How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3)

by Mina Vaughn

  “Oh, why not,” I said, crossing my arms. “But this better be good.”

  “It will be mind-blowing,” he promised.

  “Consider this Iron Chef,” I said with a waggle of my finger. “If it’s not good enough, you’ll get punished.”

  “You obviously have never watched the show, but I understand your point. I consider myself warned.” He checked his phone one more time, then headed out the door.

  I pulled out my iPad and started Googling the contest, something that had been on my mind all day, but I’d pushed it to the back burner. It was nerve-racking, imagining myself competing. Typically I just posed, took pictures, or modeled at events. I was never up against anyone. I’ve never had to compete. Now I had to think about other people being better than me, something I hadn’t really done. I’ve always liked the other pinups I’ve met—we were mostly a friendly group, whether it was because of the more alternative nature of our jobs or what. Some were tattooed, some weren’t. Some were curvy, others more on the waifish side, but we all embraced the vintage look and clothing we all loved. It was a sisterhood.

  But now that I was scanning through pics of former winners and contestants, I began to sweat. These girls were real knockouts and seemed to ooze a confidence I’ve never possessed. I knew how to pose properly, but these girls made it look like second nature. I undid my kerchief, which had held my hair in place all day, and fixed my rolls. There was a mirror on one of the doors to the bedrooms and I quickly struck a cheesecake pose. I was a mess. My hair was out of place and my legs were wonky from sitting in the car all day. Would I lose muscle tone from this trip?

  Wait, Sarah’s tip of the day. Now I just had to find a weight.

  I could pre-burn off Aston’s dinner this way. I found a small but heavy pan in the kitchen, and it felt between three and five pounds so I started to do some jacks. She didn’t specify a set number, or anything else to do but I knew I’d have to do a little more. So I busted out some squats, crunches, and did some air-bike moves on the floor. Maybe if I did this every day I’d still be in show-ready mode.

  And as for her other advice, I suppose what we did in the garage yesterday was like that. Feeling the situation out and letting it go somewhere. But I sort of sabotaged it by forcing the BDSM element when it clearly wasn’t what was taking us in the direction of lust. It was forced. Tonight we’d do . . . whatever.

  I showered off the road dust and workout sweat, and conditioned my wind-blown hair by the time Aston returned to the hotel. I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe and his entrance startled me, but his expression as he admired my body gave me a boost of approval.

  “So, what’s on the menu?” I asked as I wrung the wetness out of my hair.

  He covered the bag’s contents with his hand. “It’s a surprise, Mistress. If you don’t mind,” he said, backpedaling.

  I stepped away, hands in the air. “Fine, but I’m standing by my threat. It better blow my mind.”

  Aston laughed and began to unpack the bags, and I turned toward the living room and put on the TV. There was a car restoration show I liked on the History Channel and I lost myself in the cool hot rods, but soon delicious garlicky smells began to invade the space. I sniffed. Wow, it smelled amazing. And fatty. I grimaced, then realized I could just take a small portion. If I had enough self-restraint.

  And right now, the only restraints I had were in my bag.

  I turned the show’s volume up as the sizzling sounds grew louder, and the clanging of pans and the noises from boiling water grew. “You okay in there?” I called out.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he said. “I can’t wait for you to try this.”

  I turned back to the TV, steadily becoming more anxious about dinner. It had been so long since I’d eaten regular food. Back when I was with Derek, he’d always make me feel bad about it. Like, one time I stole his fries and he said I’d be working them off for a week. I didn’t want to think of food like that—costing me workout time or pounds. It was another way of saying what Sarah was always telling me. Maybe that was why I resented her for it—it wasn’t in her delivery, it was in the subtext. I wanted to turn off the little voice in my head that said Don’t do it, but I didn’t know how.

  “Dinner is served, Mistress,” Aston called out. I stood, turned around, and saw that he’d lit candles. There were two place settings at the open kitchen’s raised granite bar. I walked up to one of the stools, impressed by the atmosphere Aston had so quickly created.

  “While I finish the salad,” he said, pushing a bowl of bread between the two plates, “I’ll serve you some focaccia and olive oil.” He procured a bottle of extra virgin olive oil and a plate, swirling Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes onto it with a flourish.

  I gingerly tore off a chunk and smiled at him. He was clearly anxious, the way he watched me. I gave the bread a small dunk and placed the bit of food in my mouth.

  It was really, really good. “Fantastic,” I said, chewing. I wanted to spit it out just so I could spend the calories on something he’d prepared, but I didn’t want to disappoint him. I swallowed and had a sip from the white wine he’d placed at the table.

  He tossed a few garnishes in a bowl, and pulled out a pair of tongs, placing a pile of the salad onto my plate, then his. “Baby arugula with shaved Parmesan and lemon-tarragon vinaigrette.”

  I blinked. “That sounds . . . amazing.”

  Aston shrugged and sat down with me. His face watched mine as I dug in. It was incredible—the lightness of the dressing paired with the spark of spice from the arugula was really quite tasty. Then, add the tang and creaminess from the Parmesan and it was perfect. “Okay, I want this every day,” I said with a moan, taking another bite. Lemon, greens, and a little bit of cheese? I could do that.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said, straightening proudly. “Wait until you try the next course.”

  My fork paused. “This is a big salad,” I said. “And it seems light. Can’t I just throw some protein on this and call it a night?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  I frowned.

  “Nope, Mistress,” he corrected himself. I jabbed him in the ribs as he stood and readied the next dish. I finished up the salad and he replaced my plate with a steaming heap of pasta, dripping with cheese.

  “Italian baked mac and cheese. Fontina, Asiago, and truffled Gouda. There’s pancetta in there, too.”

  Oh dear lord in heaven. The smells from the cheesy pasta and smoky pancetta wafted upward straight into my nostrils, giving me a high. “I can’t have all this,” I admitted.

  Aston filled his own plate. “As you wish. Just please try it.”

  He sat down and I dug my fork into the cheesy goodness. I pulled it up, strings still hanging to the forkful that was in the air, and blew. Once it seemed cool enough, I placed it in my mouth.

  I let slip an involuntary groan, and Aston put his hand on my thigh.

  “Wow,” I said, chewing and then swallowing. “This should be banned in most states.”

  “Hopefully not Nevada,” he said, blowing on his own meal and then taking a bite. “I’m thinking this could be a signature dish on the menu. But of course out there I’d use shaved white truffles and maybe do a little gremolata on top.”

  “You have a menu already?” I asked.

  “It’s part of my pitch document. A lot goes into making a restaurant—the concept, the aesthetic, the mood—not just the dishes. But yes, I always put together sample menus.”

  I took another decadent bite. “So you’re not just a cook?” I asked.

  “I want to be more of a concept guy. I like putting together all the things that make a restaurant and seeing if it works. I’ve pitched three concepts to my family and they didn’t go with any. And yet when I cook for the holidays, they all rave.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’m doing this. I think I have good ideas, an
d ideas are really the heart of a successful restaurant.”

  I pointed to my dish. “This is a good idea right here.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said, taking another bite with his right hand and using his left to caress my leg.

  I looked down. “Another good idea.”

  “Later,” he said, stroking my thigh. “I made sure to skip dessert so we’re not too full afterward.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You are just full of good ideas, Aston.” I leaned over and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Give me two more bites and then you’re mine.”

  “No punishment?” he asked as I took another heaping mouthful.

  I shook my head, mouth full, then swallowed. “This is so good that I’m letting you take the lead tonight.”

  He cleaned his plate, then looked up. “If that’s what you want, Mistress.”

  I took another drink of wine and put the glass down. Then I stood and walked over to the couch, unknotting the robe’s tie at my waist. He remained on the stool, watching me, as I opened the bathrobe and dropped it to the floor.

  Aston pulled off his shirt, then undid his fly in a flash. Soon he was walking toward me, nude and ready. I sat on the couch and he joined me, our bodies next to each other, not yet on each other. We kissed, and I slipped my hand behind his head and pulled at his hair. He moaned, sliding his tongue into my mouth. His hands roamed my breasts and mine found his erection, hard and ready. The kiss deepened, and our bodies slid from the couch to the floor. I wanted to devour him. Hands everywhere, tongues probing, we messed around like it was the first time. Horny, hot, frantic.

  But then Aston pulled away, and I saw an expression on his face not unlike the one he made when he was cooking. He had an idea, I could tell.

  Aston got up and I watched his naked form saunter across the room to the kitchen area. “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked.

  He looked over his shoulder. “I’m grabbing leftovers,” he said.

  “Now?” I asked, gesturing to my naked body. “It can’t wait?”

  Aston picked something up from the table and turned toward me. “Trust me, Mistress, I know what I’m doing.” He held up a bottle—the extra virgin olive oil we’d dunked bread into, and a small empty bowl.

  My eyes went wide. “Oh. Well, in that case, take your time.”

  He smiled, approaching me. “This is all I need. And you, of course.”

  I nodded, throat tightening. Was he going to do what I was hoping he’d do? It was a silly thought—I could tell him to do whatever I wanted—but the thought of him initiating this made me almost come right on the spot.

  “Come here, Mistress,” he whispered, sitting on the carpet across from me. He was fully erect and I could almost feel the heat coming from his gaze. I sat mermaid style in front of him as he poured a quarter cup of the fragrant oil into the bowl. Aston swirled his long pointer finger in the golden liquid and pulled it out slowly, sexually. My mouth fell open, which was all he needed. He raised his finger to my mouth, oil dripping down his wrist, and I sucked it off his finger. His chest heaved and his erection twitched as I took his entire finger in my mouth.

  “Mmm,” I moaned, and he pulled out.

  I could see him labor for breath as he reached out with his other arm and pulled me closer. “May I pleasure you, Mistress?”

  I nodded, speechless, beyond aroused.

  He guided my body down along the floor, and soon I was on my stomach, ass in the air. I knew what was going to happen, and I almost wanted to pause the moment because the high from the anticipation was so great.

  “I’m going to start here,” he said, slipping his finger down my slit. I nearly yelped, I was so turned on. I heard wet sounds as he rubbed my pussy, hot and ready. He slid two fingers inside, strummed my clit with his thumb, and then out of the corner of my eye, I could see him doing something with the oil.

  Slowly, his pinky finger, slick with oil, circled my ass. “Yes,” I moaned, desperate for him to continue. I wanted it. And without further discussion, he worked his finger inside. I gasped, surprised by the unusual feeling. The pressure of it amazed me, and the way he pulled his finger all the way out and then plunged it in made my back arch with pleasure.

  His finger stalled at the motion. “Do you—”

  “More,” I moaned.

  Aston pulled his hand away and I looked behind me, startled that he’d stop the amazing contact with my body. But then, I saw what he was doing. His long pointer finger and middle finger were swirling in the oil. He smiled at me. “Relax,” he said, and I settled into my former position with a wicked smirk.

  Aston’s left hand swept under me and continued its work on my pussy, and I lifted my ass in anticipation for what he was about to do with his right hand. Soon, I felt the pressure of his index finger pushing inside me and I almost came on the spot. After a few slow pumps that seemed like forever and yet not enough, he added his middle finger.

  “Aston!” I whimpered, writhing, pushing myself down onto his fingers. “Feels so good.”

  He moaned, twisting his fingers and speeding the rhythm. “You like it?” he asked, drizzling more oil onto his fingers and lubing them up. The sensation of the cool oil on his hot fingers as they pleasured me in such a new way was enough to send me over the edge. Aston’s thumb circling my clit, the wet fingers up my ass, it was too much. An orgasm like I’d never had ripped through me, possessing my body, bucking me harder against his knuckles. It lasted so much longer than my other orgasms, possibly because of the new erogenous zone we were exploring, but when it was over, I hungered for more.

  Aston pulled his fingers out, wiped them on the towel next to me, and rubbed my back. “I’m glad you liked that.”

  I spun to a sitting position, put my hands on Aston’s shoulders, and met his fiery gaze. “We’re not done.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mistress. This was about you. I—”

  “I want you to fuck me like that.”

  His chest heaved, and the muscles in his arms tensed. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded, slinking my body on top of his, rubbing my clit against his erection. It was still so sensitive, I almost came again from the contact. “I need it.”

  His head fell back, and his breath stuttered. “God, Mistress, that sounds too good to be true.”

  I leaned in and kissed him, biting his thick lower lip. “Tell me you want it.”

  Aston nodded. “Mistress, I want it.”

  I reached around and gave his firm butt a pinch. “Be more specific, Aston. I like dirty talk.” My body writhed against him, and his hard cock twitched again.

  “I want to fuck you in the ass, Mistress.”

  One last grind against his crotch, and quickly I was on all fours. I needed this, that fullness, that sensation again. But I needed it to be longer, thicker than his fingers. I couldn’t wait to feel his cock slide inside that forbidden part of me.

  But I wanted to watch.

  There was a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the suite, located just around the corner of the sofa. I crawled toward it, and I heard Aston follow behind me. Soon, I was looking at myself on all fours. My victory rolls had fallen out of place, and my hair was wild and rough. Aston’s chiseled form appeared behind me and again my body caught fire at the thought of what we were about to do.

  “Oil your chest,” I said, watching his image in the mirror. He took the bottle and a large gush of golden liquid fell into his hand. I noticed Aston had placed a blanket beneath himself to catch any of the oil. He slicked his pecs and abs, and soon his body was glistening and ready. I swallowed hard as a second slosh of oil to his hand made its way to his large cock, and he oiled it up, too. I bit my lip and my breathing stuttered.

  The hand that had used the oil was completely covered, and he began by wiggling his pointer back inside me.

  “We shoul
d probably do this gradually,” he said, then slipped his pointer in all the way. In the mirror, I saw my naked breasts bounce as I wiggled my body back and forth, trying to get as much of his finger inside me as I could.

  “I’m ready now,” I moaned, back arched. I couldn’t wait another minute.

  Aston’s brow furrowed in concentration as he lined himself up. I couldn’t see us from the back angle, but when he looked up into the mirror and into my eyes, I knew he was ready.

  The pressure was startling at first as he pushed the tip in.

  “Oh god, Aston,” I moaned.

  He gasped at the feeling and pushed deeper, slowly.

  “Aston!” I shouted, as he gripped my hip with his dry hand, pushing his cock into me from tip to base. The depth, the fullness, was beyond pleasure, beyond reason. And he wasn’t even moving, he’d just worked it in there and my body opened, accepting him.

  And then he began to pull out, achingly slow. Just as the tip was about to come out, he went back in, just as slow. My fingers gripped the carpet. “More,” I grunted.

  My body got used to the thick, wide feeling of having him inside me, and I knew we were ready to go faster. “Come on, baby,” I whimpered, and his oily thumb moved back to my clit. The twin sensations came together, and I was overwhelmed. He began to pump faster, and I moved in time with him. His thumb circled faster. His grip on my hip became tighter as he fucked me hard.

  “So tight,” he muttered, voice thick with impending orgasm.

  “Give it to me,” I begged, and he thrust even deeper.

  “Yes,” he moaned, sweat forming on his forehead. He alternated from watching us in the mirror to looking down and seeing his cock penetrate me there.

  “Aston, come inside me,” I moaned, possessed by the filthy image of us in the mirror and the feeling of him inside and outside me.

  The fingers on my hip dug deeply and Aston let out a roar as he came with me. I trembled with the sheer magnitude of it, the waves of pleasure crashing against me and threatening to tear me apart. I cried out as my body continued to push and thrash against him, wanting more even as the tide of pleasure receded.