by Lynda Aicher
“If it pleases you, Mistress.”
The answer was perfect, exactly how a trained submissive should respond. But he wasn’t trained and his routine reply came across like another game. Irritated, she stalked to his front. A finger under his chin was all it took to force him to look at her.
She narrowed her eyes. “That does not please me. I want real answers from you. Not stock replies.”
His nostrils flared. His jaw tensed then twitched. “Then no, Mistress. I don’t want the cock cage on when we play. I want to pleasure you, get hard for you and serve you. I don’t need to know what you’ve planned because I trust you to meet both of our needs. I trust that you will stay within my limits and listen if I use my safeword.” He bit his cheek, his brows drawn in a fantastic show of panting frustration. “I trust you,” he finally ended, his bluster disappearing in a final long exhale.
Her pulse raced, the blood rushing in her ears to close out everything but him. He never pulled his gaze, and the truth of what he said was there to flatten her. He trusted her. Fully. When she’d done nothing but test him since that first night at The Den.
Why? She stopped the question before it could escape her thoughts. Her skin flushed with heat and chills. She had no idea if she was questioning herself or him.
She spun away to stride across the room to the stripper’s pole in the corner. He was no different than any other sub. He was just another client. That was it.
She laughed at herself, the sound cackling in her mind. She was a fucking bad liar right then. Her years of practice at the art of deception were unraveling faster than she could fix it.
“Mistress?”
The concerned inquiry wrapped around her, stripping and comforting her at the same time. She busied herself checking the chains even though she’d gone over everything earlier. “I’m going to bind you to this pole to start.”
“I trust you, Mistress.”
The chain clanked against the metal pole. “Then I’m going to warm you up with a light flogging.”
“I trust you, Mistress.”
She sniffed. “After which I’m going to paddle your ass until it’s a delicious shade of red.”
“I—”
“I didn’t ask you a question.” She spun around to glare at him and after a second, he lowered his gaze. The silence was too loud for the room. She waited for the apology that usually tumbled off the tongues of submissives when they’d been chastised, but none came.
This wasn’t right. She was off, and it was her fault. She couldn’t do this, not like this.
“Yellow,” she said.
His head snapped up, mouth gaping. “What—”
She shook her head and held up a finger, her throat too constricted to speak. Damn it. She gripped the pole and looked away, frozen to that spot. She didn’t question herself and she certainly didn’t take her issues out on a sub. Never.
But the submissives she worked with had always been just submissives.
“Hey.” He was right there. Too close. Not close enough. Which was it?
His fingers skimmed along her clenched jaw, so gentle. Caring. She swallowed, her knuckles turning white on the pole.
“What’d I do?” His hand fell away, its absence tangible.
She blew out a breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. His brows were lifted with the same concern she’d heard in his voice. She’d been a bitch of a Mistress to him, and he was still trying to please her. Some subs loved that side of her, and it was fine when it was part of a planned Scene. But her actions now weren’t planned or right. Her emotions were overruling her control, and that was never right in a Scene.
She wet her lips and finally answered. “Nothing.”
He frowned, his hand coming back to cup her jaw. The press of hard-earned callouses were rough against her skin, yet his words were soft. “Then what’s wrong?”
Me? The sarcastic laugh returned to clang around her mind. How much did she share? That came right back to: how much did she trust him?
Somehow the heat from his palm seemed to spread, warming her everywhere. It was just a touch. A single, soft touch. Not pressing, just waiting.
“You confuse me,” she said. The truth fell out on a quick tumble of words. She sucked in a breath and jerked away. Again, she was giving away too much to him. “I’m sorry. That’s not your issue.”
He didn’t follow her when she strode across the room. God, she was grateful for that. If he pushed, she was done. But he wasn’t pushing at all.
She was running.
The doorknob was cold in her hand when she stopped. I’m not running.
She spun around and froze. Holden was facing the pole, hands raised to grip the cuffs that dangled from the top. His feet were spread, weight braced, the muscles down his back and legs pulled taut.
Waiting. Some might see it as pushing, but the humble tilt of his head said only one thing to her. If it please you, Mistress.
And it did. Very much. Too much? Probably.
But letting this go—him go—wasn’t really an option anymore. It never had been or they wouldn’t be here right now.
“You please me,” she said, her voice rough with emotion.
“Thank you, Mistress.” The soft yet firm words held an echo of relief that rang within her too.
She swallowed. Exhaled, and for the first time in what seemed like weeks, took a breath. The corset rubbed against her ribs, the pressure bringing her on track.
She went to him and ever so slowly pressed her hand against his spine. His shudder blended with the release of tension as he sank into the pole. So sweet. The energy simmered up her arm to flood the rest of her.
“Green,” she said, her dry throat preventing anything stronger than a soft whisper. She was almost afraid to ask the next question. She had to though. No assumptions. Her heart beat a heavy pace that pounded in her ears and brought everything down to this next moment. “And you?”
He tossed his head back, his hands clasping the cuffs tight as he pressed into her hand. “Green, Mistress.”
* * *
Oh, fuck. The relief rushed through Holden in a shuddering wave. That’d been too close. The back and forth with her was tiring, but he wouldn’t give up on her. Not when everything in him said this could be so good.
Although it’d shocked him at first, her sudden halt to the Scene solidified his trust in her as a Domme. She’d taken a break when it hadn’t been right for her. He didn’t understand the why of it, but he took it as a sign that she was more involved in them than she was willing to admit.
A second hand joined the first on his back, the heat scorching two palm prints into his skin. She ran a trail up then down along either side of his spine, spreading the warmth. When she cupped each ass cheek in her hands, he bucked forward, a moan falling out.
His cock was past a semi and working on a full hard-on, but the cage contained it. The burning pressure was now well-known after only twenty-four hours, but it was also welcomed.
“Turn around.”
He dropped the cuffs he clung to, flexing aching fingers, and faced her.
“Let’s take that off.” She reached into the top of her black corset and withdrew a key. His key. He’d seen it only once, but he’d recognize it anywhere.
Her movements were efficient. The lock was removed and the tube slipped off. Before his erection could fill out, she eased his semi-hard dick through the ring and maneuvered his balls out of the small circle. Twenty-four hours of denial rushed to his groin, and he was fully hard seconds later.
His resulting curse tore from his chest. “Fuck.” His voice was hoarse with the relief and ache that lingered from getting everything through an inch-and-half ring when it was all bigger and firmer than when she’d put it on.
Hands fisted, he squeezed
his eyes closed, searching for restraint. The urge to come was right there at the base of his dick and raised balls.
“Here.” Her tone was all Mistress, and Holden responded immediately. Her simple touch on his wrist had the tension draining from his muscles. He didn’t question or hesitate as she stepped onto a stool and lifted one arm then the other to fit his wrists into the cuffs he’d just released.
The stretch arched his back, making his hips thrust forward and his erection more prominent. The support of the pole at his shoulder blades was welcomed though. And the restraints were fucking perfect.
Each cuff was a circle of promise held tight to his skin. He was hers. Finally.
The firm clasp of the thick bands of leather was his freedom. It grounded him, but more than that, it allowed him to let go.
Her touch lingered this time. Soft brushes over the inside of his wrists, strokes over his palm that ended at his fingertips, an almost delicate inspection of each hard callus lining his palm sent shimmers of sensation down his arms to collide in his chest. He’d never been so aroused from so little. He could barely think past the fire that burned in his blood and brewed in his balls.
Her eyes had darkened with admiration to a rich chocolate and tracked the path of her fingers down the sensitive underside of his arms, pausing to trace the hard ridge of a scar on his forearm and the soft span of another on his biceps. They were badges of a hockey player, and she worshiped each one.
Her smoke and spice scent surrounded him, intoxicated his mind with everything that was her. Strength, confidence, control and that flash of vulnerability he’d been privileged to see.
She stepped down from the stool, graceful even in her fuck-high heels and sexy-as-hell corset. The short skirt flowed around her thighs, offering glimpses of a stocking line and garters with tiny bows that he wanted to ravish.
Stool set aside, she circled him, each step marked by the delicious click of her heels. “You come when I let you,” she said, her fingers ghosting over his chest to circle a nipple. “You’ll need to concentrate on something else.”
He stared past her delicate fingers and blood-red nails to his cock. The damn thing was so hard that veins budged down the sides from the damp head in an angry demand for release. He dropped his head back, closed his eyes and tried to center himself. His first inhale brought the scent of her and the familiar hint of his own arousal. Fuck.
The battle to come warred with the desire to please her. To do as she commanded.
The anticipation in the denial had been so sweet since the moment she’d put the cage on him. He could do this.
Thinking of the end goal, he mentally ticked off game plays. Walters up the center, Conners on the far side, the stretch to the goal clogged with opponents. When that didn’t work, he put everyone in jockstraps, skates and hairy asses.
The wet swirl of her tongue over the head of his dick shattered that image into a thousand pieces. He gasped, eyes flying open as his brain caught up with the fucktastic thing being done to him.
Vanessa was bent at the waist, hair laid to one side so the silky strands brushed his thigh in a soft caress every time she moved her head to snake the tip of her tongue across the crown of his dick.
He couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The visual, along with the warm, teasing flicks and licks of her tongue, was beyond good.
“Holy... Mistress,” he ground out between clenched teeth. The forced denial had put his mind on his dick all day. Now, he was ready to explode with the tiniest of stimulation. But it wasn’t quite enough.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his balls ready to burst. The strain of holding back blended with the teasing of her tongue until the intensity was so acute he could think of nothing but her.
“Please,” he begged, his voice a strangled sound that was foreign to his ears. He didn’t care.
Staying still was almost impossible. His legs started to shake, his hands clenched around the chains. It took all of his restraint not to buck into her mouth for more. Just one little suck on the tip, a firm stroke down his shaft, that was all he needed to come.
Never had so little been so much.
She blew out a breath that was cool over his wet, hot tip, then stepped away. His hoarse curse was filled with the release she denied him. His breaths came in short huffs that failed to fill his lungs.
He pried his eyes open, not knowing when he’d squeezed them closed again, to hold them on her. The pleasure that lit her eyes and curled over her lips almost buckled his knees. That one look made it worth it.
His Mistress was pleased.
“Thank you, Mistress,” he managed to say on an exhale.
Her brow raised, the cocky arch that both teased and challenged. She sauntered forward, her long raven hair spilling past the tempting plunge of her cleavage. The hard edge of her nail countered the soft pad of her finger where she traced it over his parted lips, first top then bottom.
“But my dear sub,” she whispered, so close her breath bathed his damp neck. “We’ve only just begun.”
His Oh, holy fuck, yes was quickly replaced with Hairy balls. Hairy balls and ass-cracks as her finger descended in a lazy slide to his nipple.
Chapter Eleven
The gloves formed around her palms, tight but comfortable. Vanessa wiggled her fingers, anticipation ripe. The fingerless gloves protected her palms while leaving her free to torment and touch.
The flogger felt good in her hand, the weight balanced between the handle and the deer hide leather strips that dangled off the end. The tool was perfect for a beginner and would warm his skin while safely testing his limits.
“Turn around and grab the pole.” She twirled her finger and waited for him to comply. There was enough slack on the chains to allow him to twist without removing the cuffs.
Finally, she was able to admire his perfect ass. Hockey butts—firm, round and solid as hell. The term bubble butt didn’t come close to describing the beauty that was an ass toned from years of powering down the ice.
He grasped the pole, the long lines of his muscles outlined over his shoulders and down his back. His feet were spread and braced, which only tightened his glutes and defined the cut of his calves even more.
She couldn’t resist smoothing her palm down the line of his spine. The texture of the suede gloves coming before the softer pads of her fingertips. He arched into her touch, his moan purring through the room.
“Good,” she praised and sighed, her eyes closing when she cupped a hard butt cheek in her hand. She savored the firmness, the appreciation melting through her in a flood of heat and desire. “I want to hear you.” She squeezed, finding minimal give. “I can read your body, but not your mind, so tell me what’s good and bad for you.”
The muscle clenched under her hand. “Good, Mistress. That’s good.”
She chuckled then swatted each cheek. The smacks slapped out in quick succession. There was no give in his flesh, no jiggle to cushion the blow to her hand. It was almost like hitting steel. She loved it.
Her fingers tingled with the pleasant sting that reminded her of the power she held—that he’d given to her. She caressed the mounds, anticipating the play ahead. Her nipples were tight beads that shot tingles to her core with every brush against her corset.
“The flogger will warm up your skin.” She ran the ends of the leather over the globes that would soon be tinged pink. They tensed, bulging tight when she lowered the leather strips down his crack. “Don’t come and don’t endure. On some level, you should enjoy everything I do to you.”
She brought the flogger down, the ends thudding against his shoulder in a light stroke tempered to entice, not hurt. “Some need the pain.” She landed a slightly hard blow to his other shoulder that pulled a small hiss from him. “Some need to give by taking whatever their Master defines.” The next strike was
back to the other side, across his shoulder blade. “Some want only to serve their Master’s desires.”
Her rhythm slowly increased, the pace of the hits consistent as she wielded the flogger in a figure eight pattern down and then up his back.
“Find your pleasure or yellow out.” Her voice had roughened, her own zone coming into focus with the ache that built in her arm and the slow reddening of Holden’s skin. This was her rhythm, the power she held over a submissive.
On her next pass down his back, she continued to his ass, her hits landing on the rise then descending. His moan was low and deep, a sound of pleasure not pain. He pressed his hips back as he dropped his shoulders to rest his forehead on the pole.
“So good,” he mumbled, the words blending with the beat of the flogger to flow through her.
Two more strikes, and she halted, panting. Their harsh breaths consumed the space left silent after the smack of the flogger. The welcoming scent of sweat and arousal reached her as she admired the red hue coloring his back and ass. Her marks on the wall of muscle and strength. The sight had her pussy clenching and her blood racing with the need to feel it too.
With a few tugs, she stripped off a glove to lay her palm to the hot flesh. Heat radiated into her hand in the most delicious way. She wet her dry lips and gripped him harder.
He hissed out a breath before forcing more pressure onto his tender skin by pushing his ass into her hand. She responded to his silent request by squeezing until her nails left crescents in his skin.
The growl that bloomed from his chest called to her in a primal way. She wanted to hear him roar with pain, with desire, with need for what she could give him.
For her.
She pressed against him, her front to his back, the full contact a first. Each breath was constrained by her corset, and the confinement left her frustrated instead of calmed. It made no sense, but he was under her skin, burning through her as no other sub ever had. There was no easy out either, so she stopped fighting her emotions and for once, she did what she wanted, not what she should.