She paused, raising her eyebrows, elegant and supercilious. “You’re supposed to hold still. I suppose you can’t even do that much. Give me your hands.”
In misery and relief, he lowered his arms and held them out for the cuffs. “Thank you, Miss Emily,” he said, fervently meaning it, as she locked them around his wrists.
“Save your gratitude.” She squeezed his cock and, so help him, he nearly spent in her hand. “Back up against the fridge.”
She’d forgotten the piece to attach the cuffs together. It would have amused him, except she rummaged through the drawers, her little ass perfectly showcased in the tight skirt, the hem rising to show a glimpse of the naked skin above those wicked boots. She found a long twist-tie and looped it through the handle of the refrigerator, bringing his cuffed wrists tight against it. “Don’t you dare break this,” she whispered against his ear, “or shit will get real.”
Her naked tit pressed against his chest as she twisted the tie in place, the heavy scent of orange blossoms wiping his brain. He wanted to sink to his knees and kiss the backs of her thighs above the leather boots. She’d well and truly sent him on the rocket-ship ride and he was lost to her.
“Now, let’s see about punishing you properly, where you can’t wiggle so disgracefully.”
“Thank—” He lost the words on an explosion of breath when the belt snapped against his thigh. She worked faster, the blows falling more rapidly than he could recover. He tried to keep it together, but felt himself unraveling. All of it—her pointed pink nails and candy-tipped tits, the tiny ankles in her black-leather boots, the way she assessed him from under the brim of the fedora—it worked him over and left him a creature of sheer desire.
If, in that moment, she put a collar on him and chained him to her bed, he’d stay there forever, just for a chance to kiss her feet.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I said,” she repeated, “that clearly it’s time to milk you.” She’d set the belt down and held the dainty glass jar under his cock. In a business-like way, she grasped it, staring into his eyes. “Fill my jar or it will go badly for you.”
Briskly, she pumped him and, with a helpless sob, he came nearly immediately, his balls spasming, body wrenching with the vicious orgasm. She captured most of it in the perfume bottle, even wiping the sharp rim against the head to scoop up the last drops. With a satisfied smile, she inserted the glass stopper and held it in front of his face. “At least I got something for my trouble.”
“Thank you, Miss Emily.” He managed the words, though he couldn’t see straight.
“I would clean you up, but you can’t be trusted, so you’ll have to stay sticky as a reminder of your lack of self-control.” She set down the bottle and took up the cock cage, briskly fastening it in place with the straps around his waist and between his thighs. Then she fixed the apron, turning it around and smiling. “I’m glad you told me about this device. It would never have occurred to me, but of course a very bad puppy like you knows all about them. I bet you fantasized about this. Me putting you in chastity, keeping that uncontrollable cock in its place. Maybe I’ll make you wear it always. You can always please me with your clever mouth. Or you can wear one of those strap-ons to fuck me. You don’t deserve any pleasure.”
The thought thrilled him, having to satisfy her while he couldn’t even get erect. It also gave him mad ideas for paybacks.
“It’s still hot in here.” She stroked his cheek and, impulsively, he turned his head to press a fervent kiss to her hand. Slapping him softly, she laughed. “Save your imploring kisses. I’m still angry with you.” Turning around, she unzipped the skirt, then slowly slid it down her thighs, bending over completely to do it. She wore a black thong and the sight of her smooth white bottom divided by the dark lace made the blood rush to his groin, his cock swelling painfully against the wire cage. He squirmed, hoping the twist tie wouldn’t give. No telling what she’d do then.
She looked over her shoulder with wide eyes. “Is it still pink? I was sore this morning. Something else you’ll pay for. Now, after all that work getting you settled, I want my martini. Open the fridge, please.”
Diabolical of her. He shuffled forward, opening the door for her. She pulled out a jar of olives. “Close the door. Don’t waste electricity.”
He backed up, the door cool against his ass, feeling divinely like a prop in her kitchen. Making him move again, so she could pull the vodka from the freezer, she prolonged the scenario. Then she decided she wanted a snack, taking several passes through the fridge while she hemmed and hawed over what she needed. Finally she sat at the kitchen table, one heel hooked over the rung of the chair so her knee was raised and thighs spread, with her martini and a little cheese plate.
She took a sip and a bite, then sat back in her chair and fondled her own breast, tweaking her nipple. “I must say, I like how this kitchen is decorated.” Her gaze roved over him in frank appreciation. “And you don’t look too busy for me now.”
“Thank you, Miss Emily.” He sounded contrite as possible. How long would she keep up the game? Possibly a long, long time.
She picked up the martini and, holding it, put one booted foot up on the table and slid her other hand inside the thong. Not enough for him to see much, just the shape of her fingers moving under the black lace. She caressed herself, sighing. “I confess, I’m quite hot and wet. Too bad you’re missing out.”
He tugged on the twist-tie, then remembered not to, in a near frenzy to get to her and rip those little panties off. It wouldn’t take much. He could snap the wire, rip off the infuriating cock cage, bend her over the fucking table and wipe that smile off her face. She read the thoughts in his eyes and shook her head mockingly. “Don’t you do it, Fox. Disobey me and I’ll never let you tie me up again.”
Groaning with frustration, he watched helplessly as she stroked herself, focusing on her technique, so he could at least learn what she liked best. Closing her eyes, she ignored him entirely, her breasts flushing and long body undulating as the climax took her. Not as hard as he could make her come, he observed with considerable satisfaction. She opened her eyes, thought it over, then stood and offered him her wet fingers to lick.
He cleaned them carefully, holding her gaze and using every technique he knew to excite her, sucking on the pads of her fingertips and watching her lovely eyes darken.
“Good puppy,” she whispered. “Just for that, I’ll let you work for a while.” Taking a pair of kitchen shears, she snipped the twist tie that held the cuffs together, leaving the wiry ends to dangle. She pointed to his desk with a shiny pink nail. She’d clearly had them done just for him. He wanted them digging into his ass as he plunged into her, but was quickly giving up any hope of that.
“Take off the apron and use it to cover the chair, so you don’t mess it up.” She’d brought the ankle cuffs and he sat on the swivel chair with some trepidation. Fastening the cuffs to either side of the wheeled base, she had his feet straddling the chair, knees spread and that cock cage tormenting him, shiny and taunting. He could have left that out and she would never have known, but no, he had to put it in the story.
Worse, he knew—more or less—what was coming next.
You can call it off, Sparky. Say the word and the game is over. She might make good on the threat, though, never to let him dominate her again. And he had ideas now. She’d given him insights, with her little mind games, whether she realized it or not, and he knew exactly how he’d get to her next time he had the chance.
She tapped the keyboard, pink nipples bouncing enticingly with the movement. “Type five hundred times ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ I hope you’re a good typist. That’s ten words. At ninety words a minute, you should have that done in five and a half minutes. I’ll be generous and give you a full ten minutes. No mistakes. I want nothing less than perfection from you. No copy and pas
ting. I’ll be watching.” She leaned against the desk, hips propped on the edge, close enough for him to smell her aroused woman scent, her gorgeous tits inches away and completely out of his reach. She held a little sticky note and a pen, watching the screen.
Feeling as crazy as Jack Nicholson in The Shining, he typed for her, tearing his gaze from her deliciously naked body and concentrating on laying the words down. He missed a typo and she made a note on the pad, shaking her head and tsking. With his heightened emotional state, the possibility of disappointing her rattled through him. It wasn’t that damn difficult. In the moment of distraction, he made another mistake and had to back up to fix it, she noted it down anyway.
“I think you’re going too slowly,” she said, as if confiding a secret. “Maybe you need more incentive. I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare cheat. I’ll be listening for that steady tap-tapping.”
She sauntered off and he typed frantically, keeping his mind on the stupid task and not on what she planned to torment him with.
“Stand up and bend over the keyboard.” Her voice cracked behind him, startling and so full of crisp irritation that his cock jumped, tightening against the cage, his balls swelling and the painful misery filling his brain. He made a series of errors when his fingers spasmed on the keys and tried to get a grip on himself. Belatedly obeying, he stood and bent over the keyboard, sweat falling in his eyes, and something cool and flat cracked against his ass.
The paddle. Dammit.
He’d taught her far too well. The task should have been dead easy, but became nearly impossible under the physical and emotional pressure. She paddled him, slowly, not all that hard, and he tried to keep typing, but he kept losing his place. “Shit!” he exclaimed, after a flurry of blows made him accidently erase some text.
She stopped. “What was that?”
Defeated, he lowered his head to the keyboard, thighs tense. He’d broken several rules at once.
“I thought so. Stay like that and contemplate how fully you’ve failed me.”
Amazingly, he did. Had he thought to impress her with his ability to submit? Probably so. And how neatly she’d turned him inside out. He trembled with the need to touch her, to show her all he could do. If only she’d give him another chance.
What had he written into the story next? This had been slightly off-script, and his desire-addled brain couldn’t recall what he’d written in the demented hours of early morning, still drunk on the giddiness of having her.
Emily.
“Stand up.” She had a length of white laundry rope and tied his cuffs together with it. He tried to catch her eye, to apologize with his expression, but she had her lips pressed together in a disappointed line. Setting a stepstool in front of him, she climbed up, showing him she now wore only the boots. Her body was a pink-and-cream lily rising out of the black leather. Red marks showed on her waist and ribcage where the bustier had dug into her flesh, as arousing as the imprint of ropes. She raised his bound wrists and threaded the rope through a plant hook buried in the overhead beam, her pussy hovering tantalizingly in front of his face.
His mouth watered for her and she dug her hands into his hair, steadying herself. “You may show me how much you want to make it up to me. Consider this a test.”
Guiding his head to her sleekly dark-haired mound, she opened her thighs as much as the stepping stool allowed. He slipped his tongue into her salty sweet folds. Hot and wet woman. Tonguing her with all his skill, he sucked her clit, hoping to drive her to orgasm before she realized how close she was.
She gripped his hair, dragging his head away and gasping out a laugh. Irrationally pleased to hear the sound, he kept his head bowed but smiled to himself. There was power and then there was power.
Stepping down, she surveyed him dangling from the ropes, legs spread by the binding to the chair. She cupped his scrotum, rolling the balls inside and tickling his perineum with her sharp nails. She kissed him softly and he returned it, with throbbing need. “Maybe I’ll let you fuck me now, hmm?”
“Thank you, Miss Emily.” He said it on a rush of relief.
She unfastened the straps holding the cock cage and smiled, cruelly, when he gasped at the pain of blood rushing into the compressed tissues. “Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it? Paybacks are hell. And don’t be too happy. You don’t get to come.”
Of course not.
To make sure, she rolled three condoms onto his erect and unbearably sensitive cock. He’d had to give her that tip, hadn’t he? Idiot move, Sparky. Distracting himself from the sensation of her fine, nimble fingers on his hyper-aroused flesh, he calculated the odds of finding a lover on this tiny island with her perfectly sadistic enthusiasm for these games. She bent over the desk, positioning herself between him and it, aligning her open pussy with his cock. The sight alone made his head swim.
Looking over her shoulder in that coy, sly way, she pulled off the fedora and let her hair cascade over her. “Fuck me, Fox. Make sure you do it well and don’t you dare come.”
Hellishly difficult to insert himself in her, with his arms stretched above his head and tethered feet spread. She took pity on him, pushing her slim hips back and sheathing herself on him. Without much finesse, he did his best, working in and out of her tight channel while she moaned and sighed. It made him crazy, servicing her this way, and she knew it. Hell, she got off on it, glancing back at him with that smug little smile, as if she knew he wanted to grab her and pound into her, holding her so she couldn’t escape him.
With a sweet cry, she came, thighs trembling and slim hands clutching the desk. He couldn’t watch, staring up at the ceiling instead, concentrating on withholding his own orgasm while her internal muscles clenched around him. She rested a moment, wiggling her hips to make sure he had stayed as hard as ever, then stood and stripped off the condoms, making a show of inspecting them for come.
“Well done!” She gave him a fatuous smile and patted his cock like the puppy she’d taken to calling him. He clenched his teeth at the surge in his groin. “I feel much more satisfied now. You can work for a while and I’ll go have another martini.”
“Thank you, Miss Emily.” He tried to sound gracious, though she walked out, leaving him hanging in every possible way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She didn’t really want another martini—she hadn’t even finished the first one—but she made the appropriate clinking noises and downed some ice water instead. The two orgasms so far hadn’t made much of a dent in her spiraling desire.
Watching Fox lose his mind over her, unraveling at the seams with each new torment she visited on him—well, it was easily as heady as the vodka. No wonder he liked it both ways. Both had their addictive qualities. From the gleam in his glittering brown eyes, the one she’d caught a couple of times when he thought she wasn’t looking, he was planning his own payback scenarios.
If possible, the thought aroused her even more.
Though thinking of him strung up, unsatisfied and waiting helplessly for her return, also packed considerable punch. She hadn’t felt powerful this way in...ever. Certainly not where sex was involved. And Fox had handed her this gift as surely as he’d grinned on her deck and introduced himself as her new neighbor.
A moment she treasured in her memory as the omen of the best things that had ever happened to her.
Being the one in charge, though, it brought a kind of responsibility. What did he secretly hope she’d do next? Should she just do whatever she liked? In his story, the mistress had donned one of the belted dildos and fucked him as he’d promised to do to her. It made her a bit nervous to contemplate that. It seemed like she could hurt him. Much as the prospect unnerved—yes, and excited her—she thought maybe she should experience it before trying it on him.
The thing to learn first would be how to find the prostate and massage it. She’d read before that m
en liked it. A lot in some cases, but none of her pitifully few lovers had been much into having their assholes touched. One had even proudly, and disgustingly, declared that his asshole had a one-way sign on it. To be fair, some might have liked it, if she’d had the courage to put her finger there during sex. Not like Fox the fearless.
Now was the perfect time to find out.
She poured a couple of glasses of wine and, pinching her nipples to make them tighten, she strolled in to check on her lover’s predicament. He raised his head, eyes flashing as he took her in with that ravenous gaze, that look that never failed to make her feel desired, appreciated and desirous all at once.
“How’s the novel coming along? I didn’t hear much clicking of the keys.” She glanced pointedly at the keyboard. “Too bad you can’t type with that rigid cock, huh?”
He narrowed his eyes, promising her all sorts of dire retribution, but did not reply. Not going to even attempt to thank her for that one. He looked gorgeous, strung up that way. Of course, she’d never seen him look less than totally appealing, but with his arms stretched up, showing off the ginger hair in his armpits, the long lean muscles of his chest and abs, his runner’s thighs taut—oh, he looked good enough to eat. Especially his flushed cock, demanding attention.
Pretty impressive, actually, that he’d managed not to come. She could not have withstood what he already had.
“Thirsty?” She offered the wineglass.
“Thank you, Miss Emily,” he answered, murmuring the words like a love poem. She held the rim to his lips and he drank, gaze steady on hers, somehow both challenging and submissive.
“In the story,” she said, “the man cleaned himself out for his mistress. Is that the case? I give you leave to answer my questions now.”
He looked amused. Possibly for her squeamishness. But there it was. “Yes, Miss Emily. I’m clean for you.”
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