Bodhi

by A. R. Hadley

  “You’re not my Dom."

  He lifted an eyebrow, and he looked sexy even when puzzled. “Say what you mean.” He folded his arms across his chest, and she had to concentrate to keep her eyes on his face and not his biceps.

  "I think I just did."

  “Are you aware you’re in a room I will lock you inside of once I leave? And are you aware you haven’t told me your name?”

  Audrey’s face heated, and she dropped her gaze.

  “Look at me,” he said before she could state her name. “Don’t ask questions that produce no consequence. Don’t state facts to find what you desire. Simply speak your needs. We have open communication here.”

  She found that a little unbelievable. Maybe because she’d never had that before: open communication and full disclosure. She was thirty-five, and she didn’t think anyone had ever asked her what she wanted.

  Saying nothing, she only stared at the inscrutable expression on his soft yet hard-lined face. He appeared not much older than her but seemed to have lived a lifetime.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Audrey.”

  “Do you have a safe word?”

  Her cheeks flushed again. “No.”

  “Pick one,” he commanded, obviously ignoring the red tie he’d already espied about her arm. “I prefer to step outside the standard: red, yellow, green.”

  “King.”

  “King,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She hadn’t known just how much she’d needed the sir until it passed her lips — the comfort and certainty it provided. Had he noticed how she breathed easier after it fell from her lips … as though she’d always said it? It was as natural as yes or no or please and thank you. She wished she hadn’t waited almost two years to finally create an online account, to meet someone like Kate and others like her. Why had she waited so long to go out in public with fellow kinksters?

  She knew the reasons. Two very good ones. Perhaps a third. She’d needed some time. And now she was glad the moment had finally arrived.

  “Good girl.” A smirk lit his eyes as he nodded. “What do you want?”

  She eyeballed him while biting her tongue.

  “You thought you would get out of answering? It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Speak your needs.”

  Cheeks heating to a boil, trying to hold back a smile, she lifted her chin and responded with a veil of confidence. “You, sir.”

  Time passed. The room spun. But he didn’t seem affected by her declaration. In fact, he made her wait longer for his next words.

  “Are you wearing panties?”

  “Yes,” she choked out.

  “Remove them. Only remove the panties, and then go sit on that chair.” He dipped his head in the direction of a rather large, black leather chair that looked lonely … perhaps it was missing its ottoman.

  Things need each other. Yin needed yang. She needed a dick in her pussy.

  Doing as he instructed, she took off her panties and sat, and within seconds, he was there, poised in front of her like a baseball catcher, prying each of her legs over the arms while she fidgeted, attempting to escape.

  "Audrey, say your word anytime, but don't fight me. Relax." Gavin looked at her exposed skin as he pushed the material of her black cashmere dress to her waist, not tearing his eyes from her body.

  He didn’t look at her face.

  His eyes landed on her cunt, and they stayed there. He said nothing, only stared. His eyes, dark and fixated, seemed to speak for him: Your cunt is fucking beautiful. I will worship you. I will fuck you up and break you, but then I will worship you.

  Gavin spread her lips and examined every part of her pussy while Audrey tried desperately to allow it. She tried to stop trembling. Then he took his hands away and stood, replacing his fingers with a thumb, touching it to the tipity-tip-tip of her swollen, aching little nub.

  Audrey gasped. He didn’t press though. Didn’t make an indentation. She barely knew his thumb was there. It was a whisper of his intention. It was a threat of what was to transpire. A gentle transaction before the damage occurred.

  He met her eyes with a danger in his starry-night gaze that hadn’t existed moments ago.

  “I want to hurt you,” he said with a pained authority. “You’ve played before?” He glanced at her ribbon, his face becoming placid again. Stoic.

  “Not with anyone in the lifestyle.”

  “With a partner?”

  “A husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “Did he command you do things to please him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he restrict your breathing?”

  “No.”

  “Burn you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he strike you?”

  “He spanked me.”

  “Hard enough to leave bruises?”

  “No,” she replied with a strange shame for what her husband hadn’t been able to provide creeping up the back of her neck, prickling her skin, heating her. He had been one of the reasons. The third.

  “Did you want him to leave marks? Give you orders? Did you want him to make you cry?”

  She nodded. “I wanted… Yes. I want to cry … and scream. I want to hurt. I want to be … pushed.” She didn’t break eye contact.

  His thumb remained on her clit throughout the conversation. Not pressing, only lying on the precipice of her undiscovered kingdom.

  “I will make you scream and cry.”

  Not can or may. Will. She released several years’ worth of repressed breaths, then whimpered as she lost contact with his thumb.

  He smeared the dampness across her mouth, the smell of her arousal making her squirm.

  “Lick,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

  Opening, she didn’t just taste, she sucked, savoring what he offered and wanting more of the tang of her own cunt. She’d never felt so humiliated — spreading her legs for a stranger. She’d also never felt more turned on. Heat had pooled in her belly, dripped through her veins, and swam in her thighs.

  After removing his finger, he gave her a tight smile, and then made his way to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d asked him a question, and the same stupid fucking question at that, until the words passed her lips. He answered it anyway, in his own way, without chastising her or embarrassing her.

  “You will stay in the chair … spread. You may touch yourself, but you cannot come. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she exhaled, eager to comply.

  “Yes?” he asked with a stern raise of an eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, and then he exited the room.

  Dropping her head against the leather seat, she watched the ceiling. The knockdown took shape. The blobs came to life until her eyes blurred, and she again focused on her body, her nudity, the hollowness she felt between her legs. She stroked herself a moment, rubbed the fuck out of the little nub he had refused to properly entertain. And then she stopped, wishing to do as he commanded. The denial of orgasm resulted in a deep-seated ache … for him — a stranger who had disregarded her red ribbon.

  She needed him to return.

  She needed his commands.

  Being here with him, listening to him, had taken her mind to the brink of some sort of trance.

  And physically, her cunt had never felt so empty.

  When he reentered, he seemed the same. He carried nothing but the same neutral expression, displaying only mild interest on his face.

  “Did you touch yourself?” he asked as he removed his belt from its loops.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you come?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you the same way Peyton hurt Kate. I won’t leave marks anyone can see. These marks will be only for you and me.” She nodded. He continued. “I’m a sadi
st. Do you know what that means?”

  “You enjoy inflicting pain for pleasure.”

  He smiled, almost laughed. “I didn’t mean for you to recite the clinical definition. I want to know if you understand what it means for you and me. For this moment, and the next, if you desire.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Some have called it a sickness,” he began, and she wondered if his words were a test. “It can be perceived as immoral — unethical when it’s without boundaries.” He paused, raising a proverbial eyebrow. “I have limits. Rules. Things I don’t wish to do. But I inflict any type of pain or humiliation I deem necessary, and I take great pleasure in it. Sometimes the pleasure is the pain. An orgasm on the heels of many orgasms can be overstimulating. It hurts worse than those bruises you saw on your friend, and it all makes me harder, makes my desire stronger. It pleases me. Humiliation…”

  He stopped, letting the word hang in the air as he folded the belt and touched her pussy with the soft leather. Audrey felt relieved at the contact, even more relieved that he seemed pleased by her reactions thus far.

  She hadn’t come. She’d stayed seated in the chair. She'd remained spread. And she’d told Gavin what she wanted. Very simply but not nearly the scope of truth.

  She needed everything he had to offer — even if it wasn’t on the menu.

  And she wanted it even more.

  “Not all the rooms have windows. A few are private. But people like to watch. Do you like to watch people fuck and bruise, Audrey?” He lifted the belt from her sensitive area, then placed it there again, tapping it to her mound. When he said her name though, she nearly choked on her own spit, unable to take her eyes from him.

  “I could feel your pulse in that room with Kate. I felt your breath quicken.”

  “I haven’t…” She stumbled over her words.

  “Do you want to watch? It’s a simple question.”

  Audrey nodded.

  “People will want to watch you. Like this,” he said, indicating her position, her nudity, her supposed humiliation. Her clit pulsed at the forbidden insinuation. “If you were my submissive, I could bind you to this chair while you lay exposed to the windows, the eyes. Every cock would want to be in your cunt, and the women would want to strap on cocks just to crawl inside you. I’d beat you in front of them. Hurt you. Then I would fuck you.”

  He stopped talking.

  Had he?

  Audrey’s heartbeat sounded in her ears, increasing in intensity. If she did some Kegels, maybe ten or five or three, she’d come, fucking explode with her legs over the arm of the chair without a single one of his fingers on her. His words had been enough to expose her secrets, unlock her desires. This man would or could lead her down a path of hedonism she might never recover from.

  He tapped the leather to her exposed flesh — harder than at first — and she flinched … wanted more.

  “Place your arms behind your head. Don’t let go,” he ordered, and then he swatted her without mercy.

  The belt stung her lips and nicked her clit. He did it again without waiting for her to recover. Each time she closed her legs involuntarily, he spread them and smacked her without a word. She winced, cried out, bit her lip. He struck the belt to her pussy again and again. And even though her legs closed, the rest of her never moved. She never tried to get away, never uttered king.

  Her hands remained clasped behind her head, and her ankles hooked over the arms. The stinging was a remnant — breadcrumbs leading to the ache, the swelling building between her legs.

  She panted through the new sensations. And then he stepped away, out of her sight. Too weak and running on endorphins to care, she shut her eyes, only opening them when she smelled his cedar, leather, and sweat return.

  A stainless-steel spoon was in his hand. He merely pressed it lightly to her seam, and she jumped.

  “Shhh,” he said, soothing her. “It’s cold?”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied, unable to form a coherent, adult-like reply.

  He pulled it forward like a slingshot, then released. The moment the cold, hard metal made contact with her already swollen seam and clit, she cried out — fucking screamed — and turned her head to the side, wishing he couldn’t see her degradation or the pain she felt climbing the walls of her face. But then she realized he needed it — he wanted to see every line of hurt she manifested.

  As she met his Copenhagen eyes, the two of them joined in a silent accord. A prayer.

  He rubbed the stainless-steel utensil up and down her wet crease, and with each slide, she panted like an animal in heat. She began to heave. She needed to beg. The experience was almost as religious as giving birth. Her legs spread. The sweat. The need to push stronger than almost any other primal instinct known to man.

  The mother had to push.

  Couldn’t wait.

  And then there was this need. And Audrey needed. She needed so much she couldn’t even verbalize all of it. But Gavin knew what she needed before Audrey did. It was on the cusp of his tongue, in the skill of his hands. In the way he planned each move.

  “You may come,” he said, and she sagged, then made a garbled sound. “And when you do, say my name. Not sir. My name. And tell me you like to hurt.”

  He penetrated her eyes with his gaze, watching her as though she were a beautifully broken doll he needed to mend. He could crush the doll, destroy her, then put her back together, and everything would be right again.

  “I like to hurt,” she burst out.

  The orgasm built. He flicked her nub while sliding the spoon through her folds, and then he fucked her with it, repeating the action until she said his name in broken spurts along with the words, “I like to hurt. I like to hurt. Please make me hurt, Gavin…”

  She hadn’t even finished pulsating when he dropped to his knees in front of her and put his tongue on her bruised and possibly bleeding clit — she couldn’t see it, but oh how she wanted to. He sucked it gently, licked it while she squirmed. But the moment she grabbed his face, he stopped.

  “Hands back behind your head,” he ordered, and she complied.

  He began again. But the wiggling resumed. The word no fell from her lips like a mantra. Her ass slid against the seat. She tried to inch away.

  He grabbed her chin, held it, and shook it. “Have you never had multiple orgasms?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “I’ve touched myself after, but I’ve never come in succession.”

  “Then this time, your pain will be from pleasure. And you will take it. You won’t touch me or move anymore. And when you come, and you will come, you will say my name again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will come for me.” He licked her seam, shoved his tongue into her center, then he took it back to her clit. Hole to seam to clit.

  The pleasure couldn’t have been measured with all the rulers in the world. The sensitivity had her near bursting. She didn’t think she could obey his edict.

  “Relax.” He licked her softly, teasing her bud with his tongue. “Shhh,” he whispered, burying his nose in her folds. “Let it happen. Don’t fight me. You’re powerful, Audrey. Your body is telling you things. Listen to it.”

  He licked, sucked, pushed two fingers inside her. She could hear the sounds they made together: his fingers and her cunt. The squishing, the squelching, the wetness.

  “Look. Watch.”

  Lifting her head, she took note of his hooded eyes, the vein in his neck, the stretch in his pants, and then she looked at where they met.

  His fingers.

  Her cunt.

  “Come again,” he hissed. “Please me. Say my name.”

  Bones turning to liquid, she shook over the whole of his mouth, his fingers, his face, and cried out the name of the man she’d only just met … without shame.

  “Gavin, Gavin, Gavin...”

  He stood before she finished, without wiping her juices from his face, and took his dick in hand.
“Legs down. Feet on the ground. Eyes here.” He indicated his face.

  His pants were slung low on his hips, his shirt still on, as he positioned her the way he wanted in the large leather chair. He placed a knee on the cushion next to her waist and a foot on the other side, leaving his hard cock inches from her face.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Still contracting, barely breathing, she tilted her head upright and tried to focus.

  “Open your fucking mouth,” he said, tapping the head of his cock to her lips. “Lick.”

  She tasted the precum, dipped her tongue into the slit, wiggling it, and then … she wanted more. Had to have more. Seized with only the basest of instincts, she inched her head forward and reached for him, but he pulled away and smirked.

  “I control this too, baby girl. I will fuck your mouth, and you will allow me all the way inside.” He slapped his cock against her cheek. “Yes?” He slapped her other cheek.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, then left her mouth open in invitation.

  He slipped his cock past her teeth, then pulled it out slick with her spit. He slapped her cheek with it again, tapped her tongue with the tip and asked, “You want my dick, baby girl?”

  She made incoherent sounds as he gripped her hair, yanking her face up. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “Beg,” he growled.

  “Please.” She stuck her tongue out, trying to lick him. “Please … fuck my mouth.”

  Groaning, he shoved himself all the way in, then out, gripping her hair in tandem, ruthlessly penetrating her face while she gagged, resisted, made gurgling sounds … and then he pulled out.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Snap your fingers if you want me to stop. I won’t cut off your breathing, but you will gag on my dick. You will retch like a little cock-sucking bitch, and each time you do, it will please me beyond anything you can imagine.”

  He didn’t realize all she could imagine.

  She’d imagined filthy, filthy things practically every time she lay beneath her husband. Being used and abused, being taken and fucked, treated like a dirty little whore. Her husband had been a lover, not a fighter, a gentleman, not a Dominant. He couldn’t understand, and eventually, she’d lost him to needs she couldn’t even articulate at the time. Their communication hadn’t been truly open. Their love had waned in time.