“And with this collar,” he says, his words a little muffled as you beat down the need to come. “I claim her as mine.”
Mercifully the vibe stills, admittedly lodged high, so fucking high, but at least that orgasm can be battened down, sealed in until you’re given permission to let it out. How embarrassing would it have been to come without the go-ahead on your commitment day? You would never have lived it down. Your master would have been ashamed of you forever.
You shift your knees on the hard floor, and stretch out your fingers. You’d balled them into fists on the stage without even realising it.
“Look at that?” You hear someone say, behind you, lower down.
“Pretty,” someone else responds with. There is an edge of longing in their voice. They’re a little jealous, wishing they were in your position, not with your master, but with their own, perhaps. Maybe they are a little jealous that you’ll never want for anything ever again in any aspect of your life.
You flush with pride at their words and the thoughts of the future they generate. Your cheeks are no doubt turning as red as your arse. These people get it, they’re in the lifestyle too. The fact that you’re being exposed, serviced, subservient before your master is only what they’d expect today and from now on, everyday.
He bunches your hair in his fist, hair that is dotted with delicate gypsophelia, at odds with the darkness of the leather strapping wound around your body and his coal-black suite. But you wanted something bridal, just one thing, and that is what it was, tiny white flowers.
Though no doubt they were scattering now as you’re head is pulled back just the way you like, a bit rough, but no actual pain other than on your scalp. He certainly gets that right every time, always has done.
You part your lips, knowing a kiss will come down from overhead. It does, and it’s the best sort, one that’s delicate to start with but ends in a nip on your bottom lip. He does that so well, the strong-to-gentle thing and back again. It sends shivers down your body every time.
“This is it,” he whispers. “The moment of your collaring. You will be mine and I will be yours.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please, Sir.”
The collar is cool as he puts it on. It’s not the first time you’ve worn it. He’s tried several on over the last month or so, all studded with diamonds. He wanted one that was thin and soft yet left no doubt what it was—a claim on you, a warning to all other men to stay away from you; unless of course he’s given them permission to touch you, lick you, fuck you. And you don’t mind that, do you? If it pleases him to see you being ravished by another master then it pleases you. You will do anything he asks of you, forever more. And in return he will protect you, see to your every need, adore you and ensure with every shred of his soul that you are satisfied and content. He knows your needs before you even know them yourself.
You swallow over the collar, loving how it feels and then relax your head down.
“The skin on your arse is weeping its love for me,” he says into your ear. “That vampire glove did the trick. A hundred tiny blood red dots all shiny and perfect just like our relationship will be from this day on.”
“Yes, Sir.” Now you can imagine the state of your arse. You’ve seen the black leather glove with the tiny silver blades used before. No wonder it stung like a bugger. But you’d do it again, it got you off, that white hot prickle. Went straight to your greedy cunt, didn’t it. “That’s good, Sir.”
“It is, and now I’m going to fuck you hard. I’m going to consummate our commitment to each other in front of everyone.”
You open your mouth to speak but no words come out. He’s already plucked the vibe from you and let it clatter to the floor. You know by the tension in his voice, by the frenzy of his movements that you’re going to get it wild and fast.
You’re right. Within seconds his meaty dick forges in balls deep. You cry out but then bottle the sound. The filling is absolute. It’s so much more than a physical act it’s a mating-for-life ritual, a statement of ownership and a commitment to submission.
“Fuck yeah, come, my beauty,” he says, the words sounding like they’ve travelled over razors they’re so rough as they come out into the air.
You know you’ll come hard and fast and it won’t take long. You’re so proud, so happy. On hands and knees on the stage, getting harshly fucked by your master is all you’ve ever dreamed of.
And he’s still wearing his suit. You know he is, you can feel the material on the backs of your thighs. His tie is just catching the base of your spine and what must be the bottom of the jacket is swiping over your bloody pinpricks, inflaming them further, increasing the heat, the pain, the desperation for more, more, more.
The trance that takes you over is beginning to descend, but you don’t want it, not today. This is a moment for a memory as clear as you can make it. Opaque can take a hike, this is too real.
It’s almost as if the audience knows this and a sudden sharp clapping brings you back to where you are. The pleasure is still there, the pain still beautiful, but you are in the room. The here and now. Serving, being serviced.
The clapping intensifies, it seems everyone has joined in, it’s getting faster now, the tempo increasing, racing, turning into a blur of noise.
He’s so hard inside you. The thickness of his shaft stretching you, battering your sweet spot. Every part of you is alive, floating but not, twisted but straight, desperate but satisfied.
You stretch your neck and tilt your face to the ceiling lights. He takes the hint, grabs your hair again and you’re vaguely aware of tiny petals landing on your cheeks, your left shoulder, a few down your back.
“Come,” he shouts, “I order you to come.”
And you do, in a heart-stopping moment of ecstasy you clamp and spasm around his shaft.
He’s pumping into you, filling you with his seed. You hear him shout out his love for you over the wild applause and your entire body shifts and shivers, arches and bows. He is yours and you are his. That is the way it will be forever.
He carries on fucking you for a few more heavenly seconds and then he stops, releases your hair and strokes his fingers down your back, tapping over each and every one of your vertebrae as though he loves them all individually. And he does, he’s told you so before.
The applause has reached a crescendo. Someone whistles too. The noise bites your ears but don’t care.
You’re breathless as you open your eyes and stare at the stage floor. You’re confused for a moment and then you realise that it wasn’t petals landing on your cheeks, shoulder and back it was white confetti—white confetti thrown over you and your master at the moment of your perfect union.
More About Harlem Dae
Harlem Dae is actually the pen name of two authors, Lily Harlem and Natalie Dae. They frequently write together and when they do their stories head down dark routes, frequently involving BDSM and often pushing taboo boundaries. Check out the 5* Sexy as Hell trilogy—which reviewers claim rivals Fifty Shades of Grey and Crossfire—and That Filthy Book which has been hailed as a novel every woman should read.
Website http://www.harlemdae.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/NatalieDaeandLilyHarlem
Thank you for reading Sexy Just Got Rich: Brit Babes Do Billionaires. We hope you enjoyed our eclectic mix of stories and if you did, do leave a review on your chosen retailer sites and Goodreads. Also check out our websites for details of our other books, follow us on Twitter and like us on Facebook. Don’t forget to swing by the Brit Babes blog, http://www.thebritbabes.co.uk and grab our free anthology, Sexy Just Walked Into Town.
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