I was at least as amazed when he sat up, knowing he must've expected that he was going to make love to me, and at least that worried when I found myself hauled over his lap.
"No sex, however…" he informed me as he tugged my pants and panties down to my knees "…does not mean no punishments."
"But I wasn't finished—" I yelled, trying to rear up and off him.
"Yes." His palm made me seriously consider what I'd made him agree to, knowing now—a day late and a dollar short—with truly painfully crystal clarity, that it should have been no punishments instead! "You. Were. I figured you were going to choose one or the other and you've made your choice. I won't surrender both of the things that are so important to the both of us."
"But—"
"Someone made me break down her door. And made herself sick with alcohol. And has been sassing me since last night because she thinks she can get away with it." He emphasized each sin with multiple smacks. "But she can't, can she, Tawna?"
"Quint—Bart—whoever, stop! Please!"
"I. Don't. Think. So."
Dear God, why, why, why hadn't I said no punishments?
A MERE SIX WEEKS LATER, I was more than willing to surrender the cause. I had been punished in every possible manner—sitting comfortably was a dream of the past. Barely a day went by that I wasn't spanked, or paddled, or caned, or something—he was quite an inventive man, and I'd been swatted by whatever had been close at hand—rulers when he was in his amazingly small, surprisingly disorganized office, wooden spoons or spatulas when we were in the kitchen, cooking, and even the stiff leather insole of a pair of shoes he'd been wearing when we took a small vacation over a three day weekend and had been strolling by the water on Hampton Beach—off season, because he had a bit more social phobia than I realized and really hated big crowds.
I had made the mistake of calling him "Quinton Palmer", in a way he knew meant that I was trying to make him feel guilty about what he had done, and he'd had more than enough of that.
I had to admit that—apart from the spankings—he'd been wonderful. Very apologetic, at first—even more attentive than usual—trying to be overly generous, even though I refused everything he tried to buy me. Well, as apologetic as he got, but after a short time—perhaps two weeks—he let me know in no uncertain terms that he didn't intend to spend his life paying for one mistake. He'd admitted it, even very sweetly asking, quite earnestly, for my forgiveness with casual eloquence, one evening as we sat together on the couch. We were watching something I couldn't remember—and was having an even worse time following—because of the lazy way he was running his hands through my hair, his other hand stroking slowly up the inside of my arm.
"Mind if I turn that off?" he'd asked.
I shook my head no, and he did so, then turned me towards him.
"I don't mean to beat a dead horse, and Lord knows I'm not thrilled about hashing and re-hashing my own mistakes, especially since, you know, as a genius, I make so few of them…" He snuck a look at me out of the corner of his eye to make sure I was thoroughly appreciating just how fake humble he was being.
And, of course, my eyes were practically rolling out of my head.
But then he caught the end of my chin and I found myself staring up into those slate gray eyes of his. "I want to ask you for something I hope you'll feel okay in your heart to do."
I couldn't for the life of me imagine what it was.
"I know I hurt you badly by deceiving you. And I know I've told you that wasn't my purpose, except that when I realized who you worked for, I felt it wouldn't have been prudent to reveal to you who I was. We never discussed work much; it wasn't as if I was trying to extract company secrets from you. And I'm so much more comfortable as Quinton that I think my hermit tendencies got the better of me, but please believe me when I say that I regret not having been entirely up front with you about my identity and that I never, ever meant to hurt you."
Although there was a tad bit of annoyance at him left within me, overall, I felt completely okay with saying, "I do."
The smile that dawned on his face made me have to smile back, and I would have sworn that there were tears in his eyes as he took my hand and placed it over my heart, covering it with his own. "Thank you. What I want to ask you is a component of that ability to see that I meant you no harm. Tawna, do you think you could see your way to forgiving me?"
I'd never had anyone ask me for that in my life and I could tell by the look on his face that he was dead serious.
Dart was a truly evil genius dom, and a genius in his own right in other ways. He was smart as the whip he used on me on occasion, and funny as hell, and so sexy I practically came just looking at him. To say nothing of the fact that he took extraordinary care of me, going out of his way to do the small things that lots of men nowadays overlooked. He called me multiple times a day and texted me at least as often. When I fell asleep in his arms, he was often awake when I woke up, staring down at me with an expression that made my heart ache. He bought me silly cards for no reason, brought me picnic lunches to work, and taught me to drive a stick on a beat up old VW Beetle he was restoring, saying he had to get a new clutch anyway, so it didn't matter if I killed it in learning. And he supported me—not financially, because I wouldn't allow it, much to his annoyance but, I think, also secret pride—but by being there for me and honestly critiquing my efforts when I asked—in anything I wanted to do—from taking a class in throwing pots, which I'd always wanted to learn, to trying to learn piano, which I had hated as a child but wanted to learn now.
He was so unutterably sexy that he could make me blush with just a look, and he scourged my backside every chance he got, unapologetically, every time. He was demanding and thorough and strict and stern, and he was everything I'd ever needed or wanted in a man.
For all of those reasons, as well as the fact that I was hopelessly in love with him, I pressed my lips to his, trying to be as gentle with him as he could be with me. "Of course, I forgive you, Dart."
Instead of leaning into my kiss as I expected, he leaned away and caught my eye. I could see that there were tears in his. "Thank you. When I said you were perfect for me, I meant it, you know. You're strong and powerful in your own right, in your own way, and you don't let me run you over about things, although in this kind of a relationship—and with a man like me," he acknowledged self-deprecatingly. "It's easy to do as a sub. You call me out on things and point out things I can't see because I'm staring too hard at it and I'm of the weaker sex."
The idea that someone who was as inherently strong as he was calling himself "the weaker sex" had me laughing. "Stop. You're embarrassing me."
And then he said something I'd been waiting for all along. "Aaaaannnndddd, speaking of sex…"
"Smooth segue, Sherlock."
"I thought so, too," he agreed, polishing his fingernails on his t-shirt.
The genius had, after I'd expanded the "no sex" rule to include his Saturdays, deemed that although I had put a moratorium on sex itself, that did not include other things, as long as there was no culmination—for either of us, which also meant no bringing ourselves off. So, for the past weeks, he had continued to fondle me whenever he chose—usually before, during and after a chastisement—which seemed to be becoming just that much more frequent the longer we went without sex—since he had me there, naked, usually, anyway. He kissed me often, we held hands all the time, and he took every single opportunity to touch me—in any way—that presented itself.
As a result, the two of us were almost revoltingly horny, although, since every bit of our celibacy could be dropped at my doorstep, I did my best not to appear so as much as possible in his presence.
I had been amazed that he'd agreed to that stipulation in the first place and then agog again, when he'd given up his precious Saturdays without too much of a fight—and absolutely stymied that he had allowed it to go on for this long. If I hadn't known him better, I would have been a bit worried that he wasn't that into me.
But I had more than enough evidence to the contrary.
"So? Sex?" he asked, hopefully, when I didn't immediately rise to the bait.
As much as my entire lower body was screaming at me to say an unequivocal, "Yes, yes, yes! Now! Please! Hurry up about it," I demurred, lowering my eyes and deliberately not looking at him. "Well, I'm not sure."
"Not sure?" he asked, and I could hear a bit of unhappiness creeping into his tone, as if he'd expected me to fall into his arms at the mere mention of the word.
But I wasn't much interested in making it that easy for him. I had other plans in mind.
"Yes. I think—" I stretched out beneath him on the couch, wiggling my hips as I arched them up against him on the pretense of getting comfortable, noting the ever-present bulge that pressed eagerly back, practically making me lick my lips.
He was leaning towards me, his body tense, looking at me as if he was just waiting for the signal to begin devouring every inch of me.
"I think—" I indulged in a slow, sensuous full body stretch, completely ignoring him while I did so, but making sure that the neckline of my blouse rode down to reveal more than enough cleavage, rubbing my foot up and down his heavy calf slowly. "I think that I need to take a couple of days to think about it. You know, sleep on it before I give you my decision."
He didn't say a word, just stared down at me as if he couldn't believe what I'd just said, as if I'd come from another planet and told him that sex was a figment of his imagination and that he'd never have it again.
I did my best to avoid looking straight into his eyes, knowing I wouldn't be able to keep up the ruse if I had to look at those intent, intense eyes, but I could hear him beginning to breathe heavily, and it wasn't just how horny he was.
Dart McQueen was getting pissed, although I could also see that he was doing his level best to control it, too.
When he opened his mouth, I smiled up at him, saying, "I think it's past my bedtime, Dart. Would you mind showing yourself out? I believe I'm going to turn in."
I made to get up, as if I expected he was going to acquiesce to me automatically and lever himself off me, maybe even offer me a hand to help me up.
He did stand, after a very long pause, during which I bit the inside of my lip nearly clean through, trying to look innocent and sincere. And he did help me off the sofa, where I stood so close to him that every breath we took rubbed body parts together that were practically trying to burst out of our clothes.
"Well," I said in a sexy whisper. "Good night, Dart." I went up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek in almost a sisterly fashion, and I thought I'd probably gotten away with the whole thing until I took a step away from him and heard an agonized roar from behind me. My arm was caught and used to tug me back that one step, his front plastered to my back, his hands settling heavily on my hips, lips floating sensually over my neck and ear.
"I don't think so, Tawna. I've had just about enough of this wanting and not having you shit. I've been about as patient as I'm going to be with this foolishness of yours. You're mine, and from now on, I'm not going to allow you to set limits for me about when or how or whether I can have access to this body—"
His fingers were at the waistband of my pants, but I was doubled over—or as much as I could be, considering how tightly he was holding me—with laughter that I wasn't having much success stifling.
"What are you laughing about?" he asked, and I should have recognized that ominous tone of his, the one that never failed to let me know that I was already in—or was dangerously close to being in—deep shit.
I stomped my foot, laughing so hard I was wheezing with it. "You! I can't believe how long you went along with this! It's about time you stepped up, don't you think?"
That comment might just have pushed him the slightest bit too far.
Perhaps.
And my first clue was the fact that I found myself on my back on my living room floor, every stitch of my clothing quite literally torn from my body while he simply loosed himself, not bothering with anything else.
He didn't fuck me; he certainly didn't make love to me. He pounded himself into me after entering with no preparation whatsoever. Dart just folded my legs back, leaning onto them as he knocked his hips into mine.
I yelped at his brutal entrance, then, every time afterwards. I had never been taken this hard in my life, and although I knew, deep down, that I should object to it, on a feminist level, at least, my body welcomed each and every heavy thrust that lifted my hips violently off the floor and left me feeling truly possessed by him, in the most basic sense of the word.
There were no tender murmurs, no soft caresses. There were, instead, snarls and animalistic groans and my nipples being pinched and bitten so hard I began to fight him.
And he subdued me as easily as he wrote code, his size and weight holding me down, hands bracketing my head, restricting it tightly, so that I could do nothing but look up into the eyes of my dom as he used me.
I should have objected—snapped my fingers—called a halt some way—any way. But I didn't. Just the opposite. My body slickened around him, making it just that much easier for him to violate me, my nipples remaining hard and proud despite the abuse he heaped on them, my eyes—mind—body—open to him more completely than it ever had been.
I was his.
Yes, he was mine, too.
But more importantly—I was his.
This was proof. More proof than I really needed, but it hit home in exactly the manner it should have, hard and carnally and unrelentingly. Base and basic. A man and his woman. Nothing more complicated than that.
When he came, it was while he was staring directly into my eyes, and I don't think I've ever seen anything quite that primitive, quite that beautiful, ever. He was lost in it, elementally male, bellowing his pleasure as he slammed into me once, twice, four more times, his grip never loosening on any part of me as he held me still for him until the last shuddering bucking of his hips before he collapsed down onto me, still groaning rhythmically into my ear as his breath blew harshly past it.
Every instinct in me wanted to comfort him, my arms finding his back, not able to get very far around him, but doing as much as they could to hold him, stoking it and his arms, anywhere I could touch.
I needed to touch him so much it hurt worse than any punishment he'd ever given me. My hands roved him at will, hoping to impart some sort of comfort to him when he had obviously been so completely stripped of his cloak of civilization.
Eventually, I came to realize that he was whispering, almost chanting something, and I naively thought it was probably that he was sorry for having treated me so brutally. I was all ready to soothe him and let him know that I was fine, that I understood why he did what he did, and that I—
That I loved him.
That startling realization was why it took me so long to recognize that he hadn't been apologizing to me in any way. I had misheard him, or heard what I wanted to hear.
I should have known better. Known him better.
He wasn't doing any kind of a mea culpa for taking me the way he wanted to. He would never feel the need to do that as my dom.
Instead, as his voice grew stronger and his volume rose, I heard exactly what he was whispering, and it made my blood run cold. "You are in so much trouble."
And he wasn't kidding.
CHAPTER 8
"So," he asked in a conversational tone, when I knew that was far from how he felt. He was royally pissed. "You originally bargained with me for us to be celibate so that we would have time to get to know each other—as much time as you thought I'd allow before I'd take matters into my own hands. You didn't really expect that I'd go along with it at all, and you just let it unfold, waiting for me to decide to put a stop to it. And when I hurt you, you decided to turn the screws a bit more and eliminate sex entirely from our relationship, again figuring that I'd eventually assert myself as your dom. Have I gotten this correct, Tawna?"
We were still at my place, but h
e'd made some modifications over the past couple of weeks. First of all, he'd bought the building—for much more than it was worth and solely so that no one could throw a fit at what he did to my place, one thing being that he'd installed industrial strength hooks all over my bedroom at various spots—such as the ceiling and part way up the clearest wall, as well as the archway into the living room, which he liked because it was more open and kind of gave the illusion that I was on display, although I wasn't.
Not that he didn't threaten to pull the curtains of my front window open when he had me at a distinct disadvantage—he did. But as yet he hadn't gone through with that.
That was where I was now, hanging, largely, by my wrists, on my tiptoes, my legs anchored well apart from each other by other hooks that had been positioned near the bottom of the arch. I was gagged, in deference to my neighbors, and blindfolded, which I detested—although I still debated with myself whether it was better to see what was coming or not. Neither option seemed bearable at points.
As he was punishing me in this position, which he seemed to favor, considering how often I found myself there, he liked to come up behind me and press every bit of his imposing self to me. His legs easily came to rest between mine, which were miles apart, the fly of his jeans pressing against the top of my cleft because of the height difference, one hand finding its way to rest between my hips, holding me still as he ground himself into me, deliberately exacerbating the agonizing state of my rump.
He'd already spanked me before putting me into this horrific position, keeping me over his lap while he sat at the end of the bed after having guided me there in complete silence, which was almost worse than if he had immediately begun scolding me the moment he'd finished—claiming me as he had.
But he hadn't. He'd grown ominously quiet, and I didn't like it at all. It was quite a contrast after all of the interesting—heady—noises he'd made while he'd fucked me, this potent silence. He was normally a talkative man. I don't think I could remember him ever having been mute for so long, even when he wasn't happy with me. I knew he had a slew of things he wanted to say to me and I also knew it couldn't be a good thing that he didn't trust himself to say them. He'd levered himself off me and I couldn't help but notice his natural grace. He always reminded me of the big cats—a panther, in particular, considering his dark coloring. Then he leaned down and lifted me into his arms as if he was picking a piece of lint off the floor, my weight making no difference to him whatsoever, stalking into my room and sitting with me on the end of the bed.
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