Wargasm

by Sosie Frost

  Anthony tugged me upright. His eyes flicked behind me. I wavered, crushed under my own excitement and pinned on top of him. He wound his hand in my hair.

  “Don’t look away from me,” he ordered. “Do you understand, pet?”

  I didn’t have a chance to respond.

  The whistle sang in the air, but it didn’t register until the crack assaulted my back.

  The thin cane sliced against me, and a welt instantly rose against my skin.

  My vision cascaded in blinding white. My pleasure faded, morphed into the sharp, unapologetic sting of her hit. Anthony held me tight, binding me in place for the next strike.

  “Don’t stop now, pet.” Simone coo’ed, cane in hand. “Not when you’ve finally figured it out.”

  The cane zipped against the fleshiest part of my ass. The pain twisted, concentrated and severe, a stricter, more effective bite than the slap of a hand. I squealed, collapsing against Anthony.

  He rubbed the welt, but the gentle massage didn’t soothe the injury. He pinched, hard. My hands dug into his shoulders, but his gaze struck me harder than any of Simone’s discipline. I’d stopped fucking him. The cane lashed out once more. I cried out, but I understood.

  They didn’t want me to stop.

  I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and prepared for the next strike. I didn’t need to wait long. I sunk down, enveloping his entire length. Simone hit again. I tensed and yelped. Anthony’s growl warned me for the last time. Whoops. I’d accidentally looked away from him.

  I snapped my gaze to him, blinking away the quick tears. His expression darkened, haunted by lust and tortured by his own restraint. I’d be afraid if my body hadn’t turned molten around him.

  Another strike. I cried out for him. He groaned. His hands tightened over my body, relishing my involuntary shivers and reaction to the sharp, stinging pain. Every squeeze of his fingers burned my blood hotter. His hips pushed up higher, and my core quivered in delight.

  The cane lashed out, catching my lower back. I arched. Anthony seized my lips before my shriek could echo over the club.

  My skin burned. Arousal and pain coiled through me, warring over every tender and abused area. Each lash drove me forward onto Anthony’s lap. I hugged him, abandoning the pretense I had at staying quiet. It was impossible.

  The cane tortured me with stinging, piercing cracks. As much as I fought to concentrate on Anthony, my body could only prepare for the next lash. I panicked and gasped until Anthony moved under me. One delicious thrust of his cock, pushing deep through my tension and wetness, and I was undone.

  The sting of the cane blended with the harshness of his stroke. The radiating bite fizzled into a surge of pleasure. I whimpered. The hazy intensity overwhelmed my senses as Simone’s next five bursts welted my back and simmered within my tummy.

  She purred behind us. “Careful, Anthony. I think you’ve discovered a little masochist.”

  I arched as a harder blow caught under my shoulder blades. The pain stole my breath, and I went still.

  Anthony refused to stop. He seized my body, easily picking me up only to slam me down along his hardening length. His jaw set in a hard line, and I surrendered to the need coursing through his veins.

  I ignored the cheering of the crowds, Thomas’s appraisal of my welted ass and Mariah’s admiration about my wetness. My only concern was his pleasure. The slicing maul of the cane was simply another distraction, a test for me to ignore so I could concentrate on his needs, desires, and ultimate orgasm.

  My moans shrilled. It encouraged him. Every thought, every breath, every rocking pulse against my chest beat for him. His muscles tightened with mine, and I hid my face in his shoulder, crying against his lips and tongue and every part of him I could kiss.

  It took only three hard thrusts, and we were lost.

  His heat flooded me. I cried out as the cane cracked against me three more times, crisscrossing hard welts over my back.

  As I screamed, Anthony filled me with cum.

  I loved it. Loved every second of his orgasm and strength and abandon. The last strike of the cane swiped too hard. I shouted, begging him to protect me. Anthony stopped Simone before she could wind up again and frighten me from my bliss.

  I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe.

  Everything was Anthony. The sharp scent. His rough suit. The pulsing, quivering length I held inside me.

  He let me rest, welcomed me to his chest. Our impromptu show entertained the crowd. They might have watched, but this was my moment.

  My Anthony.

  “What are you thinking, pet?” he whispered. “How did that feel?”

  I snuggled against him, triaging my wounded pride and savoring my newfound identity.

  “Natural, sir.”

  17

  I thought the most awkward moment of my life had played out in front of a room full of strangers watching me lose my virginity.

  Not so much.

  Calling Anthony and begging for a ride home from work was worse.

  My Corolla had limped to the mechanic for its inspection, but eight hours wasn’t enough time to inspect everything under the rust. Part of me hoped the mechanic would take her out back with a trusty shot-gun and let nature run its course, but the bucket of bolts was my car. The only ride I could afford.

  My coworkers had split after their shifts, and I didn’t relish the thought of wading home in the torrential downpour.

  Anthony was my last option.

  But calling him was a big step. This wasn’t me squirming on the edge of my seat, begging for him to fuck me. This was me. Morgan. His pet. Asking for a ride home.

  Like I was his...girlfriend.

  I had no idea what our relationship was. Having sex at the club and cooling off in his arms while he discussed the last Rivets’ game with Nate was more Anthony than cuddling on the couch with a movie and some popcorn.

  Besides, boyfriends didn’t let their sadistic ex-lovers cane their girlfriends while fucking the ever-loving hell out of them.

  Anthony was my dom. We hadn’t talked about anything more than that.

  But it was either muddying my best—read: only—pair of work pants…or asking for something non-sexual.

  I wished my voice hadn’t quivered when I called him. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Anthony said. “But you should know…I won’t take you home.”

  “No?”

  “You’ll be staying with me tonight.”

  I grinned, wishing I had purchased a lottery ticket before my shift. Lady Luck was with me. She probably carried a whip too.

  I didn’t have a change of clothes, but with my apron folded over my arm, my black shirt and pants passed for jazzy. Not that it mattered. Anthony looked at me like he saw what was underneath.

  Problem was, he didn’t hide that glance from my coworkers.

  Though I earned a slack-jawed wow from Sammy, the others grabbed their cellphones, fully prepared to call the cops if Anthony hauled me over his shoulder caveman-style and stole me from the store.

  He didn’t, but I was certain the urge crossed his mind.

  “Can I get you something, sir?” I jerked my thumb towards the counter and hoped he’d forgive how low my voice dipped over the title. He didn’t.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “I’m not, sir.”

  “Why are you lying?”

  I licked my lips. “Really, I’m okay.”

  “You aren’t worried about me seeing you work in the cafe?”

  Wow. I hadn’t worried about that at all.

  Until now.

  I twisted the apron and casually chucked it onto a nearby chair. A million anxieties usually percolated through me. I added one more coffee bean to break the camel’s back.

  It wasn’t contract negotiations, mergers, or acquisition law—but at least I wasn’t panhandling outside in the rain.

  “I didn’t want to bother you with this,” I said. �
�I thought you might be busy. Or something.”

  He brushed my cheek, his eyes darkening. Possessive, but not nearly as threatening while clothed. I leaned into his hand. I’d missed his touch, but the ache from the crisscrossed streaks over my back was a pleasant enough reminder.

  “You are my pet. I promised to take care of you.”

  I wondered what it meant when those words rushed as much heat to my belly as his caress.

  “Are you sure you weren’t doing something important?” I asked.

  “You are important.” His voice hardened. “And you can ask anything of me. At any time.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t good enough. His hand passed beyond my cheek. I answered quickly, before he seized my hair.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. First, I’m taking you to your apartment so you can pack a bag. I want you with me through the weekend.”

  Damn. The whole weekend? Jackpot.

  I grinned, catching sight of his car parked outside the cafe. “I can ask anything, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Life Goal Number Nine: Ride in Style.

  “Can I drive the Mercedes?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Denied. Lady Luck had a limit.

  His cell rang on the way to the apartment, and I was grateful for the time to sit in silence as he diced out details of some anti-trust clause.

  Lovesick wasn’t a good look on me—not while I was acutely aware of the bitter coffee scent leeching from my work uniform and the damn name-tag I forgot to take off. I hurried through the apartment, collecting clothes, makeup, and shoes. I didn’t notice his call had ended until I emerged from the bathroom with my toothbrush.

  Anthony stood before my makeshift desk/dinner table.

  My violin’s case was opened.

  The toothbrush bent in my hand.

  “I want you to bring this,” Anthony said.

  Did he want me to rob a bank, skydive, and perform brain surgery too? Why not ask me to take him home and introduce him to my mother? None of these suggestions were good ideas.

  “Why?” I couldn’t move. Anthony reached for the instrument, and my heart shredded like a bird sucked into a jet engine.

  “I’d like to hear you play.”

  That made two of us. Didn’t mean it was going to happen.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t played in a while.” Not a total lie.

  “What better time than now to practice?”

  “I really have to be in the right mind-frame to play.” Not a lie either.

  “I’ll help relax you.”

  “Yeah...I’m not sure we have the same definition of relax.”

  “Playing an instrument is an impressive talent. It makes you unique.”

  “I’m really just trying to blend in.”

  “I like unique.” He picked up the violin. I was going to die. “You should show me how it works.”

  Every muscle in my body pitched and rolled in opposite directions, like a junkie who hadn’t had a hit for a week. Except instead of jonesing for a score, I was the freaked-out violinist watching someone who had absolutely no idea how to hold a violin clutch the only irreplaceable thing in my apartment.

  “Sir, my friend, Rose? Her boyfriend bought her a motorcycle. It’s her baby. She won’t let anyone near it unless they’ve washed their hands, bathed in sanitizer, and can prove they’re vaccinated. She’s crazy about it.” My hand trembled as I pointed to the violin. “But, I’m the same about my instrument. I’ll take it with us. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, please, put it down. It’s the most expensive thing that I own.”

  Anthony furrowed his brow, but he tucked the instrument safely in the case. I breathed a sigh that rattled the windowpanes.

  “Sorry.” I pulled the violin away from him.

  The wooden scent of oil and strings wafted from the closing lid. It was the only aroma in the world that smelled better than him. My fingers wrapped over the handle. The all-too-familiar weight of the violin settled against my side. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. Like an expensive, anxiety-worn, life-altering security blanket.

  His eyes didn’t miss anything. Not my panic. Not my fear. Not even my relief when I tucked the violin against my side. Where it belonged. Where I never wanted it to be again.

  Anthony carried my bag for me, but he never reached for the case. He respected some of my boundaries, at least. I placed it at my feet in the car, triple checking to ensure it wouldn’t rattle around. Then I clutched it to my chest when Anthony opened the door to welcome me inside his home once more.

  He led me to his den, a masculine room of blacks, greys, and leather. Recessed lighting accented the black and white artwork. I took a moment to admire the paintings. Of course, they’d be nudes. Shapes of women with cuffs over their wrists and collars at their neck. Tasteful, sure, but I couldn’t imagine looking at the images on a computer, never mind hanging them on the wall opposite the giant window that overlooked the city.

  Anthony sunk into the middle of the couch, crossing his legs and extending his arms along the back of the seat. He wanted something. It didn’t take a genius or a woman who had been his submissive for a few weeks to figure it out.

  His eyes grazed over my body. Up. Down. Silken. I bit my lip, my hips swaying under his gaze. My knee knocked against the violin case.

  It clicked. We were in his home. Comfortable in his den.

  He watched me.

  He wanted me to play.

  I stiffened. Hitting the strings hadn’t once crossed my mind when he demanded me to stay for the weekend. I’d hoped for some kissing and touching. Maybe another spanking like he did before. Sex, especially since I learned how to ride him—thanks to Simone’s sadistic tutelage.

  But instead of submissive Morgan, he wanted the musician.

  He wanted to hear me play. To watch.

  That was the one thing I never wanted anyone to watch again.

  “One song, pet,” he asked. “For me.”

  I set the case on the coffee table. My hands turned clammy. Sweaty. I couldn’t hold the bow.

  “I haven’t played for an audience in a long time. It won’t be good.”

  “One song, pet.”

  “One song.”

  He didn’t respond. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t talking to him. I was reassuring myself.

  My violin case opened, and that scent hit me again, overwhelming in combination with Anthony and his penthouse.

  I thumbed through the playlists I’d stashed away on my phone. I’d hated when they popped onto my shuffle, but I’d never deleted the prerecorded tracks. It’d taken too much work to create them and, when I had performed, people got a kick out of the background drum beats. I took a second to sync my phone to his wireless speakers. Then I hit play.

  The bow trembled in my hand. It wasn’t good form, but that was the least of my concerns. In the span of two minutes I surged from aroused to a quivering ball of sweat who’d probably vomit before I managed a single note.

  Of course, that fear was a strong motivator to not alienate my handsome and patient dom who waited for me to serenade him with a song of my choosing.

  And he insisted he wasn’t a sadist.

  The bow drew across the strings, and I counted myself into the drum beats as my stomach bolted around my body, searching for any means to escape.

  Then, the song blossomed into the silent penthouse.

  Surprising Anthony. Surprising me.

  A rich melody tangled against the electronic drum beats piped from the speakers. It wasn’t the old-school baroque or opera I’d learned all my life. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, or why it rushed so easily into my stiffened muscles, but the song was one of my originals. One I made to toss onto YouTube for my future portfolio.

  But I never had the chance to upload it.

  Or even record it.

  I’d abandoned music be
fore anyone heard the gravel beat and electronica roots. I’d never played it for anyone.

  Except for Anthony.

  I told myself it was easier if I shut my eyes, but it wasn’t. Every note, every measure, every funky melody was ripped, kicking and screaming, from my mind. My heart vibrated like I had drunk six Redbulls and neglected to sleep for an entire weekend.

  But nothing happened.

  I was safe.

  The intense, challenging music would have made me weep for joy if I weren’t so focused on what Anthony thought, what he felt when he heard it.

  If I were back in college, I might have danced a bit with my violin. Just a quirky wiggle to the beat. Playful. This time, I kept my feet planted in place, rooting themselves through all layers of the penthouse and the apartments below.

  I didn’t dare break what fragile form I had. Moving meant the potential to mess up. I didn’t deserve to be cocky and fun when the last time I held a violin it had ended with a mental-breakdown.

  But the song rang out through the room. Absolutely Morgan. The old Morgan. Not a mistake, scratch, or missed beat to be found. Only thrilling, thoroughly unique music.

  The song ended with an abrupt push—a symptom of me never quite knowing just what flourish it requested at the end.

  I released a quivering breath and peeked at Anthony.

  It was the first time I saw him uncomposed. He’d fucked in front of audiences and managed multi-billion dollar legal deals, but now, with the echo of the music lingering in his den, his expression lit.

  His amazement nearly made me giggle. And the bewildered smile was worth facing every demon of my past.

  “Pet.” Words failed him. Had I ever done that to him before? “Jesus Morgan. That was incredible.”

  “Really?”

  “I knew you were talented. You played the piano like a prodigy, and not many people would get a musical tattoo unless they were serious…” He rubbed his face. “That was something else.”

  “You liked it, sir?”

  “Very much.”

  And some sort of invisible weight on my chest sprouted wings and flew away. I smiled, the first and greatest smile to tease my lips in over a year.

  I had to give him an encore.

  I’d kept a dozen or more drum tracks on my phone, and I remembered more pop covers than was normal even for a music major. If that failed, I’d trained my ear to wing whatever happened to play on the radio. The options were endless.