by Joey W. Hill
She’d had plenty of hookup sessions with subs, satisfying physical and emotional experiences always preloaded with mutual respect and regard. Some of them, like Rob, evolved into genuine friendships.
This didn’t fall anywhere in that realm. They’d brushed into some serious territory in previous sessions, but tonight, she’d invaded it. This was do or die time. Either she was all in or out, because she couldn’t fuck with this kind of hot mess if she didn’t have long term hopes and dreams. If she wasn’t willing to let her heart get broken.
From experience, she knew having her heart broken was a worse feeling than being choked to death with chains. But it didn’t matter. She was all in.
“That’s my sweet boy,” she breathed, feeling him fighting it all the way to the end. When he couldn’t fight anymore, the climax draining him, he relaxed in her arms. She stroked his back, his face, his side. Gripped and kneaded his ass, holding him inside of her, because she could and it felt so damn good. Her boy had a beautiful, tight ass.
At long last, she pulled off him, pleased at the little sound he made that might have been a grumbling protest. Rising, she went to the bathroom and dampened a cloth with warm water to clean herself. She rinsed it and returned to him, pausing to look down at him. Lying bound at her feet, every line of his hard, scarred body exposed, the replete cock limp against the mass of his testicles. He had his head resting on the ground, a position that would give him a crick in his neck if she kept him that way too long.
Kneeling, she removed the condom and disposed of it, then cleaned him thoroughly, handling his testicles and cock with efficient familiarity.
Some tension was returning to his body, to the parts of his face she could see. What she wanted to do was unroll a padded mat and put him on it. She’d release his ankles from his wrists, run a tether between the front of his collar and his knees to keep him in the proper position so she could spoon up behind him. Cosset and comfort.
It was automatic to want to calm a submissive with childhood ideals of mothering comfort, yet Marguerite’s warning and his own behavior told Regina he resisted nurturing aftercare. Even so, the need she felt from him, a yearning, felt like it drew from that realm. She couldn’t pick up a strong enough signal to act on it, though, and she’d pushed him out of his comfort zone enough tonight. Hell, even outside her own.
Retrieving and unrolling the mat, she released his ankles from his wrists and then pushed the edge of the mat right up behind him. When he was ready, he could use it for his own comfort.
She said nothing, letting him breathe while contemplating her next course. If she hooked his collar to his knees to hold him in a half-fetal position, but left his hands bound behind his back, she could spoon up behind him and guide his fingers between her legs, cup them right up against her pussy. If he was good, she’d let him play with her, bring her to climax again while she stroked his head.
She’d like to know what he felt like inside her without the condom. The idle thought gave her pause, since it was something she rarely sought with her subs. Trust, yes. Surrender, and a range of lovely emotions between them. Commitment, not so much. At least not beyond the scene or the schedule of sessions they set up.
It figured she’d have that urge toward a sub so difficult it was possible she’d never win that kind of commitment from him. And one so messed up he’d threatened her with serious physical harm.
Sitting down on the mat, she put her palm in the center of his back, the other on his hip. “Just keep breathing,” she said, low. “No thought. Just breathe. Slow it all down.”
He did, relaxing a little when he realized that would be the full extent of her aftercare. She wanted to remove the mask, stroke his hair, close both her arms around him. In short, she wanted to be a fool. It was time to put some distance between them.
She rose and changed positions, squatting before his face. Removing the scold harness freed his mouth to speak, but she left on the head mask to keep his vision limited to light and shadows. She didn’t remove the clip between the wrist cuffs, though she did between his ankles. Attaching a fixed length of chain to one of the ankle cuffs, she ran the chain across the floor and around the pedestal of the bathroom sink. She adjusted the sturdy combination-locked clip to include both ankle cuff and attached chain, to keep him from removing either. He had enough slack on the chains from the ceiling to his wrists that he could lie down, stand up, or reach the bathroom. However, unless he did serious structural damage to her playroom, he couldn’t get loose or reach the doorway to the hall.
She felt his eyes tracking her as she went to the cabinet and pulled out a blanket and pillow. When she returned, she set the bedding on the mat. Next, she went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of cranberry juice. Though typically she had her subs drink it before sound play, a preventive measure against harmful bacteria, she sterilized her toys carefully and felt comfortable having him administer it afterward. She also brought him a bottle of water, and a couple protein and carb snacks.
“I’m headed to bed,” she said. “There’s a webcam and mic in here, so you can call out if there’s a problem.”
His jaw hardened, then relaxed. The reaction swept his body, giving it a weary slump. He was done fighting for tonight. “I can leave,” he said. But he didn’t try to get up.
She dropped to her heels before her naked and bound man, running her fingers over his lips. They moved as if they wanted to nuzzle or kiss her fingers, but he was still too zoned out to coordinate it. Even if she had been willing to let him leave, he’d be in no condition to drive right now.
“No. You stay here tonight. Rest. Sleep. No forward or back. Just here.”
A little sigh left him, a heave of his considerable shoulders and broad chest, and he nodded.
“Yes, Mistress.”
She smiled, though it cracked her heart. Not just the words. All of it. Before bedtime, she was treating herself to a hefty glass of wine.
She teased his throat beneath the edge of the head mask. “Tomorrow, I’ll feed you breakfast and give you a shave before I kick you out. If you use the bathroom again, I expect you to leave things neat. You miss that bowl and I’ll have you licking the floor around it clean.”
Rising, she moved toward the door. As she did, she heard a painful chuckle and he mumbled something. She paused. “What was that?”
“I said you’re a real nurturer, Lady Regina.” He didn’t sound unhappy about it, but thinking of how she’d really wanted to care for him, the observation turned screws tighter in her heart.
“I’m what you need, Marius,” she said. “You might want to think about that before you try to throw it away again. Good night.”
Chapter Ten
He slept some. The pillow smelled like a not-unpleasant flowery herbal thing. As much as he’d liked a lot of things that had happened between them, he tried to push all of it out of his mind, because it would circle him back to the thing that he didn’t want to think about. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t leave him alone anyway.
When he’d had the chain around her neck, a screaming voice in his head had told him to do it, to keep going, finish it. Damn it, he’d resisted that, but all he’d wanted to do after that was get the hell out of here. It never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be in complete agreement.
She’d acted like it wasn’t a big deal, a guy threatening her life. And not because she was some twisted up, self-destructive bitch. She’d sounded in control the whole time. He knew he’d rattled her, and she’d admitted it. But she hadn’t backed down. She’d defused him, backed him down. While that should piss him off, instead, the violence had drained out of him, leaving nothing. He slept on her floor like a stray dog grateful that she’d taken him in, no matter that he’d tried to bite her hand off when she fed him.
Stop thinking. Or give it up and think about better shit. Easier shit. Like her body against him, that unexpected move when she’d fucked him while he was hog-tied and on his side. God, that had felt like h
eaven. He kept waking up hard, just reimagining it. He needed to be back inside her, like now. Like an hour ago. Or maybe he never wanted to stop. Just wanted to stay inside her until he was hard again and keep doing the cycle, over and over again.
Was she watching him through the webcam, or was she asleep? What would it be like to sleep in her bedroom? He wouldn’t need to be in her bed. He’d be fine on the floor, merely positioned where he could see her. Where he could guard the door. Guard her.
He pressed his face into the pillow. Who would protect her from him? Truth, she’d done a damn good job of that herself. But he was good at adapting. When that darkness rose again, he would know what to anticipate. He’d screwed with the other Mistresses until they kicked him loose, before that side of him could cause damage. He’d come close to it tonight, and next time he’d succeed.
If he wanted to protect her, he needed to end this himself. He would. He’d sleep, and have the breakfast she’d offered in the morning, because he didn’t pass up free food. Then he’d be on his way, done with all this. Under the mask, he closed his eyes, increasing the darkness so he could imagine smelling her hair, her skin, nuzzling them. Holding her so close, her body moving against his, things spinning around them, a cocoon taking away everything else.
She’d come out of that cocoon a butterfly. What would he be? Was it better to come out as something terrible, or just as a caterpillar, failing to have transformed, unable to move on?
He’d fallen asleep. He drifted, vaguely and then completely aware of where he ended up as he opened his eyes and saw the basement of his childhood. Inhaled the scent of blood, and heard the cries start, his father’s laughter, his demand that he obey. Come here, shit for brains. Take it. Goddamn you, take the knife.
The thud of blows, the aching pain, but that was okay. The cries stopped. He could beat Marius to death, as long as he never had to hear those cries again.
Marius started awake. He was a light sleeper, but he’d gone under much deeper here. Way deeper. Blinking, he realized the head mask was gone, as were his bindings. He was curled on the mat, the blanket he hadn’t unfolded now over him. A steaming cup of coffee was near enough the smell had woken him, driving back the darkness of his dreams. A note was by the cup.
I’m doing my workout. Towels in guest bathroom. Also a fresh toothbrush. Get a shower, then meet me in the kitchen for breakfast and the shave I promised.
He rose, finding himself stiff. That was normal, but typically it was from a night of fighting, not a workout with a Mistress, Siren’s justified beating notwithstanding.
He folded the blanket and put it on one of her tables. His clothes, including his shirt, were folded there. All evidence of the things she’d used last night were gone, including the serviceable collar she’d strapped around his throat. He ran his hands over that spot, feeling its absence. He closed his eyes and tried to call up a memory of her removing it, her fingers slipping over his skin, then unlatching the cuff from his ankle. He couldn’t tell if it was true memory or what he imagined, but he supposed it didn’t matter.
Though he figured they were alone in the house, a compulsion for some type of shielding had him pulling on the jeans before picking up the rest of his clothes and stepping out into the hallway. She had a neat, well-ordered house with decorations that reflected her personality and made it a home. Things with bold colors and broad strokes. There was a set of wire frames hooked together in a puzzle design on the hallway wall. Family pictures, he guessed, from all the similar facial features to her own. Maybe parents, siblings, nieces and nephews.
When he looked behind him, the big hallway tree with a mirror startled him with his reflection. He looked like a guy who’d broken into her house, with his wary eyes and disheveled appearance. He ran a hand over his coarse jaw. Fuck, he should just go. But he could smell…cinnamon buns?
Yeah, he was a selfish shit. He’d eat her food, then take off. Irritable with himself and not sure what to do with it, he went into the bathroom. She’d left little sample shampoos and soaps with the fresh toothbrush. Did she entertain guys so often she was stocked like a Holiday Inn Express?
The growly thought was a little too uncomfortably possessive. The quick surge of relief he felt when he remembered her saying she’d done a lot of traveling before the community college job didn’t make him less uneasy with himself.
Shoving anything away related to why he was having such an idiotic train of thought, he got into the shower. The hot water was sheer bliss and, though he knew he should keep it short, he had to indulge it. He soaped everything up good, though when the friction brought the scent of her climax to his nose, his hand slowed and gripped his cock. It had hardened instantly when his brain identified what he was inhaling. The memory of her pussy required that he stroke, and he did, for about half a minute, long enough for his breath to start catching, but then he stopped. He didn’t jerk off in a Mistress’s shower if she…if she hadn’t said it was okay.
It wasn’t a sub thing, he told himself. He wasn’t thinking of her as his Mistress. He just owed her that courtesy.
Yeah, he was a twisted, screwed-up fuck. He needed to leave. Really, really, really needed to leave.
Finishing the shower, he toweled off fast and put on his clothes, which were still reasonably clean. He finger-combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and gave himself a look in the mirror. He wished she'd left him a razor. She was probably joking about shaving him herself. He wanted to look a little better for her than this. But it was all he could do.
He heard movement in the kitchen. That was where they’d come in last night, so he’d missed his margin for escape, unless he just told her he had to go and left it at that.
She’d let him go. He knew she would. She didn’t overindulge in sentiment, but she was ruthless in her determination to have what she did want. It was a combination he wasn’t used to handling.
If he was being brutally honest, he didn’t want to leave yet. But lying to himself was his preferred coping mechanism, so he decided to stay because it wasn’t worth the hassle of figuring out an escape strategy. Plus the cinnamon buns smelled really good.
When he reached the kitchen doorway, he had to pause to look at her. Take in as much as he could, another form of hunger, before she told him to stop staring.
She stood before the stove. She was wearing a sports bra and bike shorts. It wasn’t a woman’s most attractive look, everything held way too tight in his opinion. Her in his open shirt and nothing else… Thinking of it did odd things to him. Not just arousal, which was a given around her. It made him feel things that had him wishing she was wearing it now. He’d strip it off his back and give it to her. Another part of him never wanted her to wear it again, since he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
The woman had a superb body, no question on that. Smooth muscle layers on her abdomen, biceps and thighs, but still feminine. A sheen of sweat limned her neck, her locs coiled in a thick twist above it. As his gaze went to the delicate column of her throat—because it was the part of her that always made him feel things he shouldn’t feel but wanted to—things came to a full, bone-jarring stop.
He had no right to be looking at her. No right to her at all. The dark purple-red bruising, clearly marks left from links of chain, said so.
Yet his feet were moving. They took him to her, one step, one painful breath at a time. When he stopped beside her, he could tell she was aware of his presence, but she didn’t seem tense or worried. That didn’t erase what he’d done last night.
Eyes closing, he leaned forward and put his lips against them. Then stayed there, eyes closing. She made a quiet noise and turned her head, her lips brushing his cheek as she lifted her other hand to his jaw.
Forgiveness. She didn’t have to say a word for him to feel it, because it was something he’d always wanted…and never deserved.
Pain ripped through his chest, down into his belly and made his balls draw up against him like a wild animal facing the crosshairs of
a rifle. It startled him enough he snapped up straight and stepped back.
“I’ve got to go.”
“I know,” she said agreeably. “I have things to get done today. But first you’re going to help me eat these cinnamon buns so they don’t all end up on my ass, and I’m going to give you a shave. Sit down, shut up and eat. You burned off everything last night. You look gaunt.”
She pointed him toward a table that had two black, green and white striped place settings. A sparkling pitcher of orange juice was surrounded by bacon, eggs, fresh cut fruit and granola.
His stomach gurgled, betraying his resolve.
When she turned back to the stove, he saw she was spreading cream cheese icing on the hot cinnamon buns. She tossed him another quick but distracted smile and set the case knife aside. As she lifted the tray with one hand and took it to the table, he noticed her holding the other hand out to her side, fingers upraised because they were dotted with icing. She probably intended to clean them off in the sink after she put down the platter.
He intercepted her.
What was going on with him this morning? He didn’t know. There was no calculation to this, no ultimate objective, to bring her closer or push her away. He just wanted what he wanted.
He’d caught her by the waist, stopping her at the sink. As she lifted a quizzical brow, he brought her fingers to his mouth and began to suck the icing off of them. Her eyes got darker and more intent, and she moved closer. He gave way to prop himself against the counter and bring her between his knees, holding her waist with one hand. But when she took the lead, feeding him her fingers one by one, his hunger increased. His touch dropped to her ass as he followed her direction. He gripped her like he thought letting go of her would result in a fall.
She made a pleased little humming noise and leaned into him, her mound brushing his pelvis. She was allowing him to hold her and he felt…grateful.