by Desiree Holt
Last night is still bothering him. I can tell when he averts his eyes just before shyly making eye contact again.
“How was your day?” I ask, grasping his hands gently as I stand up on my toes to kiss him.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Same old. Yours?”
I shrug. “The usual. You know, I was thinking we could go out tonight.”
“Out? Anywhere in particular?”
“Dinner somewhere,” I say. “Maybe…talk about things.”
Ian swallows. “Sure. Okay. Um…” He clears his throat and gestures at the stairs. “Let me go grab a shower and change clothes.”
I nod, resisting the urge to grin, and I follow him up to our bedroom. While he gets ready for a shower, we make our usual small talk, exchanging chit-chat about clients and meetings we dealt with all day today. We’ve been married long enough that we can undress in front of each other without a glance turning into cancelled plans and a feverish fuck, but tonight, it’s all I can do to concentrate on our mundane conversation.
My gaze slides up and down his bare back and broad shoulders and, when he takes off his slacks, I’m glad his back is turned so he doesn’t see me lick my lips. He’s still in as good shape as he was when we met, eight years ago. Better shape, actually. Flat abs. Powerful legs. And, watching him now, I can’t help but notice his biceps and forearms have become even more well-defined recently.
Waving a flogger around a couple of nights a week probably has that effect. I shiver.
Oblivious to my preoccupation, Ian steps into the bathroom to get his shower, and my heart quickens. It’s time for me to put my plan into action. As soon as he closes the door, I strip off my blouse and jeans. Looking in the full-length mirror, I fuss with the laces on my black leather corset, making sure they’re straight and snug. This is probably Ian’s favourite out of all the corsets I own—I love how he likes to run his hands up and down the slick patent leather, or trail his fingers along the top, which is just barely high enough to conceal my nipples. The back is low, too, and he’s flogged me in this corset before. If I know him, that’s exactly what will cross his mind when he sees it.
He’s always loved this black garter belt and these stockings, too. Especially when I’ve just waxed and I forgo panties. Like, say, tonight.
I slip on a pair of black, patent leather, stiletto heels. They’re a challenge to walk in, especially on carpet, but I’ve worn them enough times—they’re always a hit at swinger parties—that I’m used to them, and they’re comfortably broken in.
In the next room, the water turns off.
My pulse rate shoots upwards again. I face the mirror as I pull my hair back into a high, tight ponytail.
Am I really doing this? I silently ask my reflection. Am I ready for this?
The mirror has no answer.
I fasten a ponytail holder in place and lower my arms. Pausing to inspect my appearance one last time, I tell myself I am really doing this, and I am ready for this. Even if I’m not, there’s no turning back now.
The bathroom door opens. Ian has a towel around his waist, and he’s drying his hair with another as he says, “I don’t know if you’ve already got a place in mind, but we haven’t tried that new restaurant in—”
He halts in both speech and step, and he stares. He doesn’t even draw a breath, and only his eyes move, slowly looking me up and down as his lips part in surprise.
Fighting to keep a stern, stoic expression, I take a step towards him.
Ian straightens. “I thought we were—”
“I changed my mind. We’re staying in.” I bite my tongue to keep from adding, “…if that’s all right with you.” Damn right, it’s all right with him. I’m in charge tonight.
I step closer, and less than an arm’s length remains between us now. Thanks to my heels, we’re almost eye to eye, though he still has a few inches on me, and he lifts his chin a little to capitalise on that. I raise an eyebrow. He eyes me for a moment, his brow furrowing. Then he lowers his chin, and I reward him with the smile that’s been pulling at my lips since he stepped out of the bathroom.
Ian relaxes a little and reaches for me, but I bat his hand away.
“Tsk, tsk, Ian,” I say. “I didn’t give you permission, did I?”
His jaw drops. My pulse spikes. Oh, this is going to be fun.
“You’re done with this, aren’t you?” I don’t wait for an answer before I hook my index finger in the towel around his waist, tug firmly and let it pool at his feet. The other towel slips out of his hand and joins the first on the floor.
His cock is fully erect already. Bridget the submissive wants nothing more than to drop to her knees and beg permission to suck him off. Bridget the Domme-for-the-Night is similarly tempted, but I hold back. I’m not asking permission for anything tonight, and he’ll have his orgasm when I’m good and ready to let him.
No matter how badly I want to suck his cock right now.
Without a word, I walk around him, circling him like a shark. The room is completely silent except for my carpet-muffled steps and the creak of my corset. Ian gulps and fidgets. Nervous? Off balance? Perfect.
My mouth waters as I look him up and down. A few droplets from the shower linger on his shoulders and down the back of his neck, reminding me of the sweat that rolls down his powerful muscles after he’s finished flogging me. I’ve been known to scratch the hell out of his back when we fuck, and my mind superimposes red stripes across his skin. It’s a good thing I’m behind him now, because that means he can’t see me bite my lip and shiver.
All day long I’ve planned this, my stomach winding up with both excitement and nerves. Now that it’s happening, those nerves try to get the best of me, and I second-guess myself again. It’s easy to envision myself taking charge and giving orders when it’s all in my mind, but it’s different now that Ian’s standing in front of me. He calls the shots and delivers the terse, spine-tingling commands, while I kneel and beg and get lost in delicious subspace. He is my Dom. I submit to him, and the idea of making the same demands of him is an alien one.
I can do this. It’s just something new, that’s all. There was a time when I couldn’t walk in stilettos, either, but now I move almost effortlessly in them, even across this thick carpet. I got the hang of that, and so too will I get the hang of dominating him.
Focusing on his bare, unscathed back, I grin to myself.
Oh, Ian, whatever shall I do with you tonight? So many options, so little time.
I won’t bind him. I’m a far less experienced rigger than Ian, so I’ll leave the bondage to him. Anything more than that—caning or hot wax, for example—would be too much for either of us and, as hot as it would be, I’m certain he won’t let me come at him with a strap-on. Pity.
Flogging, however, I can handle. An experienced Dom taught us both in the beginning and, though it’s been a while, I can swing a flogger almost as well as my husband. Almost.
But first, Ian needs to know who’s in charge tonight.
I take a deep breath as I step into his peripheral vision. “Usual safe words apply. Red and yellow. Understood?”
Ian turns his head, his gaze sliding towards me, and surprise and rebellion vie for dominance in his eyes.
I flick my eyebrow up just as he always does when I’m being defiant, and his eyes widen slightly.
He clears his throat and drops his gaze. “Red and yellow. Got it.”
“Good. Now kneel.”
He blinks. “What?”
I raise my eyebrows and cock my head. “Did I stutter?”
His lips part. His Adam’s apple bobs.
And he goes to his knees.
A cool rush of something I don’t recognise—triumph? power? relief?—pushes out my breath and raises goose bumps along my arms. I move around in front of him and, though he keeps his head down, his brow creases as though he’s trying to look up at me.
I run my fingers through his damp hair. He can’t hear my heart pounding, and my hand
is steady, so hopefully he doesn’t know how nervous I am. Ian’s always cool and confident when he plays the Dom. Bordering on arrogant, in fact. The best I can hope for is not to look scared, nervous, or ready to stop and say, ‘Am I doing this right?’
I can do this, damn it. I have to do this so we can find our mutual confidence again.
“Are you going to do as I say tonight?”
Defiance flickers across his expression, but he doesn’t look up at me as he whispers, “Yes.”
“Anything I say?”
At that, he raises his head and fully looks me in the eye, uncertainty taking over where defiance had been. His Adam’s apple jumps again, and he sweeps the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. The first inklings of panic begin their prickling creep up from the base of my spine, and I’m suddenly terrified that this is all a huge mistake.
But then Ian nods slowly. “Yes. Anything you say.”
I smile as the panic retreats. “Good.” Looking him in the eye, I put my foot on his thigh, careful to keep the stiletto heel from digging into his bare flesh. “You’re going to start by eating my pussy.” I hope the words don’t bring too much colour to my cheeks, but the heat in my face suggests otherwise. Still, I snap my fingers and gesture at myself. “Now.”
Ian starts to lean forward, but glances at my foot, then up at me. “It would, um, be easier if you were on the bed so—”
“Who said anything about easier?”
His lips part. I snap my fingers again, and he does as he’s told.
It’s an awkward position for him—of that I have no doubt—but he makes do, and I close my eyes as his tongue draws slow, gentle circles around my clit. Steadying himself with a hand on my hip, he explores my pussy hungrily, fluttering and circling with his tongue until my vision blurs.
He slides his other hand up the inside of my thigh, and I reach blindly for the bedpost beside me, desperately seeking something to hold on to before his amazing fingers slip inside me. Few things in this world can drive me into oblivion like Ian fucking me with his fingers while he teases my clit with his mouth.
His hand stops, though. Inches away from my pussy, he stops.
His mouth stops too, and he looks up at me. “May I—” He pauses, swallowing hard. He licks his lips. “May I use my hands?”
God, yes, please do.
I nod. “Yes. You may.”
“Thank you,” he whispers, and he leans forward again.
He slides two fingers inside me, and my eyes roll back. I grip his hair tighter, digging my teeth into my lower lip as he flutters his tongue around my clit while his fingertips knead my G-spot. No other man in the world can possibly know how to orchestrate the kind of bliss Ian creates so effortlessly with his mouth, pushing me right to the edge and keeping me there, letting me teeter right on the brink. Never too rough, never too light, never too much, never too little. I could let him go down on me all night long, and it’s more than slightly tempting.
My hip aches from propping my foot up on his thigh, and my calf burns from trying not to press the stiletto into his leg, but I grin and bear it because what he does to me is pure magic. I hold my breath, biting my lip and screwing my eyes shut, gripping the bedpost and his hair as I try to keep my orgasm from taking over.
Don’t come yet. Don’t come yet. Stay in control. Don’t—
And just why the hell not?
I’m in charge. I don’t need his permission to come. My orgasm is mine tonight and, if I want to come, I can, and I—
“Ooh, God…” The bedpost creaks as I lean heavily against it, and my legs shake, especially the one holding me up, and my corset squeaks with every tremor and shudder as wave upon wave of cool ecstasy ripples through me.
Gently, I push his head away, and he sits back on his heels as I put my other foot on the floor. He watches me with wide eyes, slowly running the tip of his tongue across his lip.
An orgasm is an orgasm, but this one is strangely disappointing. An intense relief, of course, and it felt amazing, but I’m still left with that lingering itch. That craving for the satisfaction a climax is supposed to deliver.
Still, I shrug away a shiver and look down at him. “Well done.”
He smiles.
“Now.” I grin. “Let’s see how you handle a little pain.”
Ian gulps.
Chapter Three
Ian’s nervous now, of that I have no doubt. Over the last year, he’s dished out plenty of pain—oh, Lord, is he ever good at dishing out pain—but he’s never deliberately been on the receiving end.
“Go get the nipple clamps.” I nod sharply towards our closet.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers with a shiver, and does as I order.
I follow, arms folded across my chest as I watch him pull a plastic box out from behind some of my handbags and shoes. Why we keep everything hidden, even within our own closet, I’ll never completely understand. No one comes in here but us. Still, the floggers and spreader bars hang on the wall behind a row of Ian’s shirts. Corsets are tucked behind my clothes. Nipple clamps, handcuffs, gags, and that bit Ian loves making me wear—we’ve stashed all of that in nondescript boxes stacked behind clothes and shoes. And if anyone opened the wrong drawer downstairs, they’d probably assume we were being extra prepared in case of a disaster. Why else would anyone keep so many candles or coils of rope nearby? Or all those rolls of tape, since duct tape—at least, the coloured variety—and bondage tape are so similar to the untrained eye.
Ian opens a box and takes out a pair of stainless steel clamps. After a few seconds of hesitation, he places the clamps in my palm, eyes them warily, then looks at me. As I close my fingers around them, I grin at him. His eyebrows slide upward.
“I thought you liked nipple clamps, Ian,” I say in a sing-song voice.
He throws me a look. “I’ve never been on the receiving end.”
“No time like the present, is there?” I don’t give him a chance to reply, just gesture towards the bedroom, and we both leave the walk-in.
Standing beside the end of the bed, I hold up one of the clamps and press the ends together so the teeth open. Ian’s brow creases. He straightens his spine as he watches the tiny metal ends nearing his chest. Goose bumps break out on his skin when I drag the ends around—without quite touching—his nipple, which he probably wishes wasn’t quite so erect and inviting. My own skin prickles, tingling with the phantom bite of this innocuous-looking instrument. It’s a sensation I used to fear, but now crave, and it’s more than a little tempting to free my breasts from this corset and put the clamps on myself.
But not this time. It’s Ian’s turn to know what it’s like to receive the pain and ecstasy he loves to give me.
I close the clamp slowly, and Ian screws his eyes shut as he sucks in a breath. “Fuck…”
“How does that feel?”
“It hurts,” he growls.
“Good.” I smile, and that smile widens when he meets my eyes. “It’s supposed to hurt, Ian.”
Cursing under his breath, he drops his gaze.
I trail the other clamp down the centre of his chest. He tenses, shivers, and I don’t know how much of it is pain from the first clamp or cold from the second. Maybe anticipation of more pain. A little of all three? Difficult to say.
“Do you want me to put this one on?” I ask.
He bites his lip, and his eyes flick up to meet mine for a fleeting second before he lowers his gaze. “If that’s what you want to do.”
As the second clamp nears his other nipple, he cringes, screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath. I had the same reaction the first time. They look like such benign little devices, but they can be excruciating to anyone who, like me, has sensitive nipples. Such was my first introduction into just how hot pain can really be, and the memory still makes my breath catch.
I put the clamp in place, and Ian swears softly through tight lips. I take my hand away and give him a moment to adapt. The first time is always intense but, as
the endorphins kick in, he’ll get used to them. Maybe even like them the way I do.
He closes his eyes. Every time he breathes or moves at all, he winces, his lips pulling across his clenched teeth. I bite my lower lip. There’s nothing quite like that pain—it’s burning, sharp, aching and dull, all in one, and a few moments of it is enough to make me wet and desperate.
Ian isn’t hard right now, but he will be soon enough. At the moment, he probably can’t think of anything except the pain. The crevices between his eyebrows deepen. He breathes slowly, in through his grinding teeth, out through his nose. The endorphins should be flowing by now. He’ll adjust, he’ll adapt.
But then he coughs out a single word—“Yellow.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“The clamps.” He winces like he can’t even speak. “They’re too much. Take—”
Before he can finish the thought, I quickly remove them, and he lets his head fall back as he releases a breath. “Oh, thank God.”
“Better?” I ask.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Thank you.”
“Do you want to continue?”
Ian nods. “Just without…” He throws a wary glance at the clamps still in my hand.
“All right.” I grasp his wrist and bring his hand up. As I deposit the clamps into his palm, I add, “Put these away, and bring me a flogger.”
Ian says nothing and, when I release his wrist, he returns to the open closet. He puts the clamps back in their box, then pushes his shirts aside and looks up at the rack of floggers. We’ve acquired quite a cache in the last year, everything from soft deerskin to the most deliciously brutal cat-o’-nine-tails.
Beside the floggers are a few spreader bars of varying lengths. I’m tempted to use one tonight, but decide against it. Ian’s always been a little claustrophobic, and I know from experience that having one’s limbs fastened to the ends of a rigid bar can create a very…trapped sensation.