by Lulu Astor
I roll my eyes and he wags his finger at me and says, “Eh, eh, eh. We’ll have none of that or I’ll have to spank you again. And I know your pretty little posterior is a bit tender already.”
Coming closer until his lips are just barely touching mine, he softly says, “I promise you, Ella, tonight I’m giving it all to you: everything I have to give, I will give, to my beautiful and sexy wife on our wedding night.”
Okay, I’ll play. After those heartfelt words, I’d jump into an active volcano for him.
He replaces the gag gently and then slips a blindfold over my eyes. “Not being able to see makes everything more intense but it also frees a person of inhibitions for some odd reason. I want you free to feel and revel in it, Ella.”
His voice is silky and deep and makes things shift deep inside me. A sharp contraction of lust nearly doubles me over as I listen intently to my new husband’s sexy baritone, instructing me in our sensuous game. My wrists are still cuffed behind my back. My garter belt, panties, and stockings slip away, the shoes replaced on my feet, leaving me only in my heels.
“Ella, be silent… and don’t come. Feel everything but control it. Are we clear?”
I nod because I have the gag in my mouth. This moment is intense; his lips are brushing against my ear as he whispers his requirements. I feel as if I can reach orgasm without him even touching me because his dripping-with-sexy voice alone is ripping me apart.
His warm breath leaves my neck and I wonder where he went… until I feel his satin lips gliding up my arm, from wrist to shoulder. Again they disappear only to return, this time on the back of my knee. This touch and go continues for, I don’t know, maybe ten minutes? Time feels elastic when you can’t watch it pass.
I’m covered in goose bumps when his fingers start skimming delicately over my skin. Fingers give way to a warm, wet tongue. Finally, an implement, I think a tiny flogger… and that can mean only one thing: it’s meant to whip tiny places.
As he brushes the fronds across my skin, flicking occasionally so it stings, I feel my mind carried to another plane, a dimension where the sense of touch reigns supreme and other senses retreat. This is what he’s aiming for. My only job is to feel, he said. When the stings grow in intensity, it doesn’t hurt: it just feels stronger. He moves quickly, expertly, from my shoulders to my ankles, stopping at various points for extra attention. He lingers on my breasts, making them feel tight and swollen. The pressure is inexorably building and I know this is my other task, to not give in to the encroaching orgasm. Though he’s asked me to accomplish this feat from the first, let’s just say I haven’t mastered the art just yet.
Up and down, up and down, my skin is warm and flushed and I’m reaching a point of no return. “Ian,” I say, not knowing myself if I’m asking a question or punctuating my experience.
“Shhh,” is all I get in response and the fronds start moving faster, the pattern frenzied and erratic. His hand suddenly grabs me between my legs, rubbing and squeezing me into sensations too big to handle. “Ian, I can’t…”
And… boom. I fail at my task, alas.
His voice slides through my stupor. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mrs. Blackmon. One or two simple instructions and you neglect to heed them. What shall we do as a punishment? Hmm, I think I’ve got it.”
It’s not really a punishment; he puts me on my knees and stands in front of me. I love to do this for him but there is one punitive condition: my hands are tied behind my back. That makes it impossible for me to control the situation and it’s a little scary. A little scary is good, though. Exciting.
Soft, hard, smooth, jerky, gentle, rough—all adjectives we used. When he hits his climax, I feel as if I’ve accomplished something important. I love giving my husband pleasure. After, he flings me on the bed and returns the favor.
Later, we lie in bed, entwined and peaceful. Ian’s head leaning on mine, he speaks softly. “Would you like to know what else I saw in you, Ella?”
I look up into his face that I adore. “What else?”
“How much time do you have? Your physical beauty attracted me but it was what was underneath that truly ensnared me. I love who you are: your wit, your sense of humor, your taste in music. The way you give just a tiny smirk before you’re about to blow up in anger, and the way your hair blows across your face when we drive in the convertible. You flip it back and flaunt a million-dollar smile as the wind caresses your face. I love the way you wear your clothes, the way you chew your lip when deep in thought, the way you straighten your spine when undertaking a challenge. I love your spirit for adventure, especially when it comes to sex, and the way you meet me dare for dare, never giving ground no matter how much I push. I love how your blue, blue eyes light up from within when you see an adorable child or animal, how you giggle when something strikes your funnybone, how you blush when you’re embarrassed.
“But maybe most of all, Ella, is that I love how you love me. You make me feel that my love for you is something you cherish and will keep from harm. If I make you feel physically safe, as you’ve told me I do, you make me feel emotionally safe, something I’ve never felt before. I will hold that, protected and warm, next to my heart forever and ever, my beautiful wife.
Tears are streaming down my face when he finishes. I never realized how tenderhearted Ian is behind the polished façade he hides behind. My throat hoarse with unshed tears, I can’t manage a response. I am so choked up by his beautiful homage to me. A marriage is a legal procedure, a piece of paper that says two people are united in the eyes of the law. The practical ramifications are important, of course: just ask anyone who’s been denied the right. But tonight we both begin to realize that it’s so much more than practicalities.
A marriage gives mates the emotional security to open up and let another person inside, not just literally, but more importantly, spiritually. Ian and I have been through a lot, not the least of which were two break-ups, one lasting a year, and one just a few hours. Those few hours when I fled to L.A. hurt more, I think, than the whole year apart because I felt betrayed by the man I love. That was when it dawned on me that I’d rather be whipped than abandoned.
While we’re on the topic of whipping, I should add that he’s not all that interested in it anymore. And, perverse creature that I am, I’m more interested in it precisely because of that. I’m not saying I want it, per se, but I’m not saying I don’t, either. Let’s just say those whips wielded by a tall, gorgeous Dominant I know have taken on mythical proportions in my mind… to the point where I might just have to try it again. We’ll see.
Snapping me out of my reverie, Ian’s voice perforates the silence in the small bedroom. “Ella,” he gazes into my eyes, his shaded with emotion so profound it’s easy to see it in the liquid mercury depths, “I love you, Ella, so much. I know it took me a long time to say it… but I’ve been here for a while, maybe even from day one.”
He’s caressing my face, sweetly and gently, his eyes never leaving mine. The emotion of the moment is so intense, I almost can’t bear to look into those light and haunting peepers.
He’s still speaking softly to me. “I promise to give my absolute best to be a good partner to you. Since you’re willing to put up with the… lesser… facets of my personality, I can surely put up with your tiny imperfections.”
Trying to lighten the mood just a bit, I screech, going for indignant. “Imperfections? Name one, buster.”
“Buster?” He smiles. “Getting yourself into trouble is a big one.”
I can’t argue with that assessment, though I’m up for a try anyway. Before I can utter another syllable, though, he speaks up again.
“I’ll help you out of every hole… even while getting into a few of my own—the nice, warm kind.” He winks at me, smiling sweetly and pulls me into his arms, embracing me tightly. “The difficult I’ll do right now; the impossible will take a little while.”
I smile. He’s reciting the words to one of our wedding songs, Crazy He Calls Me. So Ian Blackmon,
mogul, Dominant, sexually kinky demi-god, is also a romantic deep down where no one but I can see. I can live with that. I finish the lyrics. “Crazy, he calls me. Sure, I’m crazy. Crazy in love am I.”
Ireland and Scotland: what can I say? One might have to be a poet to do them justice but I’ll give it a go: green swaths of hill and dale, sun shimmering on azure blue waters so vibrantly it’s blinding, friendly pink-cheeked people, astoundingly good ale, and fantastically superb sex—oh wait, we supplied that last part.
Then we decided to go to the beach.
Not just any beach, mind you, but a beach in the South of France. Yes, the beaches of France are rather incomparable and we’ve been lying in chaises reading and sipping icy cold cocktails for four days straight. Though we planned to end our trip in Scotland, we decided to stay another week and visit Provence. I’m thinking about Lucien, as I usually do whenever France is on my mind.
I realize that at the time, I wanted to put that whole episode with Lucien behind me as fast as I could… and did. But now removed from it by the distance of time and place, I can more easily reflect. I don’t think Lucien was as blameless as he claimed to be in that whole tawdry affair. I think he participated to some significant extent, and participated with a measure of zeal. It’s my belief that he actually said some of those awful things to me and did touch me inappropriately while I was grossly impaired.
Afterward, he was ashamed and guilty, which is what I’m figuring led him to turn on Natasha and help us out. I suppose we could say he redeemed himself in so doing. Regardless of any redemption, I still want nothing to do with him. He sent us a beautiful piece of art as a wedding gift, a set of four miniature paintings of a street in Paris, each reflecting a different perspective. We discussed what to do and ultimately decided to re-gift the paintings. Neither of us wanted to keep anything from Lucien fucking Phillips. The paintings now hang on the walls of Quentin’s San Francisco Victorian, I believe. No reason to take it out on the art.
As for Natasha? We ultimately decided to let things be. Lucien promised Daniel she was alive and kicking—boy, was she kicking. But her new man is up to the challenge of subduing her, apparently. Am I thrilled by the outcome? Let’s just say the idea is growing on me and it’s certainly a damn sight better than it could have been for her. After all, she started this nasty game with Ian and he finished it. If someone throws down a gauntlet to Ian Blackmon, he or she shouldn’t be surprised if he picks up the glove and accepts the challenge.
I reach for my sunglasses, blowing a kiss to my husband who is lounging next to me, reading some boring business magazine. So, Mr. and Mrs. Blackmon send their regrets to Ms. Natasha Yenin and sincerely hope she is enjoying the sands of Arabia with her new… oh, we’ll just call him husband.
Epilogue
(Loose Ends)
Kiev, Ukraine
In a dreary convalescent hospice room somewhere in Kiev, two brothers sit at a table discussing a patient’s progress with his attendants. A vibrating buzz sounds inside the bigger one’s jacket pocket, alerting him to an incoming call, and he reaches in to pull out a phone.
“Dah?”
“It’s me,” the urgent female voice said in English. “Natasha’s missing.”
“Missing? For how long?”
“Over a week now. I don’t know what to do.”
“Gabriele, what can we do? We cannot return to the States right now. We’re too hot. You have to handle it yourself for now.”
“How?” The woman screeched, the pitch of her voice rising with her panic. “My daughter is missing, maybe dead, and I cannot go to the police. What is my next step?”
“Why don’t you try enlisting that useless ex-husband of yours? It’s only a shame he’s not more like his father.”
“What is he going to do?” she sneered. “He’s only interested in screwing girls young enough to be his daughter and driving fast cars. He’s no help at all.”
Leo looked at his watch and sighed. “Okay. I’ll make some calls. Where was she last seen, do you know?”
“Her neighbor said she saw her a week ago Thursday near the parking lot of her apartment building. The last call I got from her was the night before.”
“I suppose it’s good that no body has turned up. That may mean she’s still alive. Let’s hope our friend in Portland doesn’t have the junk to do anything too permanent.”
“That’s what I’m hoping and praying.”
“We should have handled him long ago. Alright, we’ll look into it and see what can be done.”
He disconnected and tossed the phone on the table, lost in thought. His brother sat patiently across the table from him, watching and waiting. Leo scratched his stubbled chin, his mind across oceans for a swollen minute and then seemed to snap to it, focusing his beady raisin eyes on his brother, shaking his head in disgust. “More crap for us to handle. The first rule of a successful man: never leave unfinished business… and now our pretty little Tasha has gone missing—very likely belly up.”
He looked down at his scuffed Doc Martens, noting the heels needed to be replaced, and then his dead eyes shifted from his shoes up to his brother’s matching lifeless eyes. “From now on we take a scorched-earth policy with our enemies. As for this particular clusterfuck, as soon as possible, we hit Blackmon and hit him hard. Finish it.”
“He’s no pussy and he’s got resources—it’s possible he’ll finish us first.”
“So be it. Then we crash and burn trying.”
“Yeah, well, it will be hard to hit him from across the North Atlantic. We dare show our pretty faces in the States and we’re dog food. It’s dangerous enough to be here now and you know it. No. We forget Blackmon and focus on what’s important: making money.”
Leo’s fist smashed into the table, splintering the thin wood. “Our son has more money than he’ll ever know what to do with. At this point it’s no longer revenge but a matter of honor. If Blackmon hurt our Tasha, he’s going down, that’s for sure.” Spittle was flying from his mouth as his anger escalated through his words.
“We can try to find Tasha but we give up on Blackmon.” Lukas looked his brother in the eyes. “It’s over.”
He picked up his phone again and punched in a number. “It’s me. Natasha Yenin, last seen in Portland, Oregon, a week ago Thursday. Blond, blue-eyed American, Russian ethnic, 28 years of age, 5’9” and fucking gorgeous. And my niece. Find her: I’ll pay whatever. Just find her, alive or dead, preferably alive. I’ll be waiting.”
Paris, France
Lucien rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with the heels of his hands. He was still on New York time and his body screamed for rest but he had meetings all week, starting with late this afternoon.
He arrived early this morning and as soon as he left the airport, he met with Aziz’s people. Michel Rimbaud arranged the meeting and assured him that all was going well in Saudi Arabia and that Aziz was highly satisfied with his purchase. What Lucien really wanted to know was how Natasha felt about being that purchase, but he really couldn’t ask.
He’d betrayed her in the most massive way possible. But she had gotten in the first licks, using him as a pawn in her game to get Blackmon. Ella was the one who got hurt the most and Lucien truly liked Ella though he wasn’t exactly sure why. But there was something bright and shiny about that woman and it made him feel all the more rotten about his part in her abduction.
He often wondered if he’d been successful in convincing Ella that she hallucinated the whole thing. Soon after he administered the drug to her, he could see she was having problems and most definitely hallucinating. That gave him the idea once he changed his mind about participating and realized he wanted to extricate himself, put distance between himself and the whole sordid affair.
What were the odds that both her boyfriend as well as her employer slash colleague would be involved in BDSM? He’d been intending to do bad things to her—Natasha had convinced him that Ella wrote her book to publicly humiliate him… but fortunately
Lucien had his doubts followed by his attack of conscience before doing anything irrevocable. Blackmon would not have rested until he wiped Lucien from the earth if anything had happened to his Ella. In the end, however, the one who suffered most was the one who should have suffered most: Natasha.
He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel regret. He did. Imagination was often much worse than reality but Lucien knew firsthand what a man could do to a captive woman—his ex-girlfriends could attest to that, even his ex-fiancée Eliza to some extent, although he went easy on her. He wondered what the Arab was doing to the blond beauty. Lucien was madly in love with Natasha not all that long ago and abhorred the thought of her beautiful body being marked up permanently, by a Bedouin no less.
But she belonged to Aziz now… and Lucien had the funds in his bank account to prove it.
Not that he needed the money; he didn’t. Lucien had so much money, in fact, that he could never spend it in ten lifetimes. It really didn’t buy happiness.
But it bought everything else.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
She opened her eyes and saw nothing but profound darkness. Where was she? Her back ached from lying too long in the same position so she tried to shift over to her other side and found her progress impeded.
Why?
Icy cold fingers of panic skimmed down her spine. She put her hands out in front of her in that inky black space and they almost instantly touched something solid. Now the panic swelled thick in her throat, gagging her.
Buried alive?
Calm down, she told herself. If there’s limited oxygen, panting and gasping will deplete it faster. She ran her hands down whatever impediment was inches away from her face. It felt relatively soft but not satiny and padded like a coffin. It wasn’t hard enough to be a pine box or anything like that. It felt familiar, like… cardboard.
Then she moved her hands to each side and both hit the same solid wall immediately: she was in a box, a cardboard box. She decided to press the sides: if she were buried in the ground, she wouldn’t feel any give. Or didn’t she want to know? Holding her breath while her heart performed an Olympic meter race, she gently pushed with both hands… and felt the cardboard give a little outward.