by Stasia Black
Still, as much as I want to push everything off the table and order him to lay down so I can mount him, I know I have to exhibit the discipline that I want from him. I can’t just play at being a Domme. If I’m doing this, I’m fully committing.
I withdraw as I lift his plate and bring it over close to my own. Jackson lets out an involuntary little-frustrated groan when I do.
Excellent, I smile to myself. Right on track. I pick up my fork and use the wide soup spoon to start rolling the pasta. I stab a piece of shrimp on the end for good measure and then put it up to Jackson’s mouth. “Open,” I say cheerfully.
He does as I ask but again, it’s as if I can see the wheels turning in his brain. How much longer of this? How much more will I subject him to? I roll another bite, this time for myself and let out a little moan of my own. It really tastes fantastic. Better than anything I have had at a restaurant in a long time. Granted, I haven’t been to very many fancy restaurants in my life. Nor can I imagine the kind of lifestyle where you have a cook who comes to your house.
I feed Jackson another bite and some of the pasta falls out of his mouth. His eyes widen in embarrassment and he tries to turn away, lifting a hand to no doubt pushed the rest of the pasta in. I slap his hand out of the way right before he reaches his mouth. He tries to slurp the rest of the fettuccini using just his mouth and I pinch him on his nipple.
He winces right as I swoop down, kissing him and eating the extra pasta off his lip. I nip his bottom lip with my teeth for extra measure. His eyes are so wide when I pull back that I feel another pulse of slickness coating my underwear.
Enough. After the soup, even a few bites of the plate of the pasta was filling. Even if it wasn’t, I’m too turned on to bother anymore with it. I grab my ice water and drink half of it, then lift the rest to Jackson’s lips. He drinks eagerly, but his eyes stay clasped on mine the entire time.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he chugs the water. God, why is that part of a man so sexy? Then again, I tend to think that about every inch of Jackson. It just depends on what feature I happen to be zeroing in on at the moment. My eyes slide languidly down his chest to his wine-colored nipples in the light tuft of dark hair that circles each one. His muscular biceps. The vein that traces down his forearm and over the top of his hand. Those strong, blunt fingers.
“Mistress?” There’s a growl in his low voice. “How may I serve you?”
My cheeks flush. It’s probably not very Mistress-ly of me but I can’t help it. I’m too fucking excited about what comes next. “We haven’t discussed your hard and soft limits.” See, told you I did my research. “Tell me now what you are and aren’t comfortable with.”
“I’m open to almost everything.” Jackson’s voice is calm and sure. “Obviously no play with implements you haven’t been trained on yet. Though I guess I do have a couple hard limits beyond that. No knife play or,” he swallows and looks down, “fisting.” He says it so quietly that at first I’m not sure I heard him. Then I replay it in my head. Fisting. No fisting. Holy shit. The thought never entered my mind, but now that I think about the implications, my thoughts go there. While fisting is out of the picture, the door is still open for all kinds of other naughty activities. I bite my lip and a rush of adrenaline floods my chest.
“Got it. What’s your safe word?”
He meets my eyes. “Red… or stiletto.”
Oh, wicked boy. “Anything else I need to know before we begin?”
“I’m all yours.”
My heartbeat pounds so hard I can hear the blood racing in my ears. “Good. Do you have a room to play or just your bedroom?”
“I have a room.”
The woman who’s been serving us all evening comes in with dessert cups full of some kind of chocolate mousse.
“She’s done for the evening,” I keep my voice low so that only Jackson can hear. “Send her on her way. I don’t want anyone in the house except you and me.”
“Thank you, Marie. The dinner was delicious,” Jackson’s eyes stay on me the whole time he’s talking to her. “You can leave for the night.”
Marie looks over, startled. “But I need to clean up and—”
“You can do it tomorrow. Thank you again.”
Marie looks like she wants to argue, but then seems to realize the awkwardness of the situation and maybe to pick up on why he might be asking her to leave without cleaning up. Redness rises to her cheeks and she averts her eyes. “Of course, Mr. Vale. Thank you.” She turns and ducks out of the room.
A smile blooms on my lips and I drape my arms around Jackson’s neck. “I don’t think we’re being very subtle.”
“It’s my house. Fuck subtle.” He leans forward to try to capture my lips in a kiss and I’m this close to giving in. Jackson so rarely curses and it means one of two things when he does: either he’s pissed or turned the fuck on. So goddammed hot.
Still, I pull back and wave my finger in front of his face just before his lips make contact.
“Ah ah ah, just because you’re the boss at work, don’t forget who’s running the show here.” I withdraw my arms from his neck and stand. “Now show me to this playroom, slave.” I smirk with emphasis on the last word and see his back straighten. Which makes me laugh out loud. Oh dear, tonight is going to be fun, isn’t it? That’s only what, the twentieth time I’ve thought that?
I grab the two cups of chocolate mousse and follow him out of the dining room and through his labyrinthine house. Without him guiding the way, I think I’d get lost in here. I prefer more open-space concept houses than this older style involving a network of rooms, but I can’t deny the luxury.
There’s still lot of light throughout and I realize that the rooms on the ground floor basically create a circle around the inner courtyard. We head up a flight of stairs and down the hallway. Jackson pauses at the second door on the right and pulls a key out of his pocket.
When he pushes the door open, I smile, realizing I chose my outfit exactly right. It’s like stepping back into the nineteenth century. If, you know, parlors in the nineteenth century had floggers, paddles, and nipple clamps hanging on the walls. The floor is covered with an ornate, Victorian-era styled rug.
A huge, antique wooden four-postered bed with an intricate lace and organza canopy dominates the room. All the other furniture looks antique as well, though some of it must be contemporary and just fashioned to look antique. The leather spanking bench, for example. Or hell, maybe the Victorians were into kink, but I doubt it would’ve survived in such gleaming condition. I walk over to it and run my fingers over the soft leather and down to the ankle restraints. Also leather.
I look up to Jackson. “Fancy.”
He inclines his head. His posture is slightly stiffer than normal and I wonder if he’s nervous. He’s probably used all of this equipment with other people, but he’s always been on the giving end. Never receiving.
For a moment, I frown. I don’t like the idea of Jackson here with women before me. How many? Was he serious about them? When was his last relationship? Why did it end?
Then I give my head a rough shake. The fuck? I don’t care about any of that. That’s not what this is anyway. Besides, no matter who’s been here before me, this is the first time he’s ever let someone else take the reins. The first time he’s ever submitted. The thought fills me with intense satisfaction and I feel at least a foot or two taller when I turn to examine the rest of the room. I walk over to a leather-padded table that’s about seven feet long and as wide as a twin bed. Ankle and wrist restraints hang on their respective corners.
A smile curls my lips. Oh yes. This will do nicely.
“Slave,” I say sharply. “Clothes off. Then up on this table.” I snap and point at the table in front of me. “Cock up.”
I see just a second’s hesitation but then he’s doing as I ask. He drops his jeans and I see that he’s going commando. A small gasp escapes when I notice that he’s also already sporting a semi.
Under my perusal, he hardens more even as he walks toward me. Straight toward me, like he’s going to try to brush up against me before getting on the table.
I shoot him a warning glare and move to the other side of the table. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. Slaves who don’t obey the rules get punished.”
His eyes narrow on me. I see the challenge even if he doesn’t verbalize it. He’s wondering exactly how I think I can punish him.
I lift an eyebrow. “Oh darling,” I sneer. “Please. Just try me.” I might not have been studying up on this Domme business for very long, but everything I read pointed to one basic truth: men are guided by their dicks. Get control of that and control of the man will soon follow.
Granted, Jackson Vale is certainly one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever met in my life but that makes mastering him even more of a triumph. He’s not some wimpy boy who will bow at my beck and call to lick my boots. No. He’s head-to-toe alpha. Can I tame the lion?
Tonight will tell.
He pauses, his hot stare on me with the table between us. I flick my eyes down to the leather surface in silent command. We continue standing for another five seconds. He’s told me that he’ll submit, but inside, everything in him rebels against it—it’s obvious in each inch of his body. I stand taller and make my voice like ice. “On the table, slave.” I make sure to over-articulate every word.
His nostrils flare but he finally does as ordered. He turns, hefts himself up, and lays flat on the table. His cock points almost straight up, an arrow to the ceiling.
I smile down at him. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Then I glance again at his cock. “On the other hand…” I give him one quick stroke up and down. His dick is hot and hard, and his whole body jolts with the touch, torso lurching up off the table. Another one of those thrills zings through me, but I immediately let go of him.
“We can’t have that, now can we?” I quickly move to the head of the table and draw his left arm up over his head. I feel the flex of his muscle as I set his wrist into the padded leather cuff. I smile as I slide the wide buckle into place and secure it. He’s not getting out of these babies. There’s even more tension in his other arm as I fasten it in place.
As soon as his arms are secured, I grin so wide I’m afraid my face is going to split. Oh my God. Yes, his legs are free, but already, Jackson Vale is so much at my mercy. Helpless before me.
I stroke my hands down his body, starting at his inner forearms, down his arms to his chest, then his stomach. I continue to his hips and skim down to his thighs, completely bypassing his cock.
He lets out a stunted groan of frustration and my smile grows impossibly wider. When I come to his ankle, I grasp it firmly and secure the buckle. Then, before he can pause or overthink it too much, I move to the other side and lock his last limb in.
I look down at my work and the flare of heat that surges in my core is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. This isn’t just any man laid out before me, handcuffed to a table, naked and at my mercy. This is Jackson Vale. Holy fuck. Never in my wildest dreams… I mean, I didn’t even know to dream for this.
I move up his body, slowly trailing my fingers along his shins, then to his inner thighs. He sucks in a breath as I tease, moving closer and closer up to where I know he longs for me to grasp him.
But I don’t. He hisses out his disappointment when instead I start to massage his inner thigh, right below his balls.
I’m fascinated as his cock grows and grows, surging up toward his stomach. The rush of power I feel is insane. I continue massaging, working my way down to his kneecaps and then back up. I can see on his face what he’s hoping for every time I inch close to the prize. After all, I gave him a tug once. When am I going to do it again?
I move my right hand a little further north so that my thumb just brushes the outside of his sack. With the little bit of slack he has in the restraints, he tries to press into my hand. I laugh and withdraw completely.
He swears and presses his head hard back into the leather table, arm muscles flexing against his restraints. The chains rattle against the frame and the noise makes me rub my legs together in pleasure. He’s turning out to be even more of a caged beast than I imagined. I make eye contact and lick my lips. He swears again and then closes his eyes while he visibly tries to calm his breathing.
I turn on my heel and pretend to ignore him while I head to the wall. The implements seem to be arranged in order of impact. From left to right, there are a variety of paddles and floggers with just a few whips in the very furthest corner.
But right in front of me are all kinds of interesting items. I pick up two brushes. At first they just look like hair brushes, but when I run my fingers over the bristles, I notice that they have different textures, one soft and the other rougher. Interesting.
There’s a small cabinet as well and I open it. I find even more fascinating little trinkets on the shelf. Nipple clamps of various sizes with different jewelry and weights attached to them. Several kinds of lubricant. Dildos of all shapes and sizes too, still in packaging. My attention peaks at those. But maybe not for tonight. In the corner sits a fat red candle and a box of matches. Oh.
I read about this earlier today. Hot candle wax. It seemed like something that even beginners couldn’t screw up. I grab the candle, the matches, and a little pizza cutter looking device that has blunt metal nubs notched along the rolling circle. I read about this too. Like the brushes, it’s meant for sensation play.
And sensation is what I’m after with Jackson tonight. I want to make him insane with sensation so that he’s strung tight with desire. He thinks he’ll bow to any of my wishes now, but I’m going to bring him to the point of begging, no, weeping, to serve me.
When I return to him, his cock has flagged only slightly. I put my hands on his stomach and slide them down to his hip again, framing his dick on either side.
I lean over and blow hot air right across the tip. It jerks to life, bobbing half an inch away from my lips. I pull away and slap it lightly with my palm.
“Don’t be greedy,” I chastise. “You’ll get what you get when I determine you’re ready.”
With that, I start running the soft brush down his chest. He looks confused for a moment and then his eyes slide closed. He relaxes into it.
I brush all the way down his chest and to one thigh. I imagine he thinks I’ll move to the next, so I change it up and run the soft bristles down his pulsing shaft. He lets out a groan and his eyes pop open again. They shift down to observe my movement. I brush his cock up from underneath, then back down again.
I lock eyes with his and then bring my mouth right beside his pulsing member. I’m just going to breathe on it again to tease him but when I get close, I’m shocked by my own desire. The rounded mushroom head is so… pretty. Jackson Vale would die if I described his cock to him that way, but it is.
My pussy contracts and my mouth waters as I watch the way it jolts under the ministrations of my brush. I glance up to his face and he’s so focused on what I’m doing. Utterly enthralled.
My tongue flicks out and I lick the thick vein that runs the length underneath the shaft. Jackson’s entire body trembles and a muted groan comes from his throat.
I pull back and stare at his dick with trepidation. I can’t believe I just— I didn’t think I’d ever be able to—
Memories rush up. The last time I saw one of these up close, it was being shoved at me. I said no and my rapist forced it on me anyway. Revulsion shudders through me and I move several more inches back.
I can feel Jackson’s eyes on me. I don’t look up. I don’t want to know if he’s noticed something change in my demeanor or if his gaze is full of demand that I get back to attending to his cock. Neither would be acceptable.
So I keep my eyes averted while I pick up the second brush with firmer bristles and resume brushing down his legs. I can feel the slight scrape against the skin the brush provides and I smooth my other hand down the flesh a
fter upbraiding it with the comb.
But my mind isn’t on the sensations I’m providing. It’s back on the bastard who stole so much for me. Who tried to break me. Am I really going to let him steal this aspect of sex play from me forever? It’s part of why I got back on the horse, so to speak, this summer. I wanted to prove to myself that Gentry hadn’t totally jacked me up. I could still have sex and enjoy it. He hadn’t stolen anything from me. I was so determined to prove it.
And now, what? I’ll never be able to give oral again? Because of what that fucking bastard did to me? Jackson’s entire body jerks as I run the bristles along the bottom of his feet.
“Does it hurt?” He hasn’t reacted so violently to anything I’ve done so far except the first time I grabbed his cock.
“Tickles,” he manages through gritted teeth.
I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. I run the brush across the sole of his other foot and he twists in his restraints just as much as with the first foot. God, I guess I am a sadist. I take pity on him after that, but I’m still chuckling.
And that’s when it hits me. I feel safe with Jackson. If there’s anyone to try it with, it’s him. Especially while I have him completely immobilized like this. It won’t be anything like it was with Gentry. No one will be holding my head and forcing anything on me. Here, I’m in control. I suck in a quick breath. Shit. Am I really going to do this?
I look around the room and my eyes zero in on the chocolate soufflé cups that I abandoned on a side table when I first entered the room. Oh yeah. I smile and I quickly retrieve them, adding to my little collection on the ground near the candle and brushes. I lift up the soufflé and run it underneath Jackson’s nose.
“I have a test for you,” I say in a low, sultry voice.