by Ines Johnson
I need her to know that I won’t let her fall. I want her to know that I will only lift her up. So I do. Placing my hands on her hips, my tongue still tangling with hers, I raise Marechal bodily from the ground and toss her back on the bed.
Her long limbs sail through the air. Only to land on the bed with a thud. She is splayed unladylike on the mattress. It had to be done. It was the only way that kiss would end, and I have work to do.
I tug down the zipper of her skirt and shimmy her long legs out of the garment. She is left in her lace bra, soaked panties, and those pointed heels. A decadent dessert that I will gorge myself on.
The bed dips as I place one knee on the mattress. Marechal’s breath catches as she watches me prowl up her body. Using her heel, she digs into the mattress and scoots back, away from me. Without her hands, she can’t find purchase to move much further, nor much faster. She is bound, at my mercy, and I am on her.
I catch one leg. Holding her heel in the palm of my hands, I slide my fingers up her ankle. She shudders at my touch.
“Be a good girl,” I say. “Spread your legs for me.”
With a shaky breath, she lets her knees fall open. I could’ve gotten off right there just from this strong woman following the simplest of commands. I need her begging. I need her panting my name. I need to make her back arch and her pussy quiver until she passes out from pleasure.
Gazing down at her, I take a slow inventory of her body, determining where to strike first. Where to put the pressure to tear her apart, knowing that when she comes back together, she will be stronger. And then I’ll do it all again.
I hook my thumbs on either side of her panties. With a tug, the material snaps in two, rendering her bare for my gaze. Her pussy lips are not the rosé I’d imagined. Her intimate flesh is the coppery-red of a Catawba grape, an American variety used not only for wine but also for jams and jellies. The color, on Marechal, makes sense.
She gasps when my fingers find her swollen bud. It took me a second longer than normal because her entire cunt is swollen. I give her light touches because I know she craves a strong hand. I’ve already proven that I am that hand, that I am more than capable of managing her.
It still galls me that she attempted to protect me from that street vagrant. But it also confuses me. As well as it thrills me. I don’t know what to make of it, except that I need to make her shiver with the deep, gratifying pleasure that only I can give her.
Marechal moves in time to my strokes. I keep my finger at the right pressure for my touch to be feather-light. She tries to move her hips closer to me, trying to manage me into what she wants. But I know what she needs.
I use my knees to spread her wider, stopping the rise of her hips. When she begins to whimper, satisfaction pours through me. There is nothing like watching a woman break for me. The trembling starts all too soon.
I keep my touch light and soon, trapped as she is, she is bucking against my hand. The wet sounds of my fingers slipping across her little bud make my mouth water. Her cunt and her mouth are gasping with need. The fat pad of my thumb is drenched as she continues to shake with pleasure. I pet her until she comes down. When she opens her eyes, I confirm the count on the scoreboard for our little game.
“That was number two.”
Her eyes widen with realization. Of course, I know she came in the restaurant. I hook her bound hands onto a notch on the headboard. Then I lie down on my belly between her thighs, ready for the game to begin in earnest.
19
Marechal
I wish I knew how to lie. I want to tell Gaius that I didn’t come back in the restaurant. That way, I’d have nine more of these delightful little explosions to look forward to.
I am a greedy woman.
But I can barely talk as I watch his head bob up and down between my thighs. I’ve barely stopped trembling from the last orgasm as his tongue laps up the wetness it brought forth. He licks the creases between my thighs, where the elastic of my panties had dug in. He tugs my labia between his lips, as though my flesh were nothing more than a spoon he’s licking a dessert from. The more he licks, the wetter I get. The wetter I get, the more he laps it up. Because that is the sound this tongue makes as he suckles at me. The man between my thighs is a big cat, a panther who is lapping up a treat.
The feel of his lips, his tongue, and even his teeth is too much. I need a reprieve. But I can’t close my legs. His big shoulders keep me open for his pleasure. His large hands press me open wider.
He takes long, leisurely licks. His eyes remain open, never closing, as though he can’t get enough of what he’s seeing.
I have to fight to keep my gaze on him. Each time my eyes flutter, I force them back open, not wanting to miss a single second of this.
When he wraps his lips around the oversensitive flesh at the apex of my sex, I am lost. My eyes shut. My mouth opens. And I scream my pleasure.
I slam my thighs closed as another orgasm explodes. But my thighs meet with Gaius’s head. My heels dig into his back. He flexes his shoulders, letting the spikes of my stilettos dig into his flesh.
Slowly, he lifts his head, licking his upper lip as his eyes gleam at me. “Three.”
Fuck. I collapse back on the pillow. Greedy as I am, I don’t know how I’ll take seven more of these. But I want them. I want every single one as my due.
Gaius rises off the bed. Is he stopping? Is he giving up? Maybe I should start cheerleading instead of naysaying because I’m now a believer. With those clever fingers and that wicked tongue, I think he can have me trembling in pleasure for the rest of the night.
But wait? Is that what I want? How exactly did our newest bet go? Do I win if I come ten times? Or do I lose? It doesn’t matter. I want more.
I whimper in protest as he comes to standing. I reach out to him, only to remember that my arms are bound. I hadn’t even realized he’d done it. I could raise my forearms and lift the knotted tie from the headboard if I wanted. Or I could simply tug until the knot came loose.
I do neither. There’s something about the feeling of being bound that makes me feel free.
On the other side of the room, Gaius rummages around in a drawer. I can’t see what he has in his hands as he turns. On his way back to me, he stops at an easel and picks up a brush.
When he splays his wares on the mattress, I gasp. My thighs press together, not closing entirely due to the swollen lips he’s just kissed. My gaze catches his. The wicked sparkle in his eyes is clear in the low light of the room.
Gaius runs his fingers over a paintbrush; a long dildo that’s curved like a U-pipe at the tip; a second toy with a bulbous head that I know is a Magic Wand; and rope.
“What are you going to do with those?” My voice is small, barely above a whisper, and filled with tremors.
“What I promised.”
I open my mouth to protest. Nothing comes out. Because I don’t have a single objection to his plan. Hell, I don’t even question him about his strategy—because I want whatever he’s going to do to me.
Gaius reaches for my hands and unties the belt. Disappointment rushes down my arms along with the blood as I regain my mobility. Now that I’m no longer restrained, questions about his intentions flood my brain.
Is he going to put those dildos inside of me? What’s the purpose of the one that’s curved? The Magic Wand definitely won’t fit inside me, and I’d prefer his tongue again. And what’s with the paintbrush?
I don’t ask a single question because when I look up, he’s smiling at me. As though he’s anticipating every one of my queries.
“You are a very naughty girl, aren’t you, Marechal?”
I shake my head, no. I’m a good girl. I always do what is expected of me. I do not shirk from my responsibilities. I can feel them coming back down on my shoulders now that I’m free of the belt.
“You like being bound.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. I’m sure he knows how I feel. At every turn, he seems to know exa
ctly what I need.
Gaius takes the rope in one hand and one of my thighs in the other. He begins to loop the rope around my knee.
“What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” he soothes. “I’m going to take care of everything. You just lie back and relax.”
He finishes the knot above my knee and then reaches for my arm. He makes the same loops just above my elbow and then affixes a knot between my two limbs. He goes to the other side of the bed and does the same with my left arm and knee. When he is finished I am laid open, like a spider on her back with her limbs splayed. Once more, I feel light and free.
Gaius smiles down at his handiwork. Then he leans down and kisses me. A light brush of his lips against mine. I taste myself on his lips. I swallow down the kiss and then arch for more.
He gives me what I want: slowly, languidly kissing me with my legs open, my pussy throbbing, and my nipples tight, achy points. He doesn’t touch me anywhere, except his lips against mine, his tongue lapping at mine.
If this goes on, I think I’ll come from it. But he breaks the kiss. I gulp down air.
“You were close, weren’t you?”
I open my eyes. He’s gazing down at me with wonder. I want to be a wonder to him.
“I could watch you come all night, minou. I’m going to.”
He picks up the brush. Is he going to go back to the easel and paint me? I think I would die of want if he did.
He doesn’t move from the bed. Instead of dipping the brush in any paint, he places it on his tongue and licks the bristles. My pussy jumps knowing exactly what that felt like.
Gaius’s attention turns from my face to my bared pussy. He tilts his head, regarding my aching labia like I am a work of art he’s trying to interpret. Placing the soften bristles against my core, he begins to paint.
“Such a pretty minou.”
That’s when I get it. He was never calling me a cat or a kitten. He was calling me another word entirely.
The brush strokes feel nothing like his tongue. His tongue was at times a soft velvet touch, and at others, a stiff tip. The paintbrush has many bristles; soft at the edges and firm at the center. They all touch me at the same time. The bristles are concentrated at my clitoris. The small bud of nerves is having trouble processing all the sensations. It’s going to spontaneously combust any second now.
“Try to hold it for me, minou.”
“I can’t,” I pant. “I want it.”
“I’m going to give it to you. Again, and then again. But hold back for now.”
His words make no sense. I don’t try to comprehend. There are too many sensations happening to my body. I can’t close my legs to relieve some. I can’t grab hold of anything to hold onto. I can only feel, and I am overwhelmed.
“Trust me. I know how to take care of you.”
There are those words again. I hold my breath, trying to clamp down on the tingles that are rolling through me. They’re picking up speed and heat and intensity. Pretty soon, those tingles are a blazing, fiery freight train about to burst out of me.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re close. Hold out, minou.”
But I can’t. My grip is loosening. One finger lets go. Then another. And then I am crashing, falling, undone.
20
Gaius
I run my hands over Marechal’s nipples. The tiny jewels scrape against the flesh of my palms. The buds are puckered so hard, they could cut glass.
Her eyes are closed, her head lolling. She is in total bliss, and has been since the sixth orgasm. That was three orgasms ago. One to go.
“Marechal, open your eyes.”
Her lids flutter. But they do not open. She is conscious, aware. I have worn her out. However, I know she has more in her.
“Look at me.”
Her lids lift, revealing those plum eyes that leave me feeling tipsy every time she glances my way. “Gaius,” she sighs, before closing her eyes again.
My chest rises at the reverence she puts in my name. I feel like a king, a conqueror. I’ve broken many women to my will. Marechal is my greatest prize.
Though I made it bend, there’s still steel in her spine. A small smile touches her lips. In it is a smirk of defiance. It tells me that though I may have conquered her body, there’s still a reserve inside that I will never touch.
My fingers twitch. My palms itch.
I look again at my handiwork. Her body is perfection in the candlelight. The flame plays off the honey of her skin.
My cock throbs in my pants. But I don’t want in her mouth. I want inside of her. I want passage into her core, to tap that reserve.
I haven’t fucked a woman’s cunt in… I can’t remember the last time. For so long, women have only been for food and fun. But this one? This one, I want to see me. This one, I want to speak to me. This one, I want to touch me.
I undo the knots at her knees. My hand trembles as I do so. Once she’s free, she could strike out. She could inflict pain upon me. That’s what happens after a woman is sated.
For the last hundred years, I’ve never bothered to test the theory. I have another tend to the aftercare of my playthings. I’m gone before they come out of subspace. But there is no one else here but the two of us. Because I’ve never taken a woman to my bed… ever.
I didn’t want to bring Marechal to the club. For so many reasons. I didn’t want any of the others to see my fascination with her. I didn’t want them to think she was fair game after I am done with her.
Done with her?
I am not done with her. My throbbing dick tells me so. Still, I untie her.
To let her go?
To see if she’ll stay?
To prove she’ll strike out?
As I set her hands free, they go limp at her sides. She is far too blissed out to lift even a finger. I look down at this strong woman, who stood toe to toe with me in business matters and didn’t flinch. At this moment, I have all the power. I can do anything to her that I want. She has no power to stop me. She couldn’t even form the words to say no. She is powerless. So how does she still hold so much power over me?
I work the kinks out of her legs and arms. I’ve been edging and tormenting her for hours. Her cunt is a darker shade of red from my abuse with the G-spot dildo and Magic Wand vibrator. As I’d plunged the bulbous head into her over and over again, I’d imagined it was my cock thrusting into her. The thought had made my fangs ache.
They ache now, reminding me I haven’t eaten today. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, when I first had a taste of Marechal. I know her blood will taste as sweet as her cunt.
“Did I win?”
My gaze shoots to her. Her eyes are still closed. There is a smug grin on her lips.
“Thought you’d tapped out,” I say.
“I’m still in it. There’s no way I can have another orgasm. My body is numb.”
“Challenge accepted.”
She chuckles, eyes still closed. She lifts a limp hand. My breath stops at the sight of it. I hold still, motionless as it aims for me.
What will she do? Will she strike me across the face? Will she dig her claws into my nipples? Will she punch my balls?
Marechal’s hand lands on my cheek. The soft impact nearly knocks me over. Instead of pulling away as instinct dictates, I lean into her.
“Gaius,” she sighs. “Kiss me.”
I do. I press my lips to hers. Her body stirs beneath me. Something in the back of my mind wriggles, warning me that this is dangerous. That I will pay for this caress. That pain will follow.
Pleasure blooms inside me as her other hand presses against my chest. I smell her blood racing through her limbs, heating up as I take her lips with mine.
My cock presses against the swollen lips of her cunt. My every instinct tells me to push inside her. But then I would be lost.
I continue to kiss her. I rub my cock against her. I plunge my tongue into her the way I want to work my cock inside her.
Marechal moans into my mout
h. She makes no intelligible sound, but I swear I hear her claim me. My hips thrust faster against her; I’m coating myself with her juices.
She breaks the kiss and pulls back. Fear pulls me from her. Is it coming now? The strike for taking these liberties?
“Gaius,” she whimpers, throwing her head back as she comes.
I throw my head back as well. I buck against her, letting my seed run between her folds. My balls are empty. I do not have enough blood in me. For the first time in my long life, I feel satiated.
“You win,” she says before curling into me and falling asleep.
I hold her to me. No restraints between us. At this moment, I know that I will protect this woman with everything in me.
21
Marechal
I feel the first rays of the morning touch my cheek. The sun’s light isn’t soft, it’s harsh. When I open my eyes, I see that it is not the morning sunlight that has awakened me. It’s late afternoon.
I have slept most of the day away. Nearly all of my workday. But I feel no sense of urgency to rush from Gaius’s bed.
I feel tethered to the mattress even though my hands are no longer bound. The memory of his dominance, of his possession, holds me in my place. His absence is what finally gets me to shift into total awareness.
I sit up in the bed. There’s not a stitch on me except the soft silk of his sheets. The rich oak smell of his surrounds me.
The frame of his bed is made of wood. It’s the wood of a Quercus robur, a French oak used to barrel Bordeaux wines. The rich scent has been on my tongue all night. My fingers trace the rings of the carved wood. This tree was old. I can tell by the number of growth rings.
Pinned to the wood is a note. I open it to reveal Gaius’s slanted script. My eyes slide over the words, not taking in any meaning the first time I read. I’m too enamored with his handwriting. These days, I don’t see much writing in cursive. This is not the cursive I learned in grade school. Gaius’s writing calls to the old world, and it’s written in French.