When she saw what lay inside, her sweet little mouth parted with astonishment. She stood as if rooted.
He smiled at her reaction, savoring the avaricious look that stole over her face. It was a special look he’d come to recognize, one that reflected the desire any submissive felt upon gazing at BDSM tools and furniture.
And Lizbeth was a submissive. She didn’t know it yet, and wouldn’t like it when she found out, considering her stated goal to be dominant. But there was no doubt in Ro’s mind, not after the way she’d responded to him.
She slowly circled the room.
Compared to the main nightclub, this more private room contained a larger ratio of imaginatively designed equipment. He gazed with pride at his enormous St. Andrew’s Cross against the opposite wall, the enormous X of sturdy, solid wood with D-rings bolted at each corner. Would she stop at that one? No, she kept going after only one curious touch. The padded wall rack barely won a glance. She lingered over the altar-style bondage bed, the hardwood centerpiece to the room with its leather straps and steel rings. Supported by four thick legs and varnished to a warm satin glow, it would have made a delightful choice, to him. But aside from testing its upholstered surface and trailing fingertips over its attachment points, she gave it no more attention than the rest.
She stroked a wooden wheel, taller than she was, and fondled the four restraints jutting out. He couldn’t help being charmed by the tentative way she touched the assorted sizes of Ben Wa balls, then picked them up to squeeze them, clearly baffled as to their purpose, before moving on to examine a black alloy spreader bar with adjustable cotter pins.
He watched, increasingly aroused, as Lizbeth gazed a long time at his pride and joy, a functionally modified iron maiden, set tall and imposing in the far corner. What sublime heights he could take her to, if he could strap her inside that monster, helplessly waiting to be pierced.
Lizbeth reached the rocking horse with its pleasure saddle. As she ran her hands over the saddle’s erect and waiting double dildos a small surprised sound jerked out of her. Ro felt a twinge of desire that narrowed his eyes. Lizbeth impaled and begging, but forced to keep the horse rocking: the erotic fantasy made him rock hard.
He couldn’t help it. Part of him thrilled to a woman being tied up, straining at the bonds while he teased and pleasured her. Flesh pinkening under his ministrations. Gasps of pain, tears of frustration, screams of ecstasy. He adored it. It was reason enough to open a place like his Dungeon, he supposed, but of course not the only reason.
It was time to teach Lizbeth her true nature. His voice came out rough. “We’re going to play a small game. The name of this game is Take What You Want. Pick a toy, a piece of furniture, a bondage tool. Use what you wish, as you wish.”
She flashed him a playful smile that surprised him. “Anything? You mean I have to choose?” She stroked one of the dildos. It set his cock on fire.
“You want to learn dominance. If that’s truly what you want, then be dominant. Be aggressive.” Ro held out his arms, offering his bare wrists. “I won’t resist. My safe word is…‘butterfly.’”
“‘Butterfly’?”
He saw her skepticism. He hid his smile. He’d picked the gentlest, most innocuous little safe word he could think of. He wanted to be totally unthreatening to her. “I don’t plan on saying it,” he taunted her. Deliberately goading, he added, “You couldn’t get me to say it, believe me.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A challenge. But, I thought you said I had to learn to ‘bottom’ before I could ‘top.’”
Was that a note of longing in her voice? Ro hid another smile.
“Originally, yes. But now I understand your desperate desire to become dominant. Dominate me.”
“Okay. Um…would you please go to the back corner, by that tall sarcophagus thing?”
He liked that she’d picked the iron maiden. But he didn’t move. “Really? That polite little request is your idea of dominance?”
“Should I just grab a whip and start hitting you?”
She was becoming frustrated.
Good.
“Is that the best you can do?” he chided. He sauntered, slow enough to show his disregard. Away from the iron maiden.
A loud crack in the enclosed room halted him. He turned in time to see her holding a bullwhip away from her with a look of shock on her face. “It’s louder than I thought.” She flicked it again, cracking it closer to him. The sound was like a pistol shot.
He took a hasty step back. “Maybe you should—”
Crack. Her intent look of concentration would have seemed pained, if it weren’t for the sadistic glint that suddenly flashed in her eyes. That was as he’d expected. She felt the sense of power, but didn’t inhabit the role naturally. It was work.
He played along. “What if you slowed it down a bit—”
“Quiet, worm!” Another crack of the whip. “Get over there.”
Ro complied. Very soon now, she’d remember how much she’d enjoyed being bound and dominated. She’d accept her nature. Any minute.
She pointed the whip. “Get inside.”
Ro inched into the iron maiden, the vertical casket with its chains and restraints, and its forest of spikes. The spikes were made of pointed rubber. Far gentler than the rusty metal spikes in authentic iron maidens, designed to impale the victim when the casket closed. But the rubber ones gave an attention-getting poking if one weren’t careful.
Anticipation about what she’d do next zinged through him. How long had it been since he’d let someone dominate him? Even with Lizbeth a raw novice, he couldn’t deny it was exciting. Not nearly as exciting as mastering her body again, but fun.
How long would it take her to figure out that only submitting to him could truly delight her? He settled in, determined to wait her out.
From his position inside the iron maiden he watched her peruse his Cage Room. She approached the wall where the accessories were kept. Slapper bats on their hooks with the other tools: leather and fleece rods, braided and knotted riding crops, even metal-studded paddles and gloves. She glanced at the other, less-common accessories. He doubted she’d use the balls, bars, gags, clamps, cages, or spreaders. But that blindfold…ah, she lifted it off its hook. She stroked the softness of its leather. Contoured, with an elastic back.
She approached, letting the blindfold dangle between two fingers. “Put this on.”
Ro eased it over his head. He could feel the leather dent his hair. His vision departed, replaced by blackness.
Doubt suddenly assailed him. What if he was wrong about Lizbeth?
Pressing his lips tightly together, his hands by his side, he made a granite block of his chin, holding himself as immobile as he could.
She touched one of his arms, and it took all his control not to react. Next to his hip there was a padded leather manacle. She closed it around his wrist. The delicate, warm touch of her fingers threading the buckle stirred him. She did the same to his other wrist. Interesting sensation of vulnerability, being blindfolded and buckled.
Then, nothing. No sound of her movement. Possibly she was stumped. Perhaps she was wondering why she didn’t feel the same titillation about locking him up as she did about being manacled. It was the nature of the beast.
He was about to tell her so, when she kissed him.
Silent, hot, and ravenous, her lips met his. Startled, he jerked, then hissed as the rubber spikes poked him in the back. Every one of his nerves seemed to be extra receptive, and though pain-pricks didn’t pierce flesh, it did get his full attention. Very interesting.
“Steady there, big fella,” Lizbeth said, her own voice mirroring his earlier mocking tone. “I’d hate for you to damage this body.” She ran her hand over his chest, up to his chin, and over his lips. She replaced her fingers with lips again, and he could feel her heat radiating from her mouth. Her chest pressed against his. Very bold.
She wouldn’t get any more reactions out of him, he determined.
He
heard her rummaging. “Hmm, what’s this?” From the buzzing, she’d discovered some of the battery-operated toys. Then, rattle of metal. Handcuffs. Clinking. Anal beads. Clicks and clanks and snips and thuds. Metal-studded cat-o’-nine tails, chain sets, nipple clamps, ball gags.
Was she trying to intimidate him with their various sounds? He smiled even as his breath sped up. She was so cute.
When he could feel her in front of him again, he slowly arched one eyebrow over his blindfold. He gave a small, mocking smile. He’d bet anything she was blushing like an embarrassed schoolgirl caught playing dress up.
Suddenly, he felt her small warm hands moving over his chest in little circles, as if savoring the feel of the broad expanse of his chest through his shirt. He tried not to enjoy her surprisingly aggressive touch, especially when she grazed his nipples. He noticed the way her breath quickened.
She let her hands wander up to his shoulders and down one arm, lingering on his bicep—he felt a moment’s vain satisfaction that he’d never stopped working out—and down farther, caressing cord and sinew on his lower arm before the leather of the manacle interrupted her exploration. Fingertips trailed sensuously against his half-open palm on the other side. He couldn’t completely keep his hand from twitching slightly, which irritated him.
He wished she would step against him to feel the length of his body pressed against the length of hers. He would have done that.
She did ease closer. He could smell her heat, and the scent of fabric softener under the musk of the dogs she’d worked with all day. Good, earthy smells.
He thought rapidly, trying to distract himself. He wondered at her experience training dogs, at her need to dominate them. To become a more dominant person. She failed to realize she didn’t need force and intimidation to control dogs, or to stand up for herself with people. She didn’t need to become an aggressive, leader-of-the-pack type. She simply needed to sense her own gentle authority.
He hoped their play session helped her sense it. Soon.
Ro felt the air warm as the space between them shrank. All thoughts of pack dynamics evaporated. Her body met his like a homecoming, her heat mingling with his own. She turned her head, rubbing her cheek sensuously against the soft material of his shirt. Her low sound of satisfaction had him twitching again, with increasing discomfort from the ache in his cock.
He felt little tugs as she nipped at the material of his shirt. “Good enough to eat,” she said.
Ro cleared his throat. “Okay. I think we might want to switch things around….”
Her only response was to nibble at his chest and then his belly, causing a warm flurry of desire to cascade through his body. He tried desperately to remain impervious.
When she exchanged nipping for licking, he knew he was in trouble. Warm moist heat followed the point of her tongue. A sudden gust of cool wind told him she’d lifted up his shirt. He flinched at the sensual assault of her hand sliding underneath to caress his stomach. She followed the trail with her lips. Around, up, down his taut belly. She stuffed his shirt up under his pinned arms.
Pleasure spiked through him as she ran her hands down over his waistline, then traced the juncture of pants and flesh. He noticed his mouth had fallen slightly open only when he shut it so hard his teeth clicked together. She wouldn’t dare. Would she?
“You don’t think I’ll do it, do you?” She didn’t need to explain what “it” was, not while her fingers investigated just under the rim of his pants.
Ro was worried. One could only withstand so much.
When he felt her kneel, his breath caught in his throat. There were her hands again. Stroking his legs, exploring slowly up the back, as if she enjoyed discovering him inch by inch. Her hand brushed across the front of his crotch. His entire body vibrated. He felt a twinge of pain and realized his wrists had strained against his bonds to the point of pinching. “Let me out.”
“What’s the magic word?” Her voice was a singsong. She was enjoying this? When he had her at his mercy, he was going to take diabolic revenge.
He determined anew to reveal nothing further. Made his voice bored. “I thought you’d finished playing. When you’re ready to learn how it’s done, let me know.”
“You’ll know when I’m done.”
The sensual promise made his stomach sink pleasurably with sudden fierce desire.
He heard something that made his blood stop, then surge hotly. The whisper of material as she pulled her clothes off. He imagined her lifting her shirt over her head, and the mental image teased him like a feather tickling the inside of his brain. He could almost see it. He could feel it and smell it: Lizbeth held the shirt to his cheek, rubbing it against the rough shadow-growth on his jaw, gliding it under his nose before letting it drop down next to their feet. There was a muted snap; her bra being unhooked. Confirmation came when she treated him to a face rub with those lacy cups, as well. He felt it slither from her fingers to join her shirt at their feet.
He swallowed audibly.
The peaks of her breasts were pebble hard when she stepped against him. “Nice,” she crooned in a breathless voice, rubbing herself against him. Shameless and teasing. A bitch in heat. He certainly felt like a stud ready to mount her, rut with her. He could think of little else.
She slid her hands around his body, to rest on his back. Just when he started to relax, she raked her nails forward, modifying the pressure so that it didn’t break the skin. At the same time she kissed one of his exposed nipples, swirling her tongue around the edges where the thinnest hair grew.
He hissed with surprise. It made her tilt her nails up and reverse direction so that her fingertips caressed the path she’d taken around his side, soothing him, then reversed again until she could run her fingers up his front with gentleness. “Sure you don’t want to say your word?” she asked. He could only press his lips together as she kissed the nipple, and then just below it. And then lower. His stomach again. Flicking her tongue.
He knew where she was going; she’d given him enough clues. His restraints rattled as he made a reflexive move backward, then he cursed softly as the rubber spikes reminded him backward wasn’t an option. His hands fisted.
Her hands rested on the belt of his jeans. She wiggled the leather end, slapping it playfully back down against him. “What was that word again?”
He could feel the dampness of perspiration on his forehead. With a supreme effort he kept his voice steady. “A pretty, flying insect.”
Giving an especially forceful slap with the belt, she traced after the path of her slapping with her fingers. Stinging pain, caressing pleasure. Then she began unthreading his belt. He knew the evidence of his arousal bulged against the seam of his pants, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would be lucky not to embarrass himself.
She laughed. The throaty, womanly sound of it was a delight to him, even as it drove him to previously unknown heights of arousal. How he wanted to punish her for her presumption. How he wanted her to continue.
Unzipping the front of his pants, she revealed inch after inch of what made his pants bulge. His soft briefs slid down as she opened his pants.
“Oh lord,” she breathed. She touched him experimentally. He felt his cock jump against her palm. She stroked once, reflexively.
He made a choking sound in his throat.
She moved her hand.
He had to hold out. Ro desperately shifted away from her bewitching touch, but she chased him, grasped him. Stroked again.
When she took him into her mouth he lunged against the spikes. A curse jerked from him.
Lizbeth paused long enough to say, primly, “That does not sound like a pretty, flying insect.”
She stroked the length of him down to his dark nest of hair, and then slowly back up. It was what he remembered doing to her: slow torture. She used her tongue on him the way he’d used his fingers on her. Leisurely, as if she had all the time in the world. From his perspective, fighting the waves of pleasure assaulting him,
time dragged painfully.
She had to figure it out on her own, he reminded himself desperately.
He wasn’t sure he could last that long.
He trembled, stilled, trembled again. She cupped him where he was soft and let her warm breath whisper against his flesh. Then she dove down with her mouth once more, wrapping her hand around his root and moving up with the rhythm that her mouth established.
Ro wished he could detach himself from his traitorous organ. Just for a little while.
Then the miracle happened.
First she made a small sound of frustration that he felt through his cock. Then she stopped. Cool air didn’t chill his lust. Especially now, with what he suspected was about to occur.
He smiled, imagining her state. She’d felt the friction of her jeans against her mound as she’d moved with the rhythm, and the tightness of her nipples had to be nearly painful with nothing touching them, nobody stroking them, pinching them and caressing them. She craved his touch. But how could he touch her? He was locked up. Now she’d be realizing, with a gasping sort of pleasure, that she wanted nothing more than to give him control, so he could give her what she needed. She wanted him in the most expeditious and forceful way possible.
But that couldn’t happen while he was confined, could it? Of course not.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said. “An unfinished job. What are we going to do about this?”
She stood, and it was all he could do not to lunge toward her. He was as ready as she was. Obviously.
But what was this? She stepped close, tilting her head to kiss his jawline, her breath ragged with frustration. Didn’t she know she was supposed to release him, not toy with him further? She gave more teasing little kisses.
Enough. He bent his head to savagely possess her mouth with his own. His lips demanded that she return the pressure, and she did, and they commanded that she open her mouth to him, and she did that too. All his senses tingled. He knew hers did too by the way her body shivered and melted against his. When his tongue slipped in to play with hers the sensations heightened until his entire body ached for her. He pulled away only with the greatest of effort.
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