She went wild then, actively fighting to get away from him despite the fact that he knew she was near exhaustion. But he was more than prepared for her to react like that and held on tight, letting his hands drift down, over her shoulders and down her arms to end up gripping her wrists as he turned her palms up to disadvantage her just that much more. She continued to try to throw herself away from him, to dislodge him from his seat deep within her, with absolutely no success. "Let me go!" she screamed. "Get the fuck out of me!"
"No," Mace answered calmly. "Submit to me, Miranda."
"Go fuck yourself!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.
If she had known about its existence, she would have been glad she didn't see the purely evil grin that spread over his face at her very poor choice of words, considering the position she found herself in currently.
"No, I think I much prefer to fuck you, since I'm already so deeply lodged within you I can feel your cervix against the head of my cock." With that he removed himself entirely from her only to slam his rock hard cock into her again, and he continued to fuck her just like that – with complete and total, bone jarringly powerful invasions that had, as he'd known they would, her mindless and inches from doing as he'd ordered and submitting herself to him. His rough treatment of her left her so enthralled that she rapidly became entirely unable to hurl invectives at him, and instead whimpered with blatant need from his every thrust.
There was no long hair to wrap around his wrist any more as he rode her like this, and he mourned it for a long moment. But then Mace pulled her up against him instead, setting one hand to wandering back and forth between her breasts, pinching and rolling and tugging painfully. His knee forced hers even further apart so that she had no choice but to lean back against him for support, which he knew would gall her to no end. Two fingers of his other hand gathered the excess moisture from around her opening as he continued to fuck her hard, bringing it back up to that neglected nub and settling there to trace very slow, very deliberate circles around it, only occasionally swiping over the swollen tip of it.
"No, M-Mace, pl-please," he heard her whisper brokenly, and if he hadn't known how close she was already – which he had – he would have known it then from her plea.
"No what, Randa?" he asked in an equally husky whisper, not stopping any of the things he was doing to her.
"I-I don't want to c-cum like this. Please. I can't. Don't make me, please."
Mace leaned down to the small shell of her ear, his lips surrounding it, making certain she wouldn't miss a word of what he was going to say to her. "You may ask me that, Miranda, but the decision is mine, and I will almost always decide to make you fly apart uncontrollably in my arms. I love seeing you cum and knowing that you, with your strong will, were forced to surrender that deeply private, deeply personal part of yourself to me. To know that I was the one who made you lose a piece of yourself to me, a piece of your precious self-control. I will never," he emphasized his words with even more powerful strokes as the big pad of his finger began to stroke exclusively over the most sensitive portion of her clit, "ever allow you to get away without cumming for me if that's what I want for you. It's the price of your submission. It's more important to me than disciplining you, it's more important to me than fucking you, because it's more important to you to try your best to keep it from me."
She could feel it building within her and knew with absolute certainty the agonizing fact that he had ruthlessly forced her to do it again, to bend to his will, to yield that most prized part of herself to him, making her dance helplessly – hopelessly lost – beneath his lips and cock and fingers.
His chin rested on her shoulder, well out of the way of her violently thrashing head, breathing in the scent of her arousal as his fingers caressed her unrelentingly, feeling the tension increasing exponentially within her as he did so, knowing her end was mere long seconds away.
When she came, it was with the defiant word, "NO!" on her lips.
But he answered her with his own, louder, more guttural, "YES!" as he forced himself up inside her a few more times, barely able to tolerate the strength of her contractions around him even though they were what hurtled him into his own groaning, bucking orgasm.
It was Miranda who submitted to him – who he forced to that point of submission every time. Yet Mace always felt that he was just as helpless when he was with her, when her body just that regularly wrung orgasms from him that left him stunned and muddy headed and unable to concentrate for long spates of time. He was a type A man, a doer, a go-getter, someone who made things happen and got things done. But when he was with her, he was at least as helpless as she was in his hands, only she didn't seem to recognize that fact and he was loath to let her find out.
Chapter Four
Less than three days later, she was much less than comfortably ensconced at his ranch and she was cranky as all get out about it, too. Although, he wasn't there for her to bitch at a lot of the time, or yet today, since he got out of bed so much earlier than she did, which was even less satisfactory than the fact that she was there at all.
She was supposed to be overseeing the refit of the room above the barn, which was much more spacious than she had ever imagined. But she didn't want to do that and thus all work had stopped because she wouldn't let them do what he had told them to do because it seemed unnecessarily wasteful of his money. The room was fine already without him going to all of this expense to renovate it just for her. Hell, he wanted to put a line of skylights in on the slanted room – three of them on either side so that she would have lots of natural light.
But she was used to painting in her small back room, which only had one window. She wasn't going to have him go to all of that expense when he didn't need to. She very carefully hadn't objected to the changes she felt were necessary. She needed cupboards and counter space, a sink – so she wouldn't have to be running into the house when she needed to clean her brushes – and bright lights. And all of those changes had already been made. As far as she was concerned, she could begin using the space now.
But she knew that he wanted those blasted skylights, and, even knowing that, she had sent the crew home, telling them that they were done – at least for the day – and that she had to talk to Mr. Kennedy about whether or not the skylights were going to happen.
She hadn't balked when he'd asked her for a list of supplies she needed, although she had been reluctant to do so, Miranda was reluctant enough to go through a spanking when she knew she was just going to end up doing exactly what he wanted, just with a very sore backside. She did have that list, although she was going to wait until he asked her for it to give it to him, and she'd trimmed it down as much as she possibly could so that he was spending the least amount of money on her that she could get away with and still be able to paint.
He'd already made her quit her job at the bank because he didn't want anything interfering with his access to her. He'd made her do it the very next day, too, not allowing her to even give them notice. She'd objected strenuously to that, to the point that she'd ended up over his lap – again – because of it, with him waling away on a behind that had already been spanked three times that day. Damned if he wasn't as horrible to be around twenty-four/seven as she'd imagined, always with his hands on her and always watching her closely, taking every single possible opportunity to punish her – and not lightly any of those times – not that he ever really had given her 'baby' spankings. If he was going to go to the effort of correcting her, then he was going to make damned well and sure that she remembered it, each and every time.
As his palm had descended on her, again branding her with vicious smack after smack applied to flesh that was still swollen and still burning from the last time he'd forced her over his lap less than an hour ago, he'd said, "I don't understand why you have any loyalty to those people at all, Randa. I've listened to you bitch about that job since I first met you, and now you don't have to go there any more. What's the problem with that? I would
think you'd be happy not to have to work."
But not his Randa. She was as fiercely independent a woman as he'd ever met. He had known from the moment he'd made his decree. He really was just talking out loud about what he wanted ultimately from her, but he had decided to just push for as many concessions as he could get from her. He had known that she would chafe at this restriction in particular because it was a direct strike against that independence she prized so highly.
He was going to keep her home, with him, or at least waiting for him, naked – as she was beginning to realize he was going to require – as he felt she should be. If he wanted to call her and say, "Come meet me for lunch in town," she would have no excuse not to – unless she was working on a painting. Which was another advantage to her in living with him. He had seen her work and had tremendous respect for her talent, but when she was gainfully employed she could only indulge herself in her passion on the weekends and vacations. Now she could pursue her painting full time. And if she was in the middle of a creative burst it was – he'd made sure she understood – perfectly acceptable to him that she tell him exactly that and he'd rescind his order. He didn't want to crush that spirit in her that he so loved; he just wanted to bend it a bit to his will.
She had struggled against the hold he had on her while he'd punished her, trying to dislodge her wrists from his hand, trying to slide off his lap, kicking her feet up incessantly until he finally laid one of his legs over hers, which only served to set her off just that much worse at his further restriction of her ability to move. It was a long, uncomfortable spanking that had left her exhausted. But he had revived her by turning her onto her back on the living room couch, arranging her legs over his shoulders and applying his eager mouth to her clit, turning her agonized moans into blissful sighs and ragged breaths surprisingly quickly.
But today he was at work in the city and she'd had all day to stew and worry about what was going to happen when he discovered that she'd dismissed the work crew almost first thing this morning.
Less than a half hour later he arrived home, breezing through the kitchen door to place an affectionate smooch to her cheek to which she grumbled low in her throat. He didn't let that stop him from fondling her, though, reaching down to cup and squeeze one of her other cheeks which was, along with the rest of her, as he now required, delightfully naked. "Bad day today, baby?" he asked, patting her behind a bit condescendingly before continuing into his office where he stowed his briefcase, knowing she was following him somewhat morosely. Beginning to loosen his tie, he stalked deliberately over to her. Damn, he loved having her here to come home to, even if she did look like a tiny unhappy thundercloud. Pulling her to him over her perfunctory objections, he wrapped his arms around her and held her securely. "So what's got your knickers in a twist, hmm, grumpy?"
"I'm not grumpy!" she countered grumpily, refusing to look into his annoyingly beautiful face and trying to fold her arms over her chest, but he was holding her much too tightly for that. Damn him! He knew how much she loved it when he contracted his arms around her ribcage to just shy of pain, knew how safe and secure that made her feel.
It was such an easy thing for him to do, that he did it quite often, liking the way it seemed to settle and center her, somehow, as if being held that way forced her to abandon her sometimes prickly tendencies in favor of allowing herself to feel – even just for these briefest of moments – that she was safe and secure. He would love to have deluded himself into thinking that she felt that way all the time with him. That was part of his overall goals for her and their relationship – to get her so that she could relax and let him take care of her, to know that he would lay down his life without a moment's hesitation to ensure her safety.
But those were big concepts that were, realistically probably a ways off from being dealt with. Right now he was just trying to help her – one way or the other – to find some measure of happiness with their new arrangement, although he didn't think that she was anywhere near as happy with it as he was.
She wasn't looking at him, which he knew from experience meant that she was probably going to tell him something that was going to get her into trouble, or at the very least was something she didn't much want to tell him. "Answer me, Miranda, what did you do – or didn't you do that you were supposed to?"
She fiddled with the top buttons of his dress shirt and bit her lip.
Oh, this was not going to be good, he could tell.
"I cancelled the rest of the renovation," she whispered, her body tense in his arms.
It was a simple matter for Mace to lift her off her feet, and despite how annoyed he was at her, her small, helpless "oof" when he did so went directly to his genitals, which had been in a perpetually semi-aroused state since she'd agreed to the twist he wanted to implement in their relationship, forcing his cock to try to burgeon against the confines of his underwear and the zipper of his suit pants, with only moderate success. "Look at me."
When he spoke in that tone, she knew better than to try to evade obeying him and her eyes did meet his, although he didn't like the uncertainty, the hesitation, he saw there. It made his heart contract painfully. Even if she had been naughty, he didn't like her feeling as if she had to be afraid of him in any way. He knew that this was a leftover from that bastard in her past – the one he knew had truly hurt her, although he didn't know the specifics about how and he was quite sure he probably didn't want to know.
"Why did you do that?" The question was asked entirely without rancor, almost too neutral for her comfort.
She shrugged, barely able to move that much within the strong confines of his arms, her eyes already having wandered away from his nervously. "I didn't like you going to all of that expense for me. It's unnecessary."
Mace knew exactly to what she was referring. It had been a bone of contention between them since he'd suggested it. He reached up to cup the back of her head in one big palm, forcing her to look at him. "And was that your decision to make, little one?"
Although she appreciated the endearment, she didn't like being reminded by it of just how physically vulnerable she was to him. She was already at his mercy – her feet dangling a foot or so off the floor simply because he was hugging her. "No," she answered truthfully but with understandable reluctance. "But you ought to be thankful. I'm saving you money."
He didn't look thankful, although he did have a small, wry smile on his face. "I refer you to my last question. Whose decision was it to make about whether or not we were going to have skylights in your studio?"
"It should be mine, though!" she protested loudly, bringing her leg back to kick him in the shin in frustration, but the smile had evaporated from his face as if it had never been and she immediately thought better of it. She was already in trouble. There was no need for her to make things just that much worse for herself. "I'm the artist," she finished much more quietly, lamely, to her mind.
"And you're telling me that natural light isn't best to paint in?" he asked pointedly.
Miranda frowned fiercely, refusing to answer him because he was right and that didn't play well with her opinion on the subject. One judicious swat, applied with no warning whatsoever, had her abandoning her principles almost immediately, though, to concede ungratefully, "Yes, it is."
"Then that settles that question." He set her down and went to his desk, writing something down on a note pad, then tearing the page off and handing it to her. "It's too late now, but tomorrow morning, first thing, you are to get in touch with Mr. Pace. He's the older gentleman that supervises the younger workers – tallish, white beard."
Randa knew who he meant. He was the one she had told that they would no longer be needing his services. He had been surprised to hear that, but had told her that if that was her preference, they would be able to finish today.
"When you call him, you are to tell him that you were mistaken and that you're sorry for having dismissed him without consulting me first, as you were supposed to do." He came to stand directl
y in front of her, tipping her chin up so he could lock eyes with her to emphasize his next words. "You are to say exactly that to him, verbatim."
Those words exactly? She railed in her mind. They were entirely too submissive a confession to make to a man who was a virtual stranger. "But—"
Mace's hand came up, forestalling her protestations. "Not one word of protest, Miranda. Be happy that I'm not making you mention that you were naughty and were punished because of your misbehavior."
Her squeal at that very possibility had his ears aching, but the throbbing of his cock trumped that small pain by a country mile.
"And you were naughty to do that, Miranda, and you're going to pay for your misbehavior right now."
Her upper arm was caught in the tight grip of his hand as he guided her over to the leather couch that lined one of the walls in his study. Instead of sitting down on it and pulling her over his lap, he instead guided her to bend over the arm of the settee, which just happened to be at the perfect height to hit her waist at the right angle so that her entire upper body was supported by the couch, not hanging from it or hovering over it, but lying on top of it, and her feet were still on the floor. Having forgotten one step, Mace pulled her up for a moment, long enough to put one of the tapestry throw pillows in front of her hips before bidding her to again place herself in that vulnerable position, only this time the addition of the pillow made her toes barely touch the ground, causing a level of physical vulnerability she didn't appreciate in the least, not that he was going to take that into consideration.
Then he ratcheted up her helplessness by reaching under the middle cushion of the couch – at the back of it and then the front – to reveal two loops of what looked like leather which he put her wrists through, but didn't secure in any way. They were there for her, as a bit of a crutch, but not to force her to stay in position in any way. Mace expected her to do that without assistance, because she was his submissive and this was the punishment he had deemed necessary. She knew that this meant that whatever he was going to do was going to make it hard for her to submit to her punishment. Despite their position so far down the couch that caused her body to be pulled taut, keeping her arms stretched out in front of her as if she was flying like Superman, she eagerly wrapped her hands up in them, knowing from past experience that she was probably going to need all the help she could get not to stand up and run away.
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