by Joey W. Hill
She didn't know if he knew it, or if it was just miraculous timing, but when her emotional response was close to overtaking the physical, giving it a sharp, painful edge, he stepped up against her, so she was no longer alone in the darkness. He put his hands on her hips, then moved up to her breasts, teasing the nipples.
The downside was that her body shot up toward that cliff edge as if his touch were rocket fuel. The rhythm of the vibrator no longer mattered. She couldn't resist her need for him.
"I can't . . . I'll . . . sir . . ."
"Call me Master, Athena." His voice was rough against her ear as he put himself full against her, pressing the rope into her flesh. "I want to hear you say it. Convince me you're all mine."
His. His slave. There were those at the club that called themselves that. For some, it meant a functional thing, a different form of service from a submissive. For others, in the way they said it, it was a desire to prove their devotion to their Master or Mistress with the strongest word possible. His harsh tone said he might be experiencing a need just as primal.
"Master," she gasped. "I'm so close . . . I can't . . ."
"You can. You won't. I want you on your knees, sucking my cock, Athena. Are you going to deny me that by disobeying, by giving in to your climax?"
She shook her head, hard, even as her body was jerking, screaming at her to come. She clung to his command like the word of God. She could do it, she could make it through, even if the damnable man seemed to be trying to force her failure. He captured her taut nipples in his long fingers, beginning to roll and tweak, tug.
"Master."
He molded himself against her curved body, forcing his erection against the crease of her ass. The weight of it pushed that piece deeper against her rim. She wanted him inside her. Wanted him in her mouth, her cunt, her ass . . . she wanted him to fill her everywhere.
She tried, she fought, she screamed in frustration, but then that scream became something else as the climax rolled over her. With the vibrator pulsing against her clit and her body immobilized, there was no reining it back, no easing the pulse or pressure. As the intensity built, she was crying out, begging for a mercy she knew she wouldn't be given. She was flying, crashing, fragmenting. Tipping her face the small amount her bindings allowed, he captured her lips in a hot, demanding kiss. His tongue plunged into her mouth, absorbing the vibration of her screams. She sobbed harder, tears streaking her cheeks as her body bucked in tiny movements, telling him what it craved, even if they weren't joined together.
He was kissing her. She recognized it after the fact, that she hadn't tensed but had instead opened her mouth to him, welcoming the invasion, needing the strong stroke of his tongue, his teeth clashing with hers, as she moaned against his flesh.
It went on for quite a while. With the vibrator still going, she was writhing in her bonds, gasping, eventually begging for mercy again because it was too much, her clit pulsing and overly sensitive, her inner tissues clenching to try and shield her against the strong vibration.
He slid the blindfold off her head but backed away, his fingertips grazing her flanks. When he moved into her field of vision, it wasn't to rummage through his bag. He sat down on the bench, his expression that of a man who was hungry for a woman's cunt. But it also reflected his terrifyingly fierce control over himself, his complete command of her.
"Please . . ." She pressed her forehead against the griffin's throat, her eyes clinging to Dale. She thought about how the creature's head was tipped back, roaring to the sky. Perhaps that roar was his claim that, regardless of whether or not the man killed him, the fantasy would endure. That the man's reality would always be a mere shadow, chasing the fantasy . . .
She'd closed her eyes, her wet lashes a reminder of her sobs. When Dale put his hand on her face, telling her he'd returned to her, she turned her lips to his palm in fervent plea, her emotionally raw state taking away any reserve. Had it always been possible for her to achieve this, or was it something he brought forth in her? All those months she'd sat in Club Release, and it wasn't until she'd seen Dale that she'd had the will to reach for this.
Some tiny corner of her mind was sensible enough to realize she was overwrought. But he'd said within his boundaries she could be anything she wished. So she kept kissing his hand, his wrist, as the tips of his fingers caressed her brow.
"Time to untie you." He removed his hand, stepped behind her and began to loosen her bonds. She didn't want him to let her go. Was that usual for a sub as well? She realized she hadn't really plumbed Roy's mind on these things. She'd notice if he needed to take it slow, sitting up after a climax, sipping water, leaning against her as he came back to earth. Disorientation was part of subspace, but she didn't really know what thoughts and feelings he had experienced.
The bonds loosened, the ropes tumbling off her, forming coils at her feet. Dale turned her, and she was a limp doll as he lifted her off her feet. She felt him pause, shift, and realized he'd had to make an adjustment in stance. This wasn't the first time he'd carried her tonight, but should he be doing that at all with his leg? He had fabulous upper body strength, but even so . . .
"Should you . . . Can I . . ."
"No." His forbidding countenance silenced her. "Don't do that. If I require anything of you, I'll tell you."
She was to rely on his strength, his control. That was part of the deal. Perhaps that was part of what he desired and needed, as much as she desired and needed to feel it, a perfect meshing. But the edge in his voice told her she'd struck a nerve. Even in her muzzy state, it was a reminder that Dale was more than the role he was playing for her. She frowned. She didn't like that term, role-playing. Being a Dom was an integral part of him. Obviously. She might as well say he played at being a SEAL, or she played at being Roy's wife. Maybe they were all roles, but they were vital parts of their personalities as well, like being happy or sad.
While she was rolling over those thoughts, he'd carried her to her reading nook, to the easy chair there. Because it was a large chair, it was a comfortable size for Dale and her together, especially with her in his lap. He worked the afghan she kept draped on the chair around her. Then he wrapped one arm around her back. Her head was on his shoulder, his other hand beneath the covering, stroking her bare hip, the line of her thigh. "Part your legs," he said. "You always keep your thighs open around your Master."
Of course. She should have known that, but her experience was with a male sub, where leg parting wasn't so much an issue. Her thighs loosened. She sucked in a breath as he pushed two fingers inside her slick cunt without hesitation, resting them there, while his other fingers stroked the outside like he might stroke a favored pet.
She listened to his heartbeat, inhaled the clean, male scent of him, pressed her face into his neck. She realized she was making little humming noises when she breathed, some form of self-comfort, a way of balancing. He shifted his arm so he could support the back of her head, tilt it back.
He met her gaze. "This time I kiss you and you accept it honestly, Athena."
She knew what he meant. The previous ones had been heat of the moment. He kept his eyes open, watching her face, watching her for any sign of tension. She wanted him to kiss her, needed him to kiss her, and that made her throat thick with emotion. It was hard to accept this sign she'd let another man into her life, that he was in the intimate territory that had been Roy's alone for so long.
But it was okay. The kiss was a long, slow fall, swirling in a soft wind. Everything steadied, the humming dying away. It went on for some time, him exploring her lips, her tongue; fingers caressing her face, her neck, catching tendrils of her hair around her face. When she lifted her hands, he made a negative sound in his throat, an obvious command for her to stay in place, not to touch him. Though she was trembling under his touch, she was otherwise required to stay still, not expected to do anything other than obey him, allow him to take his pleasure. As a result, the warm ball in her stomach expanded. The anxiety was still there, but
it changed composition, became a different kind of urgency.
He pushed his fingers into her a little more firmly and her lower body responded. Aroused wasn't the right word, not exactly, because that suggested a progression from a nonaroused state. She'd gone straight from an orgasm into a state of . . . readiness. Her body was on a low hum, like what had escaped her lips.
"So you climaxed when I told you not to do it."
He'd intended her to do so. The satisfaction about it was in his voice. He wanted to be able to punish her. She remembered the belt, the spatula, and wondered if this punishment would be discipline or pleasure. For her, that is, since either kind brought him pleasure. Of course, she'd come so violently from all of it, maybe it was the same for her. Even so, her sore bottom was hoping for a gentler discipline. Regardless, Athena knew she'd accept either from his hand, which was kind of disconcerting.
"You tried like hell not to do so, though. I like that. You don't brat on purpose for punishment. You wanted to suck me off. I could punish you by denying you that, but I think you'd like to earn that reward, wouldn't you?"
The body she'd thought was too exhausted to do more than lie in his arms, slack and open to his desires, prickled with heat at the thought of it. Kneeling before this chair, going down on him, feeling his seed jet against the back of her throat. When she sat here later in the week, reading, daydreaming, she would remember his big body here, his cock thrusting into her mouth.
"Yes sir." She met his gaze. "I want that."
"Good." He withdrew his fingers, though he caressed her thighs with the slickness he'd drawn from her. As he did, he studied her with his unusual eyes. "I want to take you out on a date."
She blinked. "Now? Naked? Is that going to be my punishment?"
He chuckled. "No. I just thought of it. Separate issue."
"Segues," she suggested, her heart rate settling down from a panicked flutter. "You need to work on those."
"Sorry. It feels like you're in my head."
That, too, was unsettling, in a pleasant and scary way. "I'm not into public humiliation," he continued. "I'm also not real enthused about other men seeing you like this." His hand slipped to her buttock, gave it a firm squeeze.
He hadn't seemed averse to playing publicly with Willow, but then Willow embraced exhibitionism.
"Is that . . . I'm sorry, may I ask a question, sir?"
"You may. You learn fast, girl."
"Not letting other men see me. Is that your preference, or are you doing it because it's what you think I want and need?"
"To a good Master, they're one and the same, Athena."
"I know, but . . ." She was simply too fumble-tongued to figure out how to say it respectfully, but she needn't have worried.
His hand had been resting on her thighs. She gasped as it shifted, those fingers pushing back into her, a deep and demanding thrust, making her shudder, bite her lip. His eyes heated on her response. "Yes, Athena. I want to keep you to myself. That's my preference."
She liked the idea of him stating it that way. So blatant. Maybe it was only because of that uncontained flood of emotions she was experiencing right now, but that was okay. She reminded herself once again he'd said she could be any way she wished. Tomorrow, when he was gone and she had to handle her day as usual, that would be the time for rational thought. This was her moment, her fantasy, anything she wanted it to be.
"I meant I intend to take you on a real date," he said. "After the date, you can tell me whether or not it was a punishment."
She smiled at that. "As long as it's not a fancy, expensive dinner where the menu's in French and there's valet parking."
He frowned. "Athena, I can afford to take you out to a nice dinner."
"No. It's not that." She lifted a shoulder, trying to marshal her thoughts. It wasn't easy with his possessive hold on her, inside and out. "I like diners," she managed. "Roy and I . . . we used to get up in the middle of the night, and drive until we found one we hadn't tried. One night, we went all the way to Baton Rouge, didn't get back until past dawn. We'd get a meal if we were hungry, but most of the time, it was pie and coffee. It's best late at night."
"Of course." He slid his fingers from her, stroked her bare flank with his knuckles as she gave him a half smile.
"After he was gone . . . I didn't sleep well, not for a long time, so I kept doing it. At first it was hard, feeling like he should be there, but I'd take a book or something like that . . . and it was just me there, amid all these other late-night people . . ." She trailed off at his steady expression. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I brought that up."
"It's the type of thing that's hard to talk about. It's like . . ." He paused. "There was this day we were monitoring a river, and a group of targets started crossing. They were coming to join the insurgents, the guys trying to kill us. Well, the boat was an old rickety wooden thing. There they were, paddling across. We had kill orders to take them out, and the sniper team I was with could do that without breaking a sweat, but instead they did target practice on the boat, blowing holes in it until it was foundering. Then they picked off the guys when they jumped in the water. One guy made it to our side, tough bastard, but they put him down once he reached dry ground."
He met her gaze. "I tell most people that story, they'd think we were bad guys, making a game of something as serious as taking another person's life, but it's different when you're in it. When every day you're dealing with people who want to kill you, who hate you without even knowing anything real about you. And sometimes even the people you're trying to help turn on you, too. So you figure out ways within the boundaries to blow off steam. The rest you have to deal with later, when you wake up in your bed back home and think, 'God, that was fucked up.'"
The stories were entirely different, but in essence, the same. An experience carried that couldn't be shared, because of the difficulty of conveying what it meant, or why it was so important. She touched his face, sliding her knuckles down his jaw. She did it without thinking to ask this time, but he didn't tell her not to touch him, so she kept doing it, fingers moving up to the soft hair at his temple. He'd been hard beneath her when they sat down. During their conversation, that had died back a bit, but now, when she slipped her hand down his neck, she let her nails dig into his flesh, just a bit, and shifted her buttocks against him in deliberate provocation.
"I'd like my punishment now," she murmured. "So I can have my reward."
"You might have some brat in you after all." His eyes sparked with humor. "And I might just be glad about that. Go get me that spatula, and the clip magnet on the fridge. Keep it to a walk, but hurry. I want to see your tits bouncing when you come back."
The crudity didn't dismay her as she'd expect. Not the way he said it, with that voracious growl in his voice. She scrambled off his lap, with him helping her to her feet. She hurried out of the room, through the house, past the dining area where she saw the reflection of her pale body in the marbleized mirrors above the beadboard. In the kitchen, she plucked the spatula from the counter and the clip from the fridge, dumping the recipes it had been holding into the fruit bowl. As she returned, she had to remind herself to walk, since part of her wanted to fly. When she glimpsed herself in the mirrors again, she could tell her hair was loose and swirling around her face, her body flushed, nipples taut, clit still swollen from her climax. She looked wanton, sexual . . . appetizing. She glowed. She couldn't wait for Dale to punish her. She wanted to take his cock in her mouth, to serve him . . .
"Athena."
The bark of command catapulted her into motion again, and she was smiling, she couldn't help it. When she hurried down the breezeway from the dining area, she was in his direct line of sight. She'd left the door to the reading nook open and her blood ran hot at the way his gaze coursed over the movement of her naked body, his eyes full of lust. He'd be hard again now, she was sure of it, and she moistened her lips, thinking of his salty taste against her tongue.
There were two steps at t
he doorway of her reading room, since it was on the same grade as the sunporch. She jumped down, rather than using the stairs. The decision gave her breasts a healthy bob of movement. As she straightened her knees she saw laughter in his eyes, as well as deliciously dangerous things.
"Careful. You keep doing things like that, I'll make you jog in place. Come here, woman."
He bade her stand at the arm of the chair and took the spatula and clip from her. "Spread your legs."
When she did, he clasped the lips of her sex in firm, sure fingers, compressing them before he opened the three-inch-wide clip and slowly let the jaws come back together, holding on to her clit and labia. The compression was uncomfortable, but it also jammed all those aroused nerves together, making dense sensation arrow up through her core.
"Bend down, toward my lap."
She did so, and he took hold of her hair, wrapping it around his fist and guiding her all the way down so her mouth was pressed, blissfully, on the straining denim over his erection. She could smell the heavy, musky scent of it, knew he'd likely spilled some milky precum against the fabric of his shorts. She wanted to taste him more than she'd ever wanted to taste anything. His hand tightened in her hair. "Fold your arms beneath your breasts. Press your knees against the side of the chair."
It put more of her weight forward, so her forehead was pressed to his opposite thigh. Her fingers dug into the chair cushioning as she adjusted her knees so her thighs stayed open.
"Good girl. You learn fast. This will help you remember what happens if you come before your Master orders it."
The spatula strike made her jerk. He'd said there was a difference between discipline and a punishment for pleasure, but he didn't seem to hold back on either. Her capacity to absorb the pain seemed greater now, though, her ass lifting toward it, wanting more, even as every strike made her cringe and think, Ow ow ow . . .
He didn't tell her how many he was going to do this time, and by the time she was trying hard not to writhe, her ass singing with pain, she was about to beg. Her clit was pulsing beneath the hold of that clamp, her pussy tingling. When he dropped the spatula and pulled the clip off, she cried out at the painful rush of blood back to the area. It was mitigated by his touch, the clamp of his fingers over her clit, worrying it, making her hips lift up to him again. Please . . . oh God . . . It feels so good.