by Desiree Holt
I just whimper. And nod. And hope it’s enough of an answer to satisfy him. And melt a little more when the tails burn my flesh once again.
I grip the footboard tighter. My sweaty hands are too slick for me to get a good grip, but I make myself hold on, because I can’t let go. I’m floating now, spinning, falling, floating, soaring, flying higher and sinking deeper into pure bliss every time another strike ignites cool fire across my flesh. But I don’t let go. I’m not allowed. And if I let go, I’ll touch myself and try to relieve the building ache of my climax. I’m not allowed.
There’s nothing but pain, pleasure, and the quiet murmurs of approval from Ian in between my yelps and cries, which I could swear come from someone else’s lips. From miles away. Some other world. Some world that’s spinning around my head. Oblivion punctuated only by fresh claws of sweet pain and the torture of denied release.
The pain stops coming. My back and shoulders still burn, still sting, but nothing more strikes my flesh.
Movement beside me turns my head. I blink the tears out of my eyes until my vision comes into focus as Ian lays the flogger on the foot of the bed. Closing my eyes again, I release a long breath.
“Good girl,” he says, and releases one of the nipple clamps. I gasp in simultaneous surprise and relief—the pain is sweet, but so too is that moment when it stops. He releases the other clamp, and the tingling in my nipples is nearly as intense as the burning across my back and shoulders.
One hand slides off the footboard and falls into my lap. Then the other. My ears are ringing, my hearing dulled as if my ears are stuffed with cotton. My muscles are taffy, my joints as flimsy as a cheaply made doll’s.
A gentle, damp hand slides around the front of my throat and, with a hint of pressure, commands me to tilt my head back. When I do, Ian’s warm lips meet mine, and a deep, forceful kiss keeps the spinning room from slowing down.
Then his lips leave mine, and he whispers, “Stand up.”
I don’t know how. I don’t remember how, and I’m not sure my legs could hold me up anyway, but I reach up and fumble for the footboard anyway. Once one hand has a grip, I bring up the other. Holding the rail tightly, I try to pull myself up, but my hands slip off the slick metal and my legs are useless. Liquid.
Ian grasps my wrist. He wraps his other arm around my lower back where the skin isn’t raw and burning. He eases me to my feet, and I lean heavily against him because otherwise I’ll sink to the floor. His skin is hot and slick like mine, his palm slippery on my waist as he carefully guides me from the foot of the bed to the side of it.
In a heartbeat, gentle becomes rough and demanding, and Ian forces me over the mattress. I catch myself on my hands, but my elbows buckle and I fall to my forearms as Ian shoves my legs apart with his knee.
And then he’s inside me. All the way, buried to the hilt, withdrawing and forcing himself in so hard he knocks the breath out of me, and I can’t breathe anyway, I can’t think, I can’t do or know anything except that Ian is fucking me. My fingers move of their own accord and curl around the bedspread, gathering handfuls as my body aches and burns and wants to explode from the unrelenting ecstasy of his cock driving into me, over and over and over again. Ian roars as he slams into me so hard I’m sure he’s bruising me, and I love it, and I moan because I can’t find the words to tell him how much I love this.
When it’s already on the verge of too much, when I can barely take another second without surrendering to this building climax, he grabs my hair. He grabs my hair and pulls hard, driving a yelp from my lips and raising goose bumps over every inch of my sweaty, raw skin. My body is pure, molten electricity now, an orgasm crackling beneath the surface, waiting for a cue, waiting for permission, and when he whispers my name, his breath cools my neck. He tells me to come, and that crackling, waiting, electrifying orgasm consumes me with a single wave. It doesn’t end with that wave, though, and I surrender to each one that follows it as Ian keeps driving himself into me, again and again.
Finally, Ian groans and thrusts all the way inside me, as deep as my pussy can take him, and his body shudders against mine.
Everything is quiet. Everything is still.
And we just breathe.
Chapter Five
I drift back into awareness. I’m on my stomach on the bed, my arms folded under the pillow and the sheet draped over my hips. Ian’s hand slides up and down my back, gently tracing the stinging welts he lovingly left on my shoulders. The faint scent of coconut teases my senses, and I remember now. He helped me onto the bed, and after offering water—my God, I never crave water the way I do after being flogged—he had me lie face down while he put lotion on to soothe my raw skin.
As he slowly slides his hand up the middle of my spine, I arch my back against his palm, murmuring softly.
“Coming back to earth?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.”
The mattress dips beside me as Ian leans down to kiss my cheek. “How do you feel?”
“Good.”
He laughs softly, his breath cooling my face, and he kisses my cheek again. “I love it when you’re reduced to one or two syllables.”
I laugh too, turning onto my side and propping my head up on my elbow. “You weren’t very articulate yourself,” I slur. “Don’t get too cocky.”
Ian grins, and this time he kisses my mouth. Gently, lazily, he teases my lips apart with the tip of his tongue as his hand drifts into my hair. For the longest time, we just hold on to each other and kiss.
After a while, he breaks the kiss and brushes a few strands of dishevelled hair out of my face. “Does your back feel okay?”
“Feels just fine.”
“Good.” Ian puts the lotion aside and slips under the sheet beside me. I snuggle up against him, and he carefully holds me so his hands don’t brush any of my welts.
The dust has settled now, and the room is cooler than it was before, the chilly air wrapping around my lotion-slicked shoulders like a damp towel, so I snuggle closer to Ian.
“Warm enough?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I say, but my chattering teeth give me away. “Okay, I’m a little cold.”
“Thought so.” He pulls the covers up over us, carefully keeping them from resting on my tender skin. Then he wraps his arms around me again. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
He’s quiet for a while, just watching his fingers trail back and forth along my jaw and my cheek. Some unspoken thought tugs his eyebrows together.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I was just thinking.”
I search his eyes. “About why we switched?”
He nods. “I don’t care what Janet or anyone else says, Bridget. There’s nothing weak about you. I’m not a sadistic monster, and you’re not a weakling.” Eyes sparkling, he adds, “No weakling could handle the kind of pain you do.”
I smile. “You don’t like it?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. And, my God, those nipple clamps?” He grimaces and covers one of his nipples with his hand. “How the hell do you deal with those?”
I grin. “I like them.”
“Masochist,” he growls.
“Yeah. And?”
Ian laughs. “Guess that’s no shock, is it?”
“If it is, you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Oh, I’ve been paying attention.” He kisses me lightly. “Believe me, I have.”
“I know you have.” I smile cautiously. “So now that you’ve gotten your toes wet as a sub, you feel better about things?”
“Very much so.” A devilish grin plays at his lips. “Honestly? Now that I know just how much the floggers and clamps hurt”—the grin comes to life completely—“I can’t even tell you how much hotter it is when I watch you take it.” His voice drops to a growl, and he trails his fingers along the side of my throat. “I threw out a safe word after two minutes with the nipple clamps, and the flogger was…” He shuddered. “But there yo
u are, moaning like you’re about to come, and when I fuck you afterward, your pussy… Oh, my God…” He leans in and kisses me instead of finishing the thought.
As we separate, I smile. “So we’re okay about all of this now? We’re on the same page?”
“God, yes. Anyone who says I’m beating a helpless, spineless woman has obviously never seen you get that turned on by that much pain.” He smoothes my damp hair. “It takes one hell of a strong woman to trust a man enough to let him do the things I do to you.”
“Just like it takes a caring, generous man to be able to take that kind of power without taking advantage of it.”
He touches my face. “I would never take advantage of any power you give me. I couldn’t imagine really hurting you.”
“I know.” I draw him a little closer and kiss him lightly. “Do you think I’d let you do this if I thought you would?”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he says. “I do feel a lot better about this now.”
“Me too.” I lean in again, but stop and wait for him to close the rest of the distance between his lips and mine.
As he draws back, he brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “So did you really want to go out tonight?”
I laugh. “That was just an excuse to get you into the shower. Dinner just needs to be nuked for a few minutes.”
“Thank God.” He pauses to kiss my forehead. “I don’t think I’m in any condition to go out.”
“Sore?”
“Not really.” His lips pull back into a sly, toothy grin. “I’m just not done with you tonight.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.” He pulls me into another kiss and, as I melt against him, I know he’s not lying. We’re nowhere near finished tonight.
And all I can think is that telling the Rickmans we’re kinky was the best move my husband and I ever made.
About the Author
Lauren Gallagher is an abnormal romance writer who has spent the last three years on Okinawa, but is being sent to Omaha, Nebraska, for the next three. Her cover story is that she, her husband, their two cats, and their fluorescent green hedgehog are being transferred because of the Navy. Sceptics say this is actually a strategic move to get closer to her arch nemesis, M/M erotic romance author L.A. Witt.
Email: [email protected]
Lauren loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Subspace
By
Sierra Cartwright, Desiree Holt, Jan Irving,
Justine Elyot, Elizabeth Coldwell & Mina Dorian
Excerpt
Three-Way Tie by Sierra Cartwright
“There are two of you?”
“Is that a problem?” Master Rafael asked, arching an expressive brow.
Lindsey Nolan stood on the porch of the magnificent Rocky Mountain home, looking up at the tall Dom. The hint of a Spanish accent, sexy and compelling, laced his voice, sending a shiver of anticipation through her.
He stood next to another man whom he had introduced as Master Eric. While Master Eric was slightly shorter than Master Rafael, both men were over six feet tall. Both had broad shoulders, narrow hips, powerful and oh-so-sexy thighs.
While Master Rafael was dark, with rakishly long hair and brown eyes she could drown in, Master Eric had sun-kissed blond hair that he wore short, cropped. His expressive blue eyes were warm and welcoming.
Could the two men be more different?
Intuitively Lindsey wanted to be dominated by Master Rafael, but she wanted to be held and comforted—perhaps made love to—by Master Eric.
“A problem?” she repeated. “No. I just have no idea what to do with two Doms.”
“You’ll be told what to do,” Master Rafael explained. “You’re just expected to obey.”
She sucked in a breath.
“Come in, Lindsey.”
For a moment she didn’t move. There was something overwhelming about standing here, eight hundred miles from her small- town central Texas home that made her forget everything she knew about decorum. From the moment she’d asked her cousin to take her shifts at the family’s diner and packed her bag, nothing had been the same.
Master Rafael silently regarded her. He’d told her on the telephone she wouldn’t be pushed into anything. The choices, all along, would be hers.
Even though her heart thundered, a few moments later she entered the foyer, dragging her small piece of luggage.
The house was constructed from warm-toned wooden beams. The entrance floor was slate and a Native American rug stretched across its length. This private place, on acres of land, was so different from her humble reality.
Again she wondered what she’d got herself into by travelling to Master Rafael’s home.
He reached above her head and flicked the door closed, sealing out the cool mountain air.
“We’ll talk in the great room,”” Master Rafael said. “I have your signed copy of the rules.”
Head Games by Desiree Holt
“Good evening, Senor Valdez.”
Kaci Ballard stood to one side as Oliver, the doorman at The Pyramid, greeted her Dom with the deference befitting a platinum member of the bondage club. His glance barely acknowledged Kaci, standing with her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her in proper sub attitude.
““Good evening, Oliver.” Diego signed the register then tapped Kaci on the shoulder. “Follow me.”
She walked two paces behind him, their standard arrangement when they were in D/s mode. And tonight they definitely were. This was the third anniversary of their relationship, and after much preparation Diego was going to introduce her to a place she’d never been before—subspace. In the three years they’d been together, he’d taught her how to appreciate herself, both as a woman and a sub, subtly and carefully taking her up one level at a time in the intensity of their D/s play.
He’d introduced her to many other things since the night they’d met, right here at The Pyramid. It wasn’t long before she gave up her apartment and was living with him in his expensive high-rise. Her talent as a sculptor had evolved as her relationship with him had blossomed, almost symbolic of her stages of growth. He stood proudly at each of her shows, quietly praising her and enjoying her accolades.
But Kaci wished their relationship was a little more substantial. Not that she didn’t enjoy it, but somewhere along the way she’d lost her heart to Diego. She’d never felt like this about any other Dom and she had the panicky feeling she was setting herself up for a fall. That was one of the reasons she was willing to explore new areas of the D/s play. Something to show him her total commitment to him. And silently pray for his in return.
As she followed him into the club’s open lounge area, her mind flashed back to the night of their first anniversary when he’d taken her to a very exclusive restaurant for dinner.
Once they were seated in their booth he handed her a small package.
“A gift to celebrate,” he told her.
She opened it and her eyes widened at the sight of the little silver bullet nestled in the tissue paper.
“Go into the ladies’ room and insert it into your cunt. Right now.”
In other aspects of their life they were equal partners, but in D/s mode she was totally submissive to him so there was no question of whether or not she would obey. She returned to the booth smiling, the bullet securely inside her, he smiled.
“I thought I would make dinner tonight a little more interesting.”
He reached into his pocket, and in a second the little bullet began to hum inside her. Kaci had to grab the table to hold herself steady.
She bit her lip. “Sir?”
His Landlady by Jan Irving
Diana Moore hesitated outside the kickboxing studio, her attention caught by a poster of the sleek body of a young male kickboxer, his leg straight up in a martial
arts kick.
Although every muscle was warrior defined, it was the expression on his face that fixed her attention. He was gazing into the distance, a half smile touching his lips, a look of transcendent pleasure that didn’t make her think of the martial arts…
“Perv,” she muttered to herself. She had better things to do than stand here lusting over a beautiful man who was probably too airbrushed to be true. She adjusted her grip on her attaché case and almost walked into another young man, this one short and covered with black-and-red tattoos.
“You here for class?”” he demanded. ““Come back in an hour.” His street accent made the word ‘hour’ a match for ‘sour’.
Di gulped and stopped herself from taking a step back. The stranger had an aggressive energy that she could feel like a force field.
“No,” she said. “I’m strictly a yoga person.”
The man stared at her, unblinking, and Di felt as if she’d told a proud Doberman owner that she was the golden retriever type.
“We don’t do yoga here,” he said, crossing his arms.
“No, I know that…” She was flustered and it was stupid. But the studio so wasn’t her thing. “I’m the landlady of this strip mall. I’m here with some paperwork for the owner.”
“Huh.” He didn’t look impressed.
“Nath, behave!” a mellow voice interrupted.
There was a thread of laughter in it that stroked down Di’s spine.
“Hello, landlady. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
A tanned hand was held out and when she automatically took it, callouses brushed her palm. The grip was strong, confident, and didn’t crush her fingers; this was a man with no need to prove anything.
“Uh…”
The Science of Submission by Justine Elyot
“You realise you’re our secret weapon.”