by Parker Grey
It’s just a necklace, I tell myself. Maybe he’s going to take you out somewhere, needs to make the media believe you’re being treated well.
I pick it up, letting it dangle from my fingers, and frown. It’s the wrong shape for a necklace, and the ribbon is stretchy, almost like it’s a…
I rearrange it in my fingers, and suddenly, I realize what it is. The stretchy black part isn’t a ribbon, and the pearls aren’t a necklace.
It’s a thong.
My eyes fall to the note lying on the bed again.
Nothing else.
I grab the box, shake it onto the bed. This is everything that’s inside: a slinky gown and a thong with pearls that are going to go right over my clit, the thought already making my body heat up uncomfortably.
I can’t imagine walking out of this room, the thong caressing and rubbing me with every step while Julian looks at me, naked except for this thin fabric. Worst of all, he’ll know what I’m wearing underneath it, and he’ll know that I’m already wet and on the edge…
There’s no way. I can’t do this. I’m not a prostitute or a courtesan or something, I’m a political prisoner with rights, no matter what this beastly prince thinks.
You can’t be both? a tiny voice inside my head asks.
Chapter Twelve
Julian
It’s another long day of ruling, or of trying to rule while my loyal subjects do their damnedest to thwart me at every turn.
I sit through endless meetings, fill out paperwork, award an old lady a civic honor. The entire time all I can think about is what I left Belle in the box.
The dress.
The note.
The lingerie.
I think of her defiant face, of the way that she looks at me like she’s not going to let me win. Hell, she already tried to escape once — there’s no reason to think that she won’t try again.
Just like there’s no reason to think that, when I return tonight, she’ll be wearing a thin silk dress, the thong I left her, and nothing else. I should be prepared for her to be wearing a full-on sack made of the ugliest thing that she can find.
But I’m not.
I recognize something in Belle. Something as deeply depraved and twisted as I am. There’s something in her that calls out to me, whispers that she’ll fit me like a puzzle piece, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
She’s there, just waiting for me to get back. The pearls and gold chain on her thong are probably already sticky and slippery, each white nub rubbing up against her most sensitive places, one at a time.
Belle wants me to dominate her. She’s aching for it.
I know she’ll fight it. But she can’t help what she wants any more than I can.
I’m hard before I even open the door to my chambers, because I’ve been thinking about this nonstop all day.
About Belle, in the dress, the thong I left her already driving her crazy. I can’t wait to see the lust in her eyes, the look like she’s slowly slipping under the surface of a pond, like she’s falling into a place she can’t get herself free of.
I think about pinning her against the wall, crushing my mouth against hers as I pull up the warm dress, tug on the thong until she gasps. I think about bringing her to the edge with just my fingers, sliding them over her wet slickness, listening to her gasp, watching the fire in her eyes.
I shake my head, walking down a long stone corridor in my castle. I shouldn’t be thinking these things yet — I’m getting ahead of myself.
But I can’t stop. I want her on her knees, lips wrapped around my cock. I want her bent over the table, legs wide. I want to tell her to fuck herself with her fingers until she’s right at the edge, and then I want her to beg for my cock.
I push the door open, visions of her dancing in my head — Belle on the couch, head back, lips parted, the slit in the dress already showing her creamy skin up to her thigh.
But she’s not there. The parlor is simply empty. The box is gone, so I know she’s found what I left, but Belle’s not there, waiting for me.
I put my things down, walk through the other rooms. She’s not in the kitchen, not in the dining room, and I start to get angry.
It was a direct order, I think. It wasn’t hard to understand.
I know she wants this. I know we both do.
Finally, I’m at the doorway to the bedroom she’s staying in, anger bubbling and popping inside me. I curl my hands into fists, close my eyes, and count to ten.
Then I knock. I want to pound on her door until it shakes on its hinges, but I am capable of moderating my behaviors somewhat.
There’s a silence within, and then finally, I hear her voice.
“Who is it?”
This time I can’t help myself.
“Who the fuck do you think?”
“I’m not ready.”
“You’ve had all day.”
“I haven’t been getting ready all day.”
I stand outside the door, hands clenched, fuming and impatient. I don’t like being denied, and I especially don’t like being denied by my submissives or my prisoners. I realize that she’s only one of those things right now, but she’ll be the other soon enough.
“I know you’re wearing it,” I say, letting my voice drop to a growl.
Silence. A slight rustle, and I know I’m right.
“I know exactly what you’re wearing,” I go on, letting my voice go gravelly. “And I know you’ve been waiting all day for me to come back, taking it on and off, thinking to yourself that you can’t possibly let me do this to you, and yet…”
More silence. Rustling.
“…when you put it on, you felt the thrill of obedience, of letting someone else take control for once. And you liked it, Belle, because despite everything I know exactly who you are.”
This time I let the silence stretch out for a long time, stepping back from the door.
At last, I hear footsteps on the other side. The lock clicks over, and after another pause, the door comes open, so slowly I think I might lose my mind.
She’s standing there, wide-eyed, her hair tumbling around her shoulders like she’s just come through a windstorm, the dress falling all the way to the floor around her bare feet.
It’s black. It’s pure silk, so dark that it feels like the light is falling into it, so thin that I can nearly see the individual goosebumps on her skin. It whispers over her body, the thin straps over her shoulders, the neckline plunging between her small but full breasts, both nipples pointing straight at me.
“Come closer,” I growl.
She just looks at me for a long moment. Eyes flashing, and for half a second, I wonder if I was wrong, if she’s not what I know she is. If taking her submission is going to feel empty and worthless instead of the way I want it to feel.
But then something subtle shifts in her eyes. The fight doesn’t go out of them, but it changes somehow that I can’t quite name, from defiance to something else, something that wants every moment of this just as badly as I do.
Belle steps forward, out of her bedroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Belle
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I feel like there’s an invisible thread connected to me, pulling me forward, toward him and I can’t stop it.
I don’t even want to stop it. I wish I did, but instead I feel like I’m melting under the pure heat of his gaze, my bones turning to lava.
I lied about the dress. I put it on hours ago, along with the thong, spent a long time staring at myself in the mirror. I’ve never worn anything like this before, anything so beautiful, so almost non-existent, or this… well, desirable.
I’ve been with men before. I’ve had boyfriends, but I’ve never wanted so badly to be lusted after, to be looked at like this.
“It fits,” he growls, his eyes leaving mine, crawling down my body. “Good.”
I shudder at the knowledge that we share about what else I’m wearing: no bra, only a thong that teases me with every step
I take, my upper thighs already slick and sticky with juices.
“And you like it,” he says, cupping my chin in his big hand.
It’s not a question, but I look up into his eyes, nearly ready to answer something sharp and witty.
Instead, he crushes his mouth against mine, pressing me back against the wall. His tongue invades me without a second thought, without asking permission, his hand still gripping my face like a vise.
Breathless, I kiss him back as he moves his body against mine, the thick fabric of his suit rough against the barely-there fabric of this dress. I can feel it against my nipples, stiff and aching with the wait I had to endure, almost as if each individual thread is torturing me with sensation.
I put my hands against his chest, but in a second, he’s grabbed my wrists, taking both of them in one thick hand, pinning them against the wall over my head. I cry out in surprise, but Julian brings his face away from mine and I’m gasping against the wall.
“I already told you,” he murmurs, his voice thick and raspy in my ear. “You’re mine.”
His other hand caresses one hard, aching nipple, and I bite my lip, eyes sliding closed as my hips buck toward him.
Then he pinches it, hard, and I gasp, whimpering, but even as he twists it between his fingers, white-hot sensation flooding my body, my pussy just throbs harder.
I have to choke back the words take me, do whatever you want.
“And my playthings ask permission,” he whispers in my ear, lips just barely brushing my skin.
I swallow hard once, twice. I take a deep breath, feeling my spine against the cold stone wall.
“Okay,” I whisper back.
He pinches the nipple a little harder, lightning jolting through my core.
“Not ‘okay,’” he growls. “Yes, sir.”
My knees are shaking. I move my hips again because it makes my clit rub against the pearl thong, bringing me half a step closer, the swollen nub aching for release.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
Julian’s lips move down my neck until he’s at the crook and then his mouth stays there, licking and sucking until I cry out again, his teeth sharp against my skin.
“There,” he growls. “No mistaking you now.”
I can’t see myself but I’m certain that he’s marked me, a purple welt on my neck. It’s going to be obvious to anyone and everyone who sees me exactly what I’ve let the Beast Prince do to me.
And right now, I don’t care. I can only moan helplessly.
In the next second he’s grabbed me, picked me up, hauled me over his shoulder and he’s bringing me into the parlor. There’s a huge, ornate mirror leaning against one wall, and Julian kicks an armchair to sit right in front of it and puts me down, both of us facing the mirror.
It’s quite a picture. He towers over me, huge and commanding in his suit, the thin fabric of my dress fluttering to the floor. There’s a purple welt on my neck, my hair is wild around my shoulders, and my nipples are obvious as spear points.
Plus, my chest is heaving, the entire outline of my breasts visible with every inhale. I try to slow it down, biting my swollen lips, but I can’t.
Julian sits on the edge of the chair, pulls me back onto his lap. My pussy is right on top of his massive, thick erection, the pearls on my thong rubbing and teasing me and I buck my hips against him despite myself.
He pulls my dress up, slowly, watching us in the mirror as his hands skim my thighs, pulling them apart as the black fabric falls between them, obscuring me.
“Stand up,” he commands, his voice low and guttural. “And bend over.”
I don’t even think, I just do as he says, anchoring my hands on his knees and bending forward at the hips. There’s a small voice in the back of my head reminding me that this is going to put my pussy right in his face, and he’ll be able to see how helplessly turned on I am, how embarrassingly wet, but I don’t care.
All I want is to obey him.
As soon as I’m in position, he slides the long skirt of my dress up, over my hips, around my waist. I suck in a breath as the cool air hits my heated pussy, the low growl from Julian making me throb just a little harder.
He leaves my skirt hanging from my waist, the long fabric obscuring him so all I can see in the mirror is my own face as he slides the pad of one thumb down the line of my thong, between my buttocks. I gasp as it moves right over my back hole and to the pearls over my pussy, slipping past them one by one.
“You’re wet,” he says, sliding a finger underneath them.
I bite my lip, forcing back a groan. There’s a long pause, and then Julian flicks my clit lightly, just hard it enough that it nearly hurts.
“Answer when I speak to you,” he says.
“Yes,” I gasp.
Another flick, my knees going rigid as my vision swims with the mix of pain and pleasure.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
I’m immediately rewarded by his fingers, gentle again, stroking my pussy. His thumb finds my clit, rolls a pearl back and forth over it.
“You want to come, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I say without hesitation, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Tell me, Belle,” he muses, still rolling the pearl around my clit. “After the way you’ve behaved, do you think you deserve to come?”
I swallow, not answering. My head is swimming, and I’m not sure what answer he wants, but I know what answer I want.
“Yes, sir,” I gasp. “Please.”
Suddenly he snaps the pearls against me, sending another jolt through my body that makes my toes curl.
“For a girl with so much fight, this was surprisingly easy,” he murmurs, fingering the pearls one by one, shocks going through my system.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get the fact that I’m bent over and he’s face-to-face with my pussy out of my mind. Trying to forget that right now, Julian knows everything — that this is turning me on so much I can barely control myself, that all I want is for him to use me however he wants.
He snaps the pearls against my clit again and I gasp, hands clawing against his knees.
“I could make you come this way,” he says. “I’d barely have to touch you, Belle, for you to get what you want.”
He does it one more time, and I moan. I’m looking at myself in the mirror, disheveled and bent over, my mouth open and my face pink, my eyes full of lust at half-mast.
I look wanton, back arched. Like an animal in heat, and I don’t even care.
I just don’t want him to stop.
But then Julian’s hands leave me, go back to my hips. I whimper in disappointment.
“Sit,” he commands, and guides my hips down as I do, making sure my wet pussy is right over the hard, thick, impossibly big lump of his cock.
He’s still holding the skirt of my dress in his hands, my pussy directly on the fabric of his expensive suit. I swear I can feel every stitch and thread in it, I’m so turned on and worked up right now.
“Hold your skirt up,” he growls in my ear, and I take the long fabric from him, heart racing, panting for breath, and I hold it tentatively around my waist. “You’re going to watch yourself while you ride my cock.”
I moan at the words, at his suggestion that he’s finally going to fuck me, but instead Julian laughs.
“Not like that,” he says. “You think you deserve a good fucking? I don’t think so, Belle.”
Chapter Fourteen
Julian
I know I’m cruel. I know I’ve got a reputation for it, and God knows I’ve got a secret room off my bedroom full of whips and chains, exactly the kind of thing to make someone cry out in pleasure and pain all at once.
But this? This is crueler, and I know it. I’m punishing Belle for wanting me and denying herself, for trying to leave when she’s my prisoner.
Hell, I’m punishing myself for doing this to her.
I know it’s wrong. I’m not fucking stupid. I know that it
’s borderline illegal and getting more questionable with every day that she spends here with me. There are rules about this kind of thing, laws, and prince or not I can still get myself in serious trouble.
The problem is that I don’t care.
I don’t care because of the way Belle moans when I tell her she’s going to ride my cock, because that means she wants it just as badly as I do, and I’m cruel because I’m not going to give it to her.
Not yet. She’s mine, body and soul, and that means I’m going to use her however I want and she’s going to come again and again, beg me to do wicked, filthy things to her.
But not yet. Not now.
Now, Belle needs to learn.
“Ride my cock just like this,” I whisper in her ear, her weight already heavy on my thick rod, her juices already halfway soaked through my trousers.
Something flicks across Belle’s face. Disappointment, I think, even as she rolls her hips against me and I watch her in the mirror as the pearls slide back and forth, between her lips.
Fuck, it feels good. She’s going slow and steady, grinding all the way down the length of my cock, her eyes half-shut and her lips parted. I’m watching the pearls disappear beneath her pussy and come back soaking wet and slick, the friction between us almost unbearable.
“You like the way my cock feels?” I ask her, grabbing her thick chestnut hair in one hand and tugging her head backward.
“Yes,” she says, swallowing hard. “Sir.”
“Do you like watching yourself get off like this? With you half-naked while I’m fully clothed?”
“Yes sir,” she moans, her voice barely above a whisper.
I run my hands up her body, feeling her fast breathing, her ribcage heaving. I like watching her in the mirror, knowing that she’s watching herself, too, especially while she does something this dirty.
Belle doesn’t strike me as a virgin, but she does strike me as someone who’s never done anything like the things I’m going to do to her. A good, vanilla, missionary-sex-with-the-lights-out kind of girl.