by Liz Meldon
“This trust-fund wolf isn’t so bad,” she whispered as she leaned in, her grin turning impish—then innocent when I fixed her with my best stern Dom look. “Yes, of course I’ll go with you. I didn’t exactly pack for some upscale gala, but I’m sure I can swing something from my wardrobe.”
I snorted. As much as I enjoyed all of Belle’s lingerie and sheer dresses, she hadn’t a thing to wear to something of this caliber. Still, I was certain Felix had a formalwear line this year—one phone call and I could easily fill a whole guest room with gowns.
“We’ll figure something out,” I told her, mind racing—fixing, solving the problem on the spot. She was so right: I always had been a fixer, tackling unforeseen issues before anyone else even realized they existed. And I was my happiest here, taking care of Belle, making her feel good, safe, adored—making her smile.
In that moment, as she peered up at me, positively glowing, I wanted to say it.
I love you.
I loved her for all that she did for me, to me, with me. I loved her for all that she was and all that she would be. I loved her so desperately that it ached, that it burned deep within, consuming me from the inside out.
Belle was the woman, the submissive, the partner I had never realized I needed.
All this, dancing on the tip of my tongue, and the best I could muster was a kiss. Soft and sweet, I pressed my mouth to hers, then murmured my thanks against it. Her eyes wide and bright, Belle peered deep into mine. Did she see it—the love? Did she spy it simmering just below the surface, how much I adored every single fucking facet of her?
She sighed dreamily when I cupped her face, my large hands caging her, my kiss engulfing her when our mouths opened. The heat spread, a wildfire raging between us, connecting us, forging us together in all this. Our kiss intensified, no longer soft and sweet. Harsh. Biting. All-consuming. My submissive whimpered, her body crashing to mine—a perfect fit.
Her delighted little squeal when I hoisted her up, wrapping her legs around me, only had my cock hardening faster. Hands cupping her ass, I swallowed every sound she made on the march back to the house. Her giggles. Her gasps. Her squeaks. Her moans.
While I hadn’t been able to tell her just how deeply I loved her, I could damn well show her.
And I did—with a hand around her throat, tangled in her hair, between her thighs, I showed Belle Bennet exactly how I much I loved her, worshipped her. Over the dining table. On the stairs. In my bed.
Our bed.
I showed her over and over again, until neither of us could move, much less speak—until all my concerns about Richard, about our family’s empire, at long last disappeared.
House Rule #3
Belle will be herself—or as much herself as she is comfortable being.
9
Belle & Dean
Monday, March 18th: BELLE
“You know, sir, it’s kind of hard to focus on anything when you’re doing—that.”
Dean hummed in agreement, his voice low and velvety in my ear. “Ah, sweetheart, that’s the point.”
He circled my clit, then swept across it for emphasis, and my body jerked, twitched, danced on his lap, heat spiking in my core. Unfortunately, for every pleasurable wiggle I made, there was pain, too, my bare breasts bouncing—the nipple clamps doing their dark work.
“Anything else on this page?” he murmured, dragging his nose from my ear down the column of my throat. My skin prickled, responding to the featherlight touch eagerly as Dean’s hand continued its languid assault between my thighs.
Right. The page. Frowning, I refocused on the computer monitor, fifty dresses to skim through. Felix Renaldi, Dean’s fashion designer pal and fellow Dom, had several collections of gowns that I had been ordered to peruse in preparation for the gala next week. Rather than assigning me a task and then doing work of his own at his office computer, Dean had forgone his work entirely in favor of this: he’d pulled me onto his lap, naked, and told me to add whatever dresses I liked to the cart. Then, he would send the list off to his assistant so she could pull samples from Felix’s showroom in Manhattan and fly them down here for me to try on—all in the span of about two days.
Initially I’d thought it was a bit much. After all, there were plenty of local designers on the nearby islands I could pick through if I really needed a dress this fancy.
But then I discovered Felix’s gowns—and I was a goner.
Together, Dean and I narrowed down the search preferences. Formalwear. Couture. Floor-length. Pink, white, gold. For the last half hour, I had been going through all the options that left me drooling. Felix’s designs were exquisite. He didn’t shy away from lace, tulle, cashmere, silk, brocade. There was something for every woman, despite the outrageous price tags, and it was obvious that he knew how to flatter the female form.
I could have lost myself in his website, spent hours magnifying details, admiring the tailoring—if Dean hadn’t added the nipple clamps, then slipped his hand between my thighs. At first, I hadn’t been able to see anything beyond the pain. My nipples weren’t overly sensitive, but the clamps induced a sharp ache that I felt with every breath. It wasn’t until Dean started to stroke me, his fingers familiar with every inch of my body, that I was able to push past the pain.
But then the pleasure had started to mount, paired with the bite of the clamps…
How the heck was I supposed to focus on dresses, no matter how beautiful?
“I-I like this one,” I said, swallowing hard when he smeared my arousal over my folds. A gentle tap at my inner thigh had me parting them more, and Dean trailed my slickness down there too.
“Yes, you would look beautiful in that. Put it in the cart.”
With a trembling hand, I tapped the touchscreen monitor, adding the peach-coloured gown with its lace-up corset and mermaid-cut skirt and ample front slit to the eighteen other dresses we had already agreed on.
“Good girl,” Dean crooned in my ear, and my eyes fluttered closed, my hands death-gripping his sleek black desk. Even fully clothed, the heat of his body burned me, and I felt so little on his lap, so small and pretty. Like a little doll for him to fuss over.
Let’s be honest: I’d been wet from the moment I perched on his knee. Wetter still when he yanked me back against him. His cock had grown harder and harder against my backside, and when all this was through, I so hoped he would bend me over the desk and do something about it.
The thought had me moaning, and I fell back, his chin tucked over my shoulder, totally splayed open as my sir stroked me, massaged me, tormented me so perfectly. When he found that one spot, just to the right of my clit, that always sent me spiraling, I clamped down on my lip and whimpered. The heat soared within me, between us. My breath quickened, and I reached behind, the leather of his high-backed chair groaning under my fingertips.
“Oh, sir—”
So much hazy, wonderful pleasure—and then blinding pain when he flicked one of my nipples. I jolted up with a long, low whine, one that arced into a squeal when he slipped two fingers into me.
“Not until you’ve looked at all the dresses, Belle,” he chastised. Tears in my eyes, I turned back to him, about to argue, about to beg him to stop pumping his fingers over my G-spot, but then thought better of it. I did not want another nipple flick.
But there were fifteen pages of dresses to get through, and I was so, so, so, so close.
Not that that mattered. Dean expected restraint.
And I was his good girl—most of the time.
So, with a groan, I returned my attention to the monitor, to the dozens more dresses on this page alone that I could choose from.
Only to squeal-cry again when, paired with the thrust of his fingers, Dean swept his thumb rapidly across my clit and raked his teeth up my neck…
Tuesday, March 19th: DEAN
Thwack.
Belle stood up on her toes with a high-pitched cry, most of it muffled by the neon-pink ball gag between her lips. I kept myself at a d
istance, admiring the lovely flush blooming along the side of her breast—no nipple clamps today, and fuck, did those gorgeous peaks ever stand at attention. Moaning, she dropped her head forward, chest heaving with each ragged breath.
Slowly, each step precise so that she could hear the click of my oxfords on the tile, I circled her, loosely grasping the riding crop at my side. We had only been at this for twenty minutes, but already my darling little submissive was painted up with marks. Her ass. Her thighs. Her breasts. Her hips. The bottoms of her feet, which, given the spreader bar, had been difficult to manage, but we’d figured it out. Belle had simply needed to grasp the rope binding her hands high above her head, lift herself up for just a moment, and then thwack—right on the soles.
So far, her breasts and inner thighs had coaxed the best sounds out of her. I paused directly behind her, then gently tapped the crop’s leather tip against her right ass cheek. Her head shot up, her body tensed. I circled the area with whispery caresses, then dipped between her cheeks. She arched for me, the minx, offering her perky ass as a sacrifice, but I went for her inner thighs again with two sharp, exacting hits. Belle squealed, standing up on her toes once more.
“Down,” I barked. And down she went. Smirking, I stroked my erection through my slacks. Physical release wasn’t the goal today. This afternoon’s session was just a bit of fun with the riding crop—although there was always room for a spur-of-the-moment burst of creativity that would somehow involve Belle’s lips around my cock.
I’d gone shirtless so that when we were through I could cradle her naked figure directly to my skin. She could feel my heartbeat, slow and reassuring, and calm down in the safety of my arms.
For now, however, I enjoyed the way her greedy eyes raked across my figure—a figure I worked on for at least an hour a day, just to keep it toned for her. Belle enjoyed my definition; her fingers explored the dips and curves of my body in bed, sometimes before we drifted off to sleep, sometimes first thing in the morning, sleepy but insistent.
I’d tied her to a hook I’d had installed in my office. She hadn’t noticed it until now, and I hadn’t made use of it yet, but today: ropes around her wrists, stretched up to the ceiling, and then the spreader bar between her feet, nothing but naked Belle in between.
She was to die for. I’d gotten hard just tying her in place.
And she’d been wet by the third thwack of the riding crop, her cunt glistening for me in the late-afternoon light streaming in from the windows.
The spreader bar had been a late addition, but I had wanted to remove its stain by introducing it to her again—properly. Set out in front of her on a towel were all the vibrators we had in the house. I’d told her that if she was a very good girl and took all her strikes, then I’d let her choose the vibrator she wanted to come all over. The lovely creature was partial to the magic wand, and if she made it through the next fifteen minutes, I’d plug it in and massage the vibrating head against her clit until she shattered.
Still strung up, of course. Still bound in place, legs spread wide for me.
I struck the backs of her knees twice in rapid succession before strolling around in front. Tears streaked down her flushed cheeks, her eyes red. Holding her stare, I smoothed the tip of the riding crop along her belly, then slowly rubbed it against the crest of her pussy. She let out a stuttering breath, nostrils flaring, and then screamed—fuck what a gorgeous, muffled scream—when I smacked the crop against her wet lips. Not too sharply, not too harshly, but her cunt was probably so primed for any sensation now that even the slightest touch would be torture.
And I gave her the slightest smack six times in as many seconds before retreating. Each damp thwack of the crop elicited another scream. When it was over, her head fell back, her body sagging.
“Belle?” I had told her to pull her blonde waves into a ponytail today. Not only did I enjoy having something to wrench her head back with, but I wanted to see her face—to drink in her pleasure, her pain, but to also gauge when she was pushing herself too far. We had tested her verbal and nonverbal safewords already, but she had been open to more lately. Sharper hits. Larger plugs. Breath play.
I had to make sure she wasn’t going too hard too fast—either to please me, or to prove to herself that she could.
Tucking the riding crop under my arm, I strolled over and lifted her head up. Her eyes were closed, her expression slack, but she seemed to come back to me when I undid her gag’s clasp. I held the wet gag in one hand, Belle’s saliva-coated chin with the other.
“Are you all right?” I made sure to stay in my Dom space, my tone neither warm nor friendly—but my intention genuine. She licked the dribble off her lips, breath stuttering again as she nodded.
And then smiled. Wide and beautiful and yielding, that smile reached her eyes—made them shimmer, even as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I’m fine, sir,” she whispered.
“Your hands?”
“Only a little numb.”
“Can you make it the next fifteen minutes?” I checked on their colour—all looked well. “Or shall I bind them behind your back instead?”
“I can make it, sir,” she told me softly, sweetly. I made a note to check on her again in five minutes, just in case, then brushed my thumb across her chin—not to wipe the drool away, but to smear it around more. Belle nibbled her lower lip for a moment, and then murmured something so quiet I missed it.
“What was that?”
“You can go harder, sir,” she repeated, raising her hoarse voice above a whisper. Her eyes glittered, but, for the first time, I noticed they glittered with darkness, with sin, with a depravity to match my own. Smirking, I reattached her gag, then took a step back and stroked the underside of each of her breasts with the crop.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” I asked, tapping one breast, then the other, back and forth. She mumbled something, something that vaguely sounded like yes, sir, from behind the gag. I grinned, enjoying the way her skin rose with gooseflesh, her nipples tight little pearls.
“That’s my girl…”
Thwack.
Wednesday, March 20th: BELLE
“I feel like a cupcake.”
“Well, you look like a princess.” Dean’s executive assistant Eliza, who was sporting an asymmetrical bob and a stunning Chanel pantsuit, studied me for a long moment, her hands on her hips, lips pursed, and then nodded. “I mean, it is a bit poofy—”
I pushed down on the four-foot-wide skirt, a skirt that had fairy lights and a battery pack hidden amongst all the tulle. The fabric yielded, then sprang back up, propped in place by the mesh wiring underneath. We both stared at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, Eliza’s expression suggesting this was a possibility—and mine screaming no way in hell.
Just as he had planned, two days after Dean and I picked through the hundreds of gowns on Felix Renaldi’s website, the chosen forty had made their way to Ixora Isle courtesy of Dean’s assistant. Poor Eliza was twig-thin and maybe pushing five foot two, but she had wrangled the entire collection down here from Manhattan. Flying in Dean’s private jet and having four assistants of her own probably made the process easier, but it still seemed like a huge ordeal for nothing.
After all, I still believed I could have just gone to one of the boutiques on Saint Thomas and found a dress for this snooty gala there—but Dean wouldn’t have it. So, here we were, in one of the unused guest bedrooms, which had been transformed into a Renaldi formalwear showroom. Four racks of gowns awaited me, some of which I didn’t even remember choosing—like this one.
But then again, I hadn’t exactly been coherent for a lot of the selection process. Nipple clamps and denied orgasms had a way of distracting a girl.
“Do you still want to show Mr. Donahue?” Eliza asked, head cocked as she stood behind me, fluffing out the enormous skirt. It wasn’t a terrible dress: the bodice cinched around my waist and gave me great cleavage. Dusky rose was a great colour for my complexion. But that skirt. I wasn
’t even sure how to walk in it—Eliza had helped me climb in, then laced up the back while I’d stood there, horrified.
Thankfully, Dean had waived the no panties house rule today. I couldn’t imagine the look on Eliza’s face if she had to help her boss’s half-naked sex friend in and out of dresses all day.
“I’ll show him,” I said after a moment’s consideration. I’d show him, but only for a laugh. If he liked this—we might have problems. After all, his opinion really mattered to me. Next week, we were stepping into his world, and I wanted to look appropriate. The social elite would already be making snap judgements about me on Dean’s arm; no point in adding fuel to that fire by looking woefully out of place courtesy of my fashion choices, too.
“Can you walk?”
The mesh boning under the thousand layers of tulle actually helped my mobility, keeping the bulk of the enormous skirt out of the way. I still had to kick at it with each step, but I managed, waddling out of the guest room and into the hall. This was dress eight of forty, and we had been at it nearly an hour already. Dean and I had agreed that I still hadn’t found The One yet, but I dreaded the thought of spending the next four to five hours working my way through the rest of the gowns. Eliza had already peeled off the tailored jacket of her pantsuit, a thin sheen of sweat broken out across her face.
Who knew trying on clothes could be so exhausting?
Maybe we could take a pool break before lunch. Dean had acknowledged that this would be an all-day affair at breakfast, and back then I’d just laughed. All day to try on dresses? Was he crazy?
Nope. Just realistic, as always, when it came to time management.
I’d felt bad at first that he was sacrificing a day of our usual fun for me to try on gowns, but the look in his eye when I’d walked into his office wearing the first form-fitting dress, complete with a plunging neckline and back—well, that dark hunger had suggested he really didn’t mind me playing dress-up.