by Lilia Ford
“Darling, I see we will have our lesson on how the Blacks deal with disobedient brides. Have no fear. It will make our game far more enjoyable. But for now, I must make sure my little wanton knows she must obey me.”
He grabbed her wrists, and she felt something wrap around them—once again her hands were bound behind her back. “This time you will stay put!” he said, lacing his tone with iron.
Genevieve was heaving. He disappeared and returned a minute later, wearing the same loose pants and shirt.
“Now for our game. It is an old one, highly educational, and perfect for this morning: it’s called the ‘the barbarian’s slave.’”
He pulled her up again by the upper arm and led her over to the divan before the hearth. “In this game, I play the barbarian king, while you play my lovely captive, bound to obey my every command no matter how lascivious. Since my captive is shy, we will preserve her modesty thus.”
Damian pulled her hair over her shoulders, arranging it so it covered her breasts—barely. He pushed her shoulders until she was kneeling before the divan and then lay down on it himself, stroking her cheek in a lordly fashion.
Chapter Fourteen
“My captive may speak only when given permission,” Damian drawled.
Genevieve’s eyes widened in a delicious-looking panic. As in the past, she seemed helpless to resist him. Her lips were pursed, her breathing short, a lovely blush spread over her body. In the three days since he’d met her, she’d already lost some of the unhealthy pallor she’d sported at the Bridal Week picnic.
Damian reached over his head and picked up a basket. He glanced inside and then popped a cherry in his mouth, giving her a lazy smile. He pulled out the pit and tossed it in the hearth. He ate several more in the same leisurely fashion as her eyes narrowed furiously.
Finally, he held a cherry just above her lips. She breathed in, as if trying to master her rage. He dangled it above her until she lost the battle with temptation and stretched for it. He pulled it out of the way a few times teasingly and then finally allowed her to put her plump lips over it. After she’d eaten it, he held out his hand for her to spit out the pit.
He continued to eat cherries, every minute or so allowing her to have one. Every time she stretched for the cherry, her breasts would peak through the covering of honey-colored hair. Finally, when he’d had a dozen and she’d had only five, he put the basket down against her knees—so close and yet entirely out of reach. If she’d been kneeling properly, with her knees as far apart as they could stretch, he could have placed the basket in an even more tantalizing spot. All in good time.
The sultry minx truly adored her cherries. She looked at the basket so longingly, he almost didn’t have the heart to tease her—almost. He reached for a plate filled with jam tarts. Again he ate one, while she watched hungrily. Every few minutes he would feed her a bite.
It was the first meal they’d eaten just the two of them, and he was seeing a new side of her. At her parents’ home, meals had obviously degenerated into a battleground, with Genevieve being picky or simply refusing to eat and poor Mrs. Miran, who was a superb cook, constantly fussing over her. He probably shouldn’t be surprised that she’d instantly slipped into that mode with Derek as well. Beneath her skittish exterior, Genevieve was a stubborn, willful creature with her own quiet forms of warfare that were every bit as dogged as Derek’s.
But when Genevieve wasn’t fighting anyone, she relished food, savoring the texture, the flavor, taking inordinate amounts of pleasure from it. It was beyond erotic to watch. Damian made a resolution then that he would not engage in Genevieve’s battles over food, but focus purely on enjoying their meals together.
He picked up a tall glass of iced lemon-water, took a deep sip, and then gave one to her. A small dribble of water ran down her chin. She shook her head rather like a wet dog, but couldn’t wipe it. He smiled and traced the trail of water lazily with his finger.
When he thought she’d had enough of the tarts, he picked up the cherry basket again. This time he held the cherry so she was forced to rise up on her knees and move closer to the divan to reach it.
He took another and rubbed it over her lips, darting away from her tongue, down her neck, until he got to the rosy peak of her nipple. He circled her nipple with the cherry a few times as Genevieve’s eyes glazed with lust. He pulled the stem off, and placed the cherry on his chest.
She eyed it, but made no move to snatch it, so he took another and used it to circle her other breast, back up her neck, over her lips. Again he left the cherry on his chest.
Finally, her love of the fruit became too much for her and she pounced, eating the cherry with a greedy gaze of challenge. He half-suspected that if he tried to move the other one she would bite his finger off. He smiled arrogantly, making it clear he was generously allowing her to eat the other cherry from his chest.
He took another cherry and again created a little trail from her lips, down to her breast, circled a few times, and then continued to her navel. He twisted it there a few times and then raised his eyes in challenge. Her eyes widened—she knew he was up to something. He continued on through the little forest of hair, all the way to her folds. She tried to flinch away, but he hissed a sharp reprimand.
Very slowly, he brought the little piece of fruit to her bud. She was very wet. He swirled the cherry until it glistened with her honey. Then giving her a savage smile, he removed it and put it in his mouth. Genevieve let out an adorable scream of protest, but he tapped her lips to make sure she kept silent.
Though he kept his eyes half-lidded, Damian was watching her carefully for the slightest sign of distress, but her expression was the perfect mix of pique and desire, with just enough fear to keep her attentive and aroused. But it was time for him to push her boundaries and see how far she could follow him. He gave her a smile that he knew would make her shudder nervously.
“Now that my lovely captive has satisfied one hunger, she obviously yearns to satisfy another. Sadly, she still has to learn the price of disobeying her master. But I am not a hard-hearted master: if my little slave learns her lesson properly, she will be generously rewarded.”
Genevieve’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she was about to protest, when he put his fingers to her lips. “My beautiful captive does not have permission to speak.”
He sat up very quickly and hauled her over his knee. Genevieve shrieked and squirmed frantically. With her hands bound behind her back, it was nothing to control her. Ignoring her protests, he gripped her arms and waist firmly with his left hand, while his right roamed over the graceful curve of her arse, tickling the bend where it met her thigh and teasingly approaching those sweetest parts that he could tell were aching with need. Now would be the first test if he could initiate her into the erotic pleasures of a deeper, more difficult submission. “For your disobedience, little slave, you will receive four swats.”
“Damian, don’t you dare!”
“Five! You are not to speak.”
He rested his hand for a moment on her arse and then brought it down on her left cheek with enough intensity to cause a slight burn, but not enough for real pain—this was the discipline of play, not true punishment.
Genevieve still let out an outraged shriek. “I will murder you for this, Damian Black,” she raged, sounding not the slightest bit frightened.
Before his bride went totally mad, he slapped the other cheek and then switched off for the final three. Once he’d finished, he massaged her buttocks, allowing his fingers to stray a bit too close to the little hole that someday she might discover also had its pleasures. But for now he was just teasing, so he went just close enough to cause her to squeak and then moved towards her sex, which to his relief was drenched.
He explored her with his fingers, purring, “My poor slave endured her first punishment—I think she has earned her reward.”
He continued to circle her bud, just missing the spot she wanted. Her whole body tensed as she strained for relief
. He threaded his index finger fully inside her, pumping in and out, before adding a second finger.
When his fingers were soaked with her juices, he held them in front of her face. “You know what that wetness means, don’t you, Genevieve? It means what I am doing is driving you mad with desire.”
“I know that, you oaf,” she snapped.
He gave her a harder slap, causing her to yelp. “Keep your answers polite, pet. There is almost nothing I like more than disciplining insolent little slaves.”
She seethed but pursed her lips together to keep from speaking. He rewarded her by lightly massaging the spot she so desperately wanted him to reach. The reaction was instantaneous.
Her entire body tensed sharply and she gasped, “Please Damian….”
“Much better.”
He gradually increased the pressure until she was groaning loudly, but kept it just short of what she needed. “Is my darling slave close?” he murmured.
“Damian please,” she begged.
“Very nice. You will wait for my command.” He gave her another half-minute before he ordered, “Come for me, now!” and flicked her bud.
Genevieve sobbed out her release.
When her shudders died down, he undid her wrists and clutched her in his arms. She clung to him desperately, while he soothed her. He was viciously hard, but he didn’t want to push for intercourse so soon after her first time, especially since he wasn’t sure how comfortable she would feel refusing him if she truly didn’t want to make love.
But it seemed he’d underestimated her desires. She must have felt his erection poking against her thigh. She froze and looked at him, her face full of uncertainty. She reached down to touch him but then winced and pulled her hand away. He nodded at her in encouragement, so she moved her hand down again, tentatively tracing the outline of his cock through his trousers.
Damian was surprised and felt unexpectedly humbled. What Genevieve was doing took genuine courage. After all, it was literally the morning after her wedding—to a man she’d known for three days.
He’d indulged in countless fantasies of his bride throwing herself into their lovemaking—fantasies that turned out to be absurdly tame compared to reality. But his sober self had reminded him that it was unlikely that his bride would immediately overcome the rubbish strictures all girls were raised on.
But Genevieve was incendiary—her insecurity and dutiful hesitations were falling steadily before the onslaught of her desires. Though he needed her to submit to him, he never wanted to inhibit her from telling him what she wanted.
Her lips moved, as if she were trying to say something.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“Don’t you want…?” Genevieve blinked back some tears, afraid that he would disapprove.
“To make love to you again? Desperately!” he answered. “I only feared you were too sore. Are you sure, darling?”
She choked out a half-laugh, half-sob, hiding her face in his neck, which for once he allowed. She needed comfort and reassurance. Their society’s hypocritical idiocy meant she took a great risk exposing her desires to him. He’d told her that she couldn’t be too wanton, but Genevieve found it impossible to trust other people’s reassurances.
Many men, most probably, would disapprove of their young wife eagerly seeking out her own pleasure. Too many of them would heartlessly make her feel rejected or humiliated, inflicting a wound that she might never recover from. It would be the goal of his life to make sure Genevieve never felt a moment’s shame for any desire of hers.
He nibbled her ear and murmured, “Should we then?”
She nodded—he could feel the heat flooding her cheeks. He wished he could put her on top, which would allow her to control their pace and stop if she felt pain, but he sensed it would leave her feeling even more exposed.
Instead, he shifted them so she was beneath him on the divan. Genevieve ripped his shirt over his head, obviously close to frantic. He kissed her deeply as she threaded her fingers through his hair. He moved his hips against her, nudging her legs apart. She reacted immediately, spreading them and pushing against him urgently.
“Please,” she begged.
He was lost.
Chapter Fifteen
Genevieve was out of her mind, but the empty ache was more than she could bear, and then touching Damian and sensing his desire…. She thought she would die if she couldn’t have him.
“Tell me if you feel any pain at all, darling,” he said hoarsely and thrust into her.
“Oh Gods,” she screamed.
There was still a little soreness, but nothing like the pain from last night. And the pleasure! Last night she’d been surprised by it, but now she realized she’d only had a small taste. It was so different too in daylight. Now she could see Damian. She loved the way he looked: the hard muscles of his chest and arms flexing, the way a lock of his hair fell over his forehead as he pulsed into her, the strained expression on his face. She understood that his pleasure was equally intense.
She wanted desperately to touch him again, but now she was afraid. Before, he’d kept her hands bound—perhaps he did it to make sure she wasn’t too forward—or worse, there was something he disliked in her touch—perhaps she wasn’t doing it right. The thought was horrible, but only confirmed assumptions that were always close to the surface for her.
But she had no chance to dwell on such depressing thoughts. Damian had been watching her and grabbed her chin firmly, forcing all of her attention back to what he was doing. His eyes narrowed and suddenly he adjusted his arm, arching her back, which brought her breasts up to his mouth.
Genevieve instinctively raised her hands to push against him, cover her breasts—anything to protect herself. Damian instantly stopped moving and pulled out. He snarled fiercely and grabbed both her wrists. Within seconds they were tied together and tethered to the leg of the divan.
“Damian no!”
“I will tie your hands any time you try to stop me from giving you pleasure, Genevieve,” he said sharply.
He pushed in again, but was barely moving. Once again, he arched her back until her left breast was at his lips. He licked slowly and then blew on it, causing her to try to squirm away.
“Hold still,” he ordered. “In this room, these breasts are mine.”
He gripped her even more tightly and took her whole breast in his mouth. She groaned, jerking frantically, pulling at the bonds.
“Good girl—take the pleasure,” Damian said with her breast still in his mouth. “If I had more patience, I would make you come like this over and over again.”
Genevieve cried out, not sure she could bear the intense sensations. Damian took pity on her and switched to the other breast, repeating his treatment. Finally he lifted up. “That’s all I can manage for now.”
At last, he began to thrust again, slowly at first but building steadily. Thank Titania, for now she was as desperate to come as he was. As the pleasure built, she lost all control. Bizarre sounds came out of her mouth, which would have mortified her if she’d not been frenzied with desire. She pulled again on her trapped hands.
It made no sense, but she couldn’t lie to herself: this feeling of helplessness, of being so thoroughly at his mercy, brought intense spasms between her legs. The sight of her struggling made Damian’s eyes shimmer with lust, and his thrusts became more forceful. His whole chest was covered with sweat, and his face was twisted with concentration.
“There’s my girl,” he snarled. “Come for me now, Genevieve.”
His words worked like a spring, propelling her over the edge into ecstasy. He followed her over, slamming her almost too hard, until finally he let out a rough yell. “Genevieve, Gods, yes!”
They lay there panting for some time when he slipped out and quickly undid the ties that held her hands. This time there were red marks from her crazed struggling. Damian looked at them carefully as he always did, rubbing them and then giving her a little kiss. “Wait here,” he said softl
y. He pulled up his loose pants, which he’d not fully removed and slipped through a door she assumed went to the dressing room.
He returned with a cloth, a jar of salve, and over his arm a filmy, white nightdress. To her mortification, he forced her to lie still while he gently cleaned between her legs. Afterwards, he helped her sit up.
“Arms up,” he ordered and slipped the dress over her head. It was little more than a sleeveless shift and didn’t even reach below the knee. “Do you like it, darling?” he asked, giving her one of his treacherously bland smiles.
Genevieve narrowed her eyes at him. It was beautiful, the skirt made from the finest silk with a placket of exquisite—and very expensive—lace over her breasts, gathered with a blue satin ribbon. It was not one of the pieces she and her mother had sewn for her trousseau. Her mother would faint if she knew Genevieve was wearing something so… revealing.
She couldn’t imagine anyone making, let alone purchasing, something so fine and expensive that could not be worn outside the bedroom—or in the bedroom, for that matter. Though she’d been unclothed since the bath, somehow the dress made her feel indecent. The lace showed as much as it hid her breasts, and the fine silk was so sheer, the dark hair between her legs was plainly visible.
She was distracted by Damian’s carefully applying the salve to her wrists. He was shaking his head.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No—there was a little chafing though,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He left the room, locking the door of course, and returned a few minutes later.
“I have something for you. With these, there’s no chance of your pretty wrists getting marked.”
Genevieve’s face went crimson. He was holding out a pair of cuffs—not the ones she’d slept in. These were made of moss-green leather, lightly sueded and soft as well-washed flannel and lined with padded dark blue silk. Each cuff had two small gold rings, one on each side, and an odd-looking buckle, also gold. She could tell that the workmanship was extraordinarily fine. She wondered that she couldn’t stop staring at them, but there was something spellbinding about their appearance. They were beautiful, though it mortified her that she thought so.