wobble.

  “What would you like to use on your boyfriend?”

  She jumped, squeaked, not realizing he was only a breath away. “Van. His name is V
an,” she murmured.

  “You will call him slave.”

  She jerked her head to look at him. A light gleamed in his eyes; a naughty smile creased his lips. She felt herself drowning in his dark gaze.

  “You must act the part, Miss Beaumonde, and choose your weapons appropriately.”

  Lord. She was actually going to do this for him. Her skin heated, her breath quickened.

  “You are not backing out now, Miss Beaumonde. I can’t allow that.”

  She gulped, swallowed. “I don’t want to back out.” She’d come this far. She wanted what he offered. God help her, she needed it.

  He smoothed a hand down her arm, leaving tingles and goose bumps in his wake. “Then let us choose your tools for the evening. You’ll need a dildo.”

  She laughed, feeling the slightest edge of hysteria in it. “There’s too many to choose from.”

  He laid a black silicon dual-headed toy in her hand. “How about this one?” His voice seduced her. His hand, wrapped around hers on the smaller dildo head, mesmerized her. “Does it feel good in your grip?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, losing herself in his closeness.

  He put his lips to her ear. “Can you fuck a man with it?”

  She gasped, a thrill shooting straight to her center, whether from his breath against her ear or the image his words evoked, she couldn’t say. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He set the dildo on the long-legged table beneath the cabinet, and she realized it was there as some sort of staging area. Then he pulled down a leather ring with snaps. “Cock ring. We don’t want him coming until we’re ready.”

  Oh God, she was ready, so ready, her pulse a furious rush, her heart a fast beat, her pussy drenched and needy.

  He held up one of the bars with the cuffs attached. “Shall we use a spreader bar to force his legs apart?”

  We. She loved the way that sounded. “Yes.” Then she realized he was doing all the choosing. She pried loose a large cock with a suction cup. “Will this stick to the padding?” she asked, pointing to the masseuse’s table folded against the wall.

  He smiled with a wicked glint. “There’s a metal edge at one end. So you want him up high?”

  “I want to stand.” To be able to walk around Van, view him from every angle, to maximize his submission and humiliation. Oh yeah, she could really get into this.

  Mr. Masters held up a blindfold. “Rob him of sight?”

  Natalie felt her own wicked smile grow. “No. I want him to see everything that’s being done to him.”

  He stroked her cheek. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

  And again, his look and touch stole her breath.

  “Time to dress you.” He stepped back. “Take off your clothes.”

  A wave of anxiety washed through her. “In front of you?”

  He shook his head slowly as if to a silly child. “Yes. In front of me. Take it all off. Every last stitch.”

  She trembled under his gaze. Swallowing hurt. He’d bared her butt and pussy. It was completely different from every last stitch.

  “Miss Beaumonde” was all he said.

  She slipped out of her platform sandals, feeling petite next to him without the extra height. Grabbing the hem of her camisole, she pulled it over her head, her hair falling around her shoulders.

  “Very nice,” he murmured, one side of his mouth crooked appreciatively.

  Her skin warmed. Her breasts didn’t make her self-conscious, but she had the worst to go, her tummy. She hated it. Pursing her lips, she pulled the skirt’s tie and pushed the waistband over her hips. Letting it fall, she stepped out of the material pooled at her feet and held her breath.

  “Holy fuck.” His voice dripped with awe. “Look at me.”

  She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until she heard his words. When she met his gaze, her pulse raced. His dark eyes were somehow gentler, tracing her curves, from throat to breasts, then over her rounded belly and trimmed mound.

  “You’re a goddess, Miss Beaumonde.”

  Her hands went automatically to her stomach. “Thank you.” She wasn’t used to compliments, didn’t know quite how to react. Or if he even meant it.

  Moving in on her, he covered her hand, his pinkie grazing her skin. Slipping his other hand beneath the fall of hair at her nape, he brought his lips to her temple. “The scent of your arousal is like perfume.”

  He had such a way with words. She didn’t even care if this was something he’d said and done a million times.

  “Touch yourself for me. Now.”

  So close, he heated her through, made her burn, compelled her. Trailing her hand down her belly, she tipped her head to look at him. His gaze intent, focused, his nostrils flared, he watched her fingers delve into the cleft of her pussy.

  “Oh what you do to me,” he whispered against her skin. “How wet are you?”

  She opened her mouth, found her throat parched, and swallowed. It wasn’t so much her own touch as his voice in thrall. Of her. “Very wet,” she told him.

  “You smell sweet and hot and spicy.” He raised her hand to his nose, closed his eyes, drew in her scent, the act so sensual, a rush of moisture coated her pussy. “I remember how sweet you taste,” he said, almost to himself. Then he sucked her finger—the one she’d touched herself with—into his mouth.

  He groaned, a sound so erotic she felt it go to her head like a long sip of sweet wine.

  He tipped her chin, meeting her gaze. “I don’t believe I can let this night end without fucking you, Miss Beaumonde.”

  She shivered, her heart fluttering.

  “Are you going to be all right with that?”

  All right? The way he made her feel inside and out, his touch, his male scent, his compliments, she was torn in two, wanting it all so badly she couldn’t breathe, yet remembering Van and why this night was happening in the first place.

  “Mr. Masters—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “The choice will always be yours. But you need to know what you do to me.” He laid her hand over his cock. His very hard, very large cock.

  Using her palm, he rubbed himself, pressing her close. “That’s for you, Miss Beaumonde. That’s how badly I want you. I’ve imagined you in my bed for a long, long time.”

  No man had ever made her feel this way. She’d always been the efficient Miss Beaumonde, good at her job. Even she hadn’t known how badly she needed to be a beautiful, desirable woman as well. Not until she’d seen Van at Mistress Divine’s mercy, then Mr. Masters had taken his hand to her fanny.

  She was in danger of giving him anything he wanted.

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  The things this young woman did to him couldn’t be defined or explained. His need was simply there, undeniable, be it that he’d craved her for a year or because her vulnerability appealed to him or that he had a desire to cast the shadows from her gaze and show her what a sexy creature she was.

  Reasons were unnecessary. She made his heart race, bringing to life every sense; the world was brighter, more focused, intense. He wanted her pleasure completely.

  Lincoln pushed a wall panel and a hidden closet door popped open. He withdrew the selections he’d purchased earlier in the day and placed her folded skirt and top on the bureau tucked inside the cubby.

  He turned to find Natalie once again covering herself with her hands. Ineffectually of course. He had no clue how she could be unaware of her allure. But then, in his experience, most women, no matter how close to perfection, always managed to find some flaw. If he did nothing else tonight, he would prove to her how utterly gorgeous and desirable she was.

  “This is what you will wear.” He laid out the pleated skirt and plain white blouse on the sofa, then the undergarments, and finally the shoes and socks.

  She stood at attention, feet together, eyes wide, a slight lift to her lips. “A schoolgirl uniform?”

  “A little role play seemed in order. The schoolgirl being debauched by the headmaster
.” All yesterday afternoon in his office, he’d played with the image. Shopping for her today, he’d perused leather and bustiers, tight shorts that would barely cover her butt cheeks, lacy lingerie, and sexy evening wear. In the end, the schoolgirl still appealed most to his mood.

  She shook her head at him. “Naughty, naughty Mr. Masters.” She threw his own words back at him, and he was sure the last of her nerves melted away with her smile.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m a dirty old man.”

  He’d envisioned her dressed like that when he’d called last night. Lying on his bed, he’d stroked his cock to the sound of her voice and the images in his head. The resulting orgasm took the edge off. He hadn’t wanted to be so jacked with desire for her that he missed a single nuance of her pleasure. Now he couldn’t wait to see her wearing his purchases.

  “First the panties.”

  She stepped into them. Her skin glowed against the plain white cotton, the high cut accentuating the womanly flare of her hips.

  “Now the bra.” He held out the sturdy cotton lingerie, the only adornment, a small pink flower between the cups. “Turn around, I’ll put it on.”

  He allowed himself a close brush of his cock along the crease of her ass as he slid the straps up her arms. She smelled of gardenia, subtle enough to be lotion or soap rather than perfume. The back clasp done, he dropped a kiss on the delicate skin between her neck and shoulder, her hair caressing his cheek.

  He hadn’t kissed her lips or licked her nipples. He hadn’t sipped the sweet nectar straight from her pussy or buried his cock deep in her. Yet he’d dreamed of these things. She’d given him a wide-eyed, shell-shocked gaze when he verbally staked his claim, the word no rising to her lips before he stalled it. The truth was in the scent of her arousal drifting in the air, the peak of her nipples.

  “The blouse,” he said, taking one more breath of her to fill his head.

  She slipped it on, buttoned to the top, then stepped into the short black pleated skirt, zipping it up at the side.

  “Socks and shoes.”