by Liz Meldon
“Do you think that because you’ve got my cock in your mouth, the punishment stops?”
She shook her head ever so slightly, her arms erupting with little bumps. My cock pulsed, and I took a deep breath, forcing myself not to react.
Which was difficult as fuck, given how obviously her body responded to my Dom side, to the gravel in my voice, the flint in my stare.
“Put your hips back down,” I ordered, slowly, precisely, each word enunciated. She tried to pull back, eyes shut, but I only gave her an inch, my fist around her hair, and waited as she sucked in a few deep breaths through her nose. When her eyes opened again, a tear slid from each down her cheek. I smirked. “Tears aren’t going to help you. Put your hips back on the vibrator, Belle. This isn’t a reprieve. Your punishment is still ongoing. Down.”
She sank with a huff, then squealed the moment she touched the vibrator again, her whole body spasming. Mercifully, I didn’t feel a hint of teeth.
“Good girl.” I pulled her back by her hair, removing my cock. “How are your arms? Are the restraints too tight? Anything numb?”
“My pinky is a little numb, sir, but everything else is okay.”
I acquiesced with a small smile. “After your sixth orgasm, I’ll remove the silk. You’ll just need to tell me when it happens.”
She pursed her lips sourly, then hastily relaxed her face, as if realizing she’d been sulking up at me. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Now—open.”
I sank back into her with a sharp exhale. To make things a little easier, and to keep her on task, I bent my knees just enough so that her mouth and my cock were at the same height, so she wouldn’t need to reach. For some time, I let her do what she did best—that swirling thing with her tongue, the extra suction around the tip, cheeks hollowed, her pace pleasantly torturous. I lost myself in her, in the build of my own pleasure, until I decided she’d had enough control over me for one day.
Submissives. No one realized just how terribly wrapped around their little fingers we Doms really were.
Grasping the base of her ponytail, I set the pace, the speed at which I fucked her mouth. Rocking against her, the room silent around us save for her gurgling, for the wet slurp of her mouth and the subdued hum of the vibrator, I chased the high.
Until she came.
With my cock buried between her lips.
Her high-pitched cry hummed up my shaft, and I nearly doubled over, my knees weak, as she shuddered and writhed at my feet. Her entire being tensed with pleasure, her blushes burning bright red across her sparsely freckled skin.
“Four,” I croaked, my voice thick and threatening to quake. Belle looked up at me again with those watery eyes, breathing hard, trembling—and I was a goner. Two more gentle pumps and I broke, spilling myself into her, choking out some hoarse cry of my own. Pleasure rippled up from my core, instantly turning me lightheaded.
No. Just light. Like I could float away at any moment, courtesy of the goddess at my feet.
Her throat worked as she swallowed every last drop, and I cupped her chin when I pulled out—only then realizing I was squeezing the bit gag so hard in my other hand that it made indents on my skin. I switched my hold up, clutching it by the straps instead.
“Clean me, Belle,” I murmured. This time, I let her off the pile of pillows, away from the vibrator, as she licked my cock from top to bottom. Head tipped to one side, I waited until she decided she was through—that I was clean enough. As she settled back down, shivering at the resumed contact with the vibrator, I let out a tight breath; if she had gone on much longer, I’d have been saddled with another damn erection that refused to quit.
I tucked myself away, then crouched in front of her, still a little spacey, and reattached her gag. Belle accepted it with a furrowed brow. While I had no qualms about untying her hands after her next two climaxes, the gag stayed.
“Four more to go,” I said cheerily after I’d adjusted the gag’s tightness. Her eyes widened slightly, and I booped her on the nose, just for good measure, before I stood. A drawn-out, strangled moan followed me back to my chair, and I settled into it without looking over the monitors. She was on her own again—at least for a little while. I could keep myself distracted all day with busywork; there was always something to do in my professional life.
But I’d set it aside—hell, burn it all—to watch her struggle through that eighth climax. I knew she could do it. Belle had the determination. And when she succeeded, I had a batch of chocolate-covered strawberries I’d been saving, just for her.
Turning both monitors back on, I found my inbox refreshed—and a new email waiting for me at the top of the list.
From my father.
Entitled RE: Richard.
My jaw clenched. Oh, now he wanted to discuss my brother? Now he wanted my opinion—the truth?
No. He had made his own damn bed—and he could fucking lie in it. My vacation hiatus extended to pretentious fathers, too. With a deep breath, I swallowed the rush of anger and deleted the email without opening it, ignoring the spike of guilt sharpening in my gut.
I then shut off the monitors again. Grabbed a book from the fiction bookcase. Settled on the loveseat. Cracked open the book. Pretended to read—but instead watched my little submissive take her punishment over the top of the page, her gaze fixed on the painting of the ocean’s unrest across the room, my father’s email already forgotten.
11
Belle
Thursday, February 21st
“Would you like another glass of wine?”
“Half glass, sir,” I said, trailing my finger over the rim of my wine glass. I’d never been much of a drinker, and neither was Dean, but he had made the most delicious white wine sangria to go with our homemade sushi tonight—I just couldn’t resist. Each sip was like sunshine and daisies on my tongue, and I had already called dibs on all the fruit in the bottom of the pitcher. So far, I was buzzed but not drunk—just tipsy enough to stop thinking, which was a relief.
Three and a half weeks into the two months: I had hoped I’d have a handle on everything by now. The dynamic between us. The professional bubble I needed to cast around myself. Logically, I needed to hoard my Sundays like I would never have a day off again. Sure, I swam, hiked, read. I emailed my parents about my “vacation.” I talked with Penny on the phone. I made smoothies. I stayed out of the way as the ladies from the cleaning service scrubbed our temporary home from top to bottom. But even on my off days, I always drifted back to Dean, to the comfort of his smile, the familiarity of his rigid routine. He had a gravitational pull that I couldn’t ignore, one that made me feel safe, secure—one that terrified me.
It terrified me to think I couldn’t get through the day without talking to him—that I needed the structure he provided, that I craved his praise. Good girl. Suddenly I imagined a day without hearing those two little words and it physically hurt. Even on breaks during the rest of the week, I wanted to be around him, doing something as simple as sitting together on two different lounge chairs by the pool, each of us reading something on our own. Him on his tablet, scouring the Financial Times and every other Times outlet available. Me, on my e-reader, racing through the love and lust of my new favourite fictional characters.
I just wanted to be with him.
And I had thought, by week three and a half, that I would be over him by now. That he wouldn’t be so bright and shiny. That I would want my space. That I’d be sick of him—of the way he tsked at me when I made little mistakes during our sessions, the way he steered me around in public with a hand on my lower back, the way he chose my outfits for day trips.
But I wasn’t over him.
I wasn’t even annoyed by him—by the way he cleared his throat or cracked his knuckles or drummed his fingers on every freakin’ surface in the house.
Roommates in the past had driven me bonkers. People who’d started off as friends had quickly become acquaintances at university, our forced proximity in one of Manhattan’s sh
oebox apartments sullying the relationship beyond repair. Back then, I only ever saw them in the mornings and at night, classes occupying my days.
I saw Dean all the time. Unless he was jogging through the trails, or working in his super-secret, super off-limits third-floor lair—we were together. And I wasn’t sick of him. Just the opposite, in fact.
And that scared me. A lot.
Still, I played my part. I tried to shove the fear out of my head, to instead think about how much fun I was having—that I would have been Dean’s submissive for free if he’d asked me. Focusing on the present, getting lost in our sessions, our games, it all helped.
But the fear still flared. Whenever I let my guard down, it was there, whispering about professional boundaries, about how I was at risk for becoming one of those stupid escorts who fell for a client—a client who only saw them for their body and what he could do to it. A client who didn’t love them back. A client who would leave them with nothing when the job was over—nothing but money.
Sometimes, I tried the aloof thing. It never lasted long. Not when he smiled at me, touched me, kissed my temple and told me I was his good girl. Then, I was jelly. Putty. Boneless and happy, pliant in his hands. Here, on the island, I wasn’t a professional. I was a woman who gave up a modicum of power and control over my body, my mind, my heart because Dean made me feel safe. During our sessions, he made me feel free, like I could finally accept that I enjoyed being dominated and punished, that the illicit fantasies spun by tawdry romance novels weren’t bad. Twisted. Sick. They were—fun. Exciting.
Somehow, I could almost admit to myself it wasn’t just money that had steered me into a lucrative kink at Elysium. Dean had the ability to make me feel like my truest self, a self I hadn’t even realized existed before the start of this month.
I had gone and made all this personal—I was weak.
I was on the path to becoming that escort, and I had no idea how to get back to the other path, the safer path, the path well-traveled.
Although she was my only source of real-world communication, I had stopped telling Penny any of my concerns. I could barely admit how much I liked—needed, craved, desired, wanted—Dean out loud; there was no way I could say it to Penny.
The lecture that woman would give—no way. Not doing it.
Even if it would have been nice to talk to someone about it.
Dean would be great to talk it through with if he wasn’t the reason I was free-falling in the first place. The guy was wonderful at acknowledging and accepting whatever emotion struck me during our sessions. I always felt safe with him.
Still, no.
Dean was the last person I could talk to about the maelstrom brewing in my brain.
I flinched when his hand settled on the nape of my neck, and then smiled up at him as he refilled my glass. Only halfway this time, the fruit and ice cubes jostling around inside the pitcher. Dean topped off his glass too, still grasping the back of my neck—not threateningly. Possessively. Affectionately, his thumb brushing across my skin. When he left, I sagged a little, the warmth of his palm lingering as I grabbed my wine glass and took a little sip.
“Thank you, sir,” I said when he sat back down at the head of the table—the same table he’d tied me to the first night, the table where we had nearly all our meals. He shot me an easy smile and winked.
“You’re welcome, Belle.” While he picked up his glass, he didn’t drink it. Instead, he merely swirled the white, sharply citric liquid about inside, watching me. “I have lemon and raspberry sorbet for dessert.”
A moan slipped free before I could stop it. “Yum.”
“Just for you.”
“Not for you?” I shifted in my high-backed chair to face him when he shook his head.
“No, Belle. None for me.” In an instant, the easy smile vanished—replaced by something darker. Something that shot straight through to my core. That skittered down my spine, frigid, yet pooled piping-hot between my thighs. It was incredible, the change between regular Dean and Dom-Dean. Incredibly sexy, that is. His features seemed to sharpen, darken, those sage-green eyes filled with wicked deeds, his smirking mouth speaking a thousand sinful things without uttering a word.
I adored Dom-Dean.
Too much.
That was my problem.
“You’re my dessert tonight,” he rumbled, settling back in his chair—slouching into it, lazily, like a man who knew he owned his domain and every living thing in it. I shivered, clutching my wine glass so tight that it easily could have shattered. With a quick flick of his gaze from me to the spot directly in front of him, Dean murmured, voice like silk, “Finish your wine—and then get on the table.”
I downed the entire glass in two huge gulps. Then, gathering my billowy sundress in hand, I climbed up. He hadn’t told me to strip, so I left the dress on—a dress sheer enough to see my nipples, the fabric white with pink hearts, strapless, nothing more than a simple bathing suit cover-up. I had a whole arsenal of them, all of which I’d purchased for this trip, figuring Dean would enjoy the fact that he could see my puckered nipples so easily through the material.
A theory quickly proven correct my first week here.
“Lay down on your back,” he instructed softly, words so low that I had to strain, really concentrate, to hear, “so that I can see all of you. I’d like to watch you come.”
My cheeks burned—still—as I exhaled sharply. His accent always sharpened when he was Dom-Dean. Lilting, simmering just below the surface. It drove me wild.
Facing him, I pulled my dress up to my hips, then leaned back, settling on the table. I peeked around my bent legs, and the sight of him watching me with such intensity, drumming his fingers slowly on his chair’s armrest—it was enough to make me come right then and there.
Legs open, folded, tipped over on each side, I knew I was wet. I knew it before my finger first slipped between my folds. I could feel the heat, the need. Maybe he could too. The thought had me shivering again, my skin prickling, my stomach somersaulting.
Dean had never asked me to masturbate for him before. I knew it was on our approved list of activities, but I hadn’t given much thought to actually doing it. At first, my movements were all for show. Spreading my lips. Circling my clitoris. I wanted him to enjoy the view.
However, as I lay there, open, touching myself for him, I thought back to the beginning of this month—when he’d told me, frankly, that I didn’t need to perform for him. What I had learned acting on a stage for Elysium’s patrons was all fine and good, but it didn’t translate to a one-on-one session. So, I had dropped all that. Stopped sticking my butt out. Stopped worrying about how my breasts looked, if my stomach was sucked in, whether I was rocking a set of sultry bedroom eyes. As the days went on, as my time with Dean lengthened, intensified, I focused on being present.
So, that was what I did now. I stopped performing. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly let it all out. After that, I touched myself for pleasure. I touched myself how I might in the privacy of my own bedroom. I pictured Dean—the look in his eye as he consumed me.
That was the best mental porn out there.
Slowly, my hips started to rock, to grind, to writhe against my hand. My movements became jerky, chasing the high, pursuing the flicker of bliss for something deeper. I found myself pinching my stiff nipples through my dress, imagining it was him—pinching harder to make it seem real. My back arched. My mouth dropped open. My brow furrowed. My body tightened so deliciously that I moaned, pleasure prickling through every limb. Pleasure that was so exquisite—but also not what I needed. Not what I wanted. Pleasure that burned like a hissing, spitting, crackling bonfire, when the pleasure I chased burned like the sun.
“Sir, c-can I—”
“Yes,” he growled before I could even get the question out. Ever since I had been forced to endure eight climaxes in a row—a task that had taken me nearly an hour and a half to accomplish, my clit on fire and my energy spent—I remembere
d to ask. The lesson had stuck. I knew when to beg, when to speak up, so desperately familiar with my own climaxes now. I’d learned what I needed to. Dean had seen to that. No more coming without permission. These days, my Dom seemed all too happy to give it, so long as I asked first.
Yes. Dean’s voice rattled around my head, that single word opening the floodgates. I pressed harder. Bucked my hips up, my fingers homing in on that one perfect spot until—
“Oh, god!” Until I peaked. Until I tumbled into the abyss, fireworks fizzing behind my eyelids as a glorious wave of pleasure washed over me. My fingers continued to work, operating with a mind of their own, prolonging the high for as long as I dared.
I squeaked when Dean’s hands suddenly locked around my ankles. He yanked me down the table, straight to the edge. Heart pounding, I sat up on my elbows, only to fall back down when he buried his face between my thighs. The first sweep of his tongue across my swollen, slick folds had me crying out, hips arching up to meet him.
Arms wrapped around my thighs, he licked, licked, licked me through another flood of pleasure. My hand threaded into his hair, grasping and tugging. I was a woman possessed, and Dean’s tongue called all the shots, right up until the last delicious moment.
When the world finally stopped exploding with colour, I sheepishly removed my hand from his hair, hoping I hadn’t pulled too hard. My legs quivered, but I couldn’t help smiling when Dean dragged his mouth the length of my inner left thigh, not stopping until he reached my knee—and pressed a firm kiss to it.
“Thank you, Belle. That was lovely.”
“Thank you, sir,” I managed, taking his hand when he offered it and sitting up. My grin, all post-orgasm loopy, had Dean smiling, shifting from that dark, sensual creature into something lighter, warmer.
The aftercare Dom. Still Dom-Dean, still sexy—just different.
“Sorbet?”
“Yes, please.”
Seated at the edge of the table, I pushed my dress down as Dean stood and saw to my dessert. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him putter around the kitchen, grabbing a bowl and a spoon, scooping a single helping of each flavor. When he returned, so had my composure, the feeling of being grounded again after that wonderful high. I accepted my bowl with a small smile, the ceramic cold to the touch. Then, much to my surprise, Dean wandered back to the kitchen to retrieve a huge ladle, which he stuck in the nearly empty pitcher of sangria.