Out of Control

by Roberts, Teresa Noelle

  Would he restrain her in some complicated way, the shibari they’d discussed that first day and had brought up other times but never had time to experiment with? Or would he do something quick and dirty, tying her to the bed so she couldn’t squirm away from the slaps of the riding crop? Would he leave the lingerie on as he beat her? Push it out of the way afterward for better access? Or would he decide to skip the lingerie altogether? She wouldn’t care one way or another. Bits of lace and satin could be fun, but naked was great too.

  Or maybe he’d rip it off her body. Literally rip it. Destroy it in his passion.

  She’d consider it a fitting sacrifice if he did.

  Jen realized with a start that she’d not only let her soup get cold but was caressing her nipple idly as she fantasized. It felt enflamed, sensitive enough that the soft blue cotton of her tank top scraped against it. And when she shifted in her seat, her loose pants pressed against her clit like an instrument of delightful torture.

  Thank goodness Sean had stepped out to grab lunch and Ryoko was at her day job. She was friendly with her studio mates, but there were things they really didn’t need to share.

  She considered all kinds of techniques to clear her head and calm her body. Balancing her checkbook. Seeing if she could find a formula for a particular color she wanted to try. Calling her parents, which was always a buzzkill.

  Then she considered that she still had several hours before she’d be heading home to Drake’s not necessarily tender, but very welcome, ministrations. Several hours during which she’d be playing with hot glass. Maybe she should just get it out of her system.

  A few more shifts, a few times pressing her thighs together, and an orgasm shivered over her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out Drake’s name.

  But she screamed it in her mind. As she seemed to do most of the time these day, which, depending on when you asked her, was either very good, or very bad.

  For the first time since he’d optimistically put the bondage rings in the living room ceiling, Drake was using them. Nothing fancy tonight. Much as he adored shibari, he preferred to set aside most of an afternoon, if not more, to the process, not a couple of hours when he and Jen were both tired.

  Besides, ever since he’d come home and found it there, he’d been thinking about that crop she left on the bed.

  And with that green lingerie she was wearing—a skimpy camisole top and lace panties that sat low on her hips and covered her butt in a way that was more naked than leaving it bare—she didn’t need much rope to ornament her.

  So he tied her simply, standing straight with a simple chest harness, arms bound behind her back. The rope binding her arms ran through one of the rings on the ceiling. “Now you can’t run away,” he said. It didn’t do much to restrain her, but he enjoyed doing it. Enjoyed the surprise on her face when she noticed the rings, painted white and lying flush against the ceiling. Enjoyed taking out a small ladder and finally using that ring—not to mention the way that being tethered to the ring made her eyes glaze and her breath grow ragged. Enjoyed restricting her in one more way, although the rope had to be long enough that the restriction was mostly symbolic. She couldn’t bolt out the door if, for some reason, she wanted to, but she still had a lot of freedom of movement.

  And she wasn’t taking advantage of it.

  No, she was standing stock-still, waiting for him to blindfold her, even though, when she saw the blindfold, the toy she herself had chosen, she couldn’t help flinching.

  Damn that turned him on, that Jen trusted him enough to choose the blindfold when it frightened her. Aroused her but definitely frightened her.

  Blindfold in his hand, Drake kissed her one more time. He was hard, aching, from tying her up. Or maybe it was just from being near her, from smelling her lust, from tasting her skin.

  With her, he couldn’t draw the line between his fetishes and his desire for her. That used to be clear. Used to be easy to separate. Easy to like his playmates without getting obsessed, without caring in more than a friendly way outside of the bedroom or dungeon.

  This woman ornamented by green rope, trusting him to rob her of her sight, had changed all that.

  And it was scary as hell, but he thought maybe he could live with that kind of fear, rather than the old fear of connecting at all.

  Gently, he ran the leather blindfold over her skin as he kissed her. Back. Breasts. Face. Her eyes went wide for a second, and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. Then she sighed and leaned into the caress. The blindfold, and his fingers, passed over every bit of bare skin he could reach, sliding under the camisole to find her nipples, pushing up the back of her panties to stroke her ass. She squirmed and made small noises but stopped herself the few times she started to beg.

  Jen trying to be patient was adorable. It didn’t come naturally to her, and she quivered like a kid on Christmas morning who had to wait for Grandma to come over to open her presents—as well as trembling with a much more adult emotion. To tease her more, Drake cupped her mound and pussy with his free hand, just long enough for her breath to quicken. Heat pulsed off her, and the lace at her crotch was moist. With just a few circles of his finger or pressure from his palm, he could bring her from damp to soaked, and shortly after that, from aroused to orgasmic.

  Instead, he whispered, “Oh no. You have to wait,” and withdrew his hand.

  He slipped the blindfold into place, making sure, as he did, that she could smell her own arousal on his fingers. With her vision blocked, the sense of smell would be that much more powerful.

  For a second, as the blindfold covered her eyes, Jen’s body went rigid, all the lovely softness of trust and arousal pushed out by sudden alarm. He tried to imagine what it must be like for someone as visually oriented as Jen to be blind at someone else’s whim. He’d decided to go through with her suggestion, not despite knowing it was challenging for her but because of it. “I’m right here,” he whispered, although the words seemed dumb the second they passed his lips. She could still feel him, after all, even if she couldn’t see him.

  “I know. I can still see your colors behind my eyelids. Taste them.” It made no sense to Drake, like much of what Jen said about colors, but as she spoke the words, she relaxed.

  “I might need to pull away from you for a second.” No, he’d done it right; the riding crop was within reach, though he had to stretch to grab it and still maintain contact with Jen. He hefted the crop in his hand, flicked it against his own naked thigh to reacquaint himself with its movement, its power. The crop was an old favorite toy, one he knew well, but it had been gathering dust for far too long. (Not literally; he didn’t allow things to gather dust in his house, but wiping it off quickly was not at all the same as using it on an eager victim.) Sharp, stinging slap, followed by the deeper, more bruising sensation if he chose to hit with the shaft. And he would choose that for Jen. She wasn’t the biggest pain slut he’d ever dommed, but she craved intense sensation.

  Before he began, Drake raised the crop’s slapper to her lips. “Kiss it,” he ordered. Jen pressed her lips against the leather. He thought she sniffed at the same time and wondered what she was smelling.

  “Mink oil,” she whispered, answering the question he hadn’t actually asked. “You take good care of your toys.”

  “Of all my possessions.” It came out as a growl. He was glad she was blindfolded and couldn’t see the fierce leer he felt spreading across his face as he spoke. Maybe she wouldn’t know what he’d been thinking, or would take it as one of those things that made sense in the heat of the moment.

  Maybe she didn’t know yet that even in the heat of the moment, he meant what he said, didn’t blurt out dramatic words he didn’t really mean.

  Maybe he could forget, for a while, that he knew that about himself. That he knew on some level he thought of Jen as his, even if she didn’t know it.

  Focus on the moment. Focus on the beautiful bound woman who awaited painful pleasure at his hands.

  Worry
later about what his subconscious might be telling him.

  He began by circling Jen, tapping gently with the crop as he did. Breasts, focusing on her perky nipples. Thighs, both front and back, outer and inner. And of course, her gorgeous lace-clad ass. Soon the blood flowed to all the areas that he was likely to target, the skin warmed up, and Jen’s breathing, at first raspy with nerves, calmed again.

  What would be his target for the first real blows? He’d end up focusing on her ass and upper thighs, where a harder strike would still be pleasurable and even one that was too hard for true pleasure would do no harm.

  But she looked so relaxed now, lost in the pleasure of the light, caressing taps he’d been giving her. He could work her up to something stronger, increasing the intensity of his blows gradually, but his sadistic side had another idea. He’d get her back to a dreamy place, but it would be one where she was surfing on pain, not mild sensations. And to get her there, he had to jar her first.

  He smacked the slapper onto her nipple.

  Jen jumped in her bonds. She sputtered, and he was pretty sure he heard, “Shit” in the sputter, though she sounded more like an irate cat than a human. She grimaced, her face screwing up against the pain.

  And then she smiled. “What the… How does that end up feeling good when it hurts so damn much?” Awe suffused her voice.

  “Magic. Alchemy.” The supposed physiological and psychological reasons didn’t work on everyone—most people found pain just hurt, even with an endorphin rush to make it more bearable—so to Drake’s mind there was less science to it than magic. A bottom with the right mindset and wiring, like Jen, could transmute pain to pleasure without incantations or alembics or any of the props of high-fantasy geekdom.

  She murmured, “Of course,” as he struck again, balancing the blow with one to the other breast. This time she yelped, but as she did, her hips thrust at the air.

  A few more times he slapped at her breasts with the crop. Then he turned his attention to her thighs, smiling to himself at the red marks blossoming on her pale skin. Only a few blows to the front and outside of her thighs. They weren’t really erogenous zones for most people, more stingy than pleasurable, but they made such a tempting canvas, and she made such lovely noises, torn between pain and need, when he struck there.

  Drake trailed the crop over Jen’s torso as he circled around behind her. Now he’d arrived at his real target, her delicious ass. “Stick your butt out,” he ordered, and she complied without a word. Even that small movement seemed dreamy, as if she moved through something thick and sweet.

  She was dropping. She was ready.

  Here, he started gradually, tapping lightly but swiftly at first and gradually building up until an all-over pink glowed through her lace panties. Now he struck harder on her ass and the sweet spot where her ass curved down to her thighs, spacing the blows so pain from one blow faded to bliss just as the next strike exploded. She squirmed in her bonds, sometimes jerking away, but always returning to position immediately. Sometimes she wiggled her ass at him as if to reassure that, despite her cries, despite her instinctive flinching away, she wanted more.

  He was striking harder now, but she was yelping less and moaning more, circling her butt between blows as if enticing him to hit again, hit harder, take her farther.

  Drake accepted the invitation. It became a dance. His cock strained and ached from the beauty of her cries, her reactions, her red ass and writhing, rope-wrapped body, but that same beauty made him want to continue to torment and delight them both with the crop.

  Finally, he paused to wipe sweat off his forehead. He took the opportunity to step back and look at Jen. Even through the lace of her panties, he could tell her ass was mottled, possibly bruised. More marks glowed on her legs.

  And the slickness of desire gleamed on her inner thighs.

  He hesitated for a second, contemplating what to do next, which of several wonderful directions he should take the evening. Jen decided for him, moaning, “Please, sir, please.”

  “Please what?” It wasn’t like there’d be a wrong answer.

  “Please…more. Harder. I want to know. It’s been light so far. I want to know if I can take more.”

  Drake suppressed a chuckle. He’d hardly been gentle. More like strategic, picking up the intensity gradually. That way, her nerve endings got used to it and her system flooded with endorphins that made the harder blows enjoyable.

  But if she wanted to try more, he wasn’t about to say no. Still, he’d be cautious, working to push her to her limit but not over it. “Five more for now, Jen. I’m going to use the shaft as well as the slapper. This will be a different pain, deeper.”

  She nodded. “Please.” Her voice sounded almost frantic.

  Her need went straight to his cock.

  He laid the crop’s shaft across her ass, making sure he had the right angle.

  Then he pulled back and struck hard. He smiled at the angry red welt that showed even through the pretty panties. Smiled at her cry of indignant pain and the way it changed, midgasp, into one of pleasure.

  “Again. Please. Again.”

  How could he say no to that?

  By the fifth, Jen had tears running down her face, out from under the blindfold, but she was laughing at the same time, flying on endorphins and riding the pain to someplace triumphant.

  “One more,” Drake said, even though he’d initially said only five stripes. They were both enjoying it, though. “And this time, I want you to come. Can you do that? Can you come for me?”

  The noise she made might have been no or yes, but she was nodding, and her hips were thrusting at nothing, then pushing back to meet the crop, so he took it as a yes.

  He let the black crop smack against her green-covered red ass, harder than he had all the previous times. “Come for me, Jen,” he crooned. “Come now.”

  And she did, convulsing and crying his name. She was crying a bit, but she was glowing as well.

  “So beautiful,” Drake said, throwing aside the riding crop and taking her into his arms. “So beautiful and mine. My lovely, lovely Jen.” He held her until her shaking stopped, then let her go long enough to slip off her blindfold.

  Her face was a mess, mottled and tearstained, but her smile was the most beautiful thing Drake had ever seen. Yours, she mouthed.

  Then she blinked. “I’m not sure what that even means,” she said, bewilderment and wonder at war in her voice, “but I know it’s true. It feels like truth. Smells like truth. It’s the color of truth. But what…”

  Drake always figured, if this moment in his life ever arrived, he’d have the right words planned out, maybe even rehearsed. Instead, he smiled and shrugged as he said, “I’m not sure either, except that it’s good and exciting and scary as hell. We’ll figure it out together.”

  “Does it mean we’re officially dating?”

  “Yes. And that you’re my sub.” He paused, then added, “Assuming you want to be.”

  “Yes!” she squealed and snuggled against him. “I love being tied up,” she said into his chest, “but I’d love to put my arms around you too.” She didn’t say which she’d prefer, leaving it up to him instead.

  And suddenly, Drake very much wanted her arms around him.

  Wanted her body against his.

  Wanted his cock inside her pussy.

  He grabbed his safety shears and untied her the quick and dirty way.

  Then he picked her up, her arms around his neck, and settled her down onto his cock.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was late by the time they finally managed to move out of the living room—okay, they’d moved only as far as the bedroom, where they’d gotten delightfully distracted again—but not as late as the hours Drake had gotten used to seeing since Jen had burst into his life. It was early enough, in fact, that he suggested heading to Collegetown for a late meal.

  “Why?” Jen stretched lazily. “Then we’d have to put clothes on. And take showers.” She giggled. “I gu
ess the shower comes first. I think my brain’s permanently in the pink fuzzy zone.”

  Drake hesitated. She had a point. “Clothes are overrated, especially on you. I’d keep you naked all the time, but that would be cold in winter.”

  “And not good when I’m working with molten glass. Really need the protective gear then.”

  “Yeah, that too.” He ran his hand over her skin. He couldn’t stop touching her. He was serious about wanting to keep her naked all the time. If he could, he’d keep her naked and in contact with him twenty-four/seven. Not practical. Probably not even possible; even if they both won the lottery, they’d want to leave the house sometimes, and her art would demand its due, even from her dom.

  His thoughts were all over the place, but the flow somehow made sense, in an odd, organic way. Hadn’t there been some reason to make sure they got out of the house? “Clothes have uses, though. For one, I’m hungry, and I bet you are too. Especially knowing how you are about skipping meals.”

  “I had lunch and dinner,” she said proudly. “But now I’m starving.”

  “Sub drop. You burned a lot of energy, and you need to replenish it, or you’ll start feeling weird and headachy.” He hesitated. “Hell, I burned a lot of energy. That was intense.”

  “Pizza and Chinese both deliver late. That way we can stay naked.”

  The notion was tempting. Why go out when they could stay in? He could throw on shorts long enough to pay the delivery person and then take them off again. And they could reprise the time he fed Jen pizza while she was tied up.

  “On the other hand,” Jen admitted, “we might order the food and forget to eat it if we stay in.”

  Drake chuckled. “I can see that happening. Besides, if we take a break, we’ll have more energy for round four. Or would it be five?”

  She high-fived him. “I got the mathematician to lose count. Score one for Jen!”