by Nikki Sloane
I dry-swallowed as he slipped it behind my neck and leaned in, scooping a hand in to sweep my long hair free from the rope. The texture of it wasn’t unpleasant against my bare skin, but my heart clattered to a stop when E continued to wrap the rope around my neck. Shivers cascaded down my arms as it was looped a second time around my throat, and he repeated the action, pulling my trapped hair free from beneath the it.
“If it’s tight at all,” Clay said, “let me know.”
I was disoriented by what was happening; it felt like Clay was right here and not miles away. The black rope circled my throat for a third time, and although it wasn’t constricting, I felt its dominance on every inch of my body, all the way down to my toes. This time, when E adjusted my hair, he was more thorough and lingered close enough I could feel the heat of his body. His fingertips brushed over my skin as he fluffed my hair, ensuring no strands were caught.
The rope was brought back down to my wrists, and the loose end of it was no longer on the floor. It brushed against my knees before he wrapped it a final time around my bound wrists and tied it off. He’d used all the rope without running out of it or having too much to spare. There was no need to undo his work and start again, because this was a man who’d had practice.
Who knew what he was doing.
His pause this time was far more pronounced, and I peered up at him, desperate with questions I knew better than to ask.
“Tell me you’re ready,” a voice demanded.
I was in a delirious haze, unable to tell which man had spoken, but when it registered it was Clay, my gaze shifted to him. He was framed perfectly so his handsome face filled most of the screen, and it made it so I could see every drop of lust coursing through him.
“I’m ready,” I said.
E ran his fingers over the ropes strung between my wrists and my throat, like he was examining a necktie, but abruptly clenched them in a fist and jerked it forward. It was so startling, I stumbled and crashed into him. Since the rope was wound around my neck multiple times, the tension distributed evenly, barely tightening against my throat. And as soon as the pressure had come, it was gone, and my collar relaxed.
He’d had to let go to steady me in his arms.
God, this guy was solid. His chest was a wall, and his arms were warm stone, and I liked the way they felt around me. But I didn’t get to enjoy it, because he gripped the ropes again and used them to lead me to the workbench, pulling me along like an owner using a leash.
Heat blasted up my legs, thickening in my center. The juxtaposition of his tenderness with my hair to his rough yank of my harness had me spinning in the most exhilarating way.
There weren’t words from Clay to tell me what to do. E tugged the ropes and pulled my hands to the top of the workbench until my arms were stretched across it and I was bent over the table. My forearms rested on the surface that was faintly gritty with sawdust, and I peered into the camera, seeing the miniature version of myself in the corner of the screen. The black rope draped across my throat, reminding me of a collar, and it looked so fucking sexy.
E stood beside me and rummaged once more in his bag, and then a new item was presented to me. The black leather paddle was squared off at one end, rounded at the handle, and accented with beautiful red stitching. It wasn’t large, but I suspected it was plenty big enough to get the job done.
“Yes?” Clay asked again.
I imagined my consent was as much for E’s benefit as it was Clay’s, so my answer was breathy but sure. “Yes.”
He sat back in his chair and got comfortable as he waited for the show to start.
On screen, I could see E standing behind me with the paddle gripped in a hand. He studied my body, but I couldn’t tell if he was figuring out placement . . . or simply admiring the view. My green panties were cheeky cut, exposing the bottoms of my ass to him.
I drew in a slow breath when E set the paddle against the back of my underwear, and he rubbed the flat side of the paddle in circles on my ass, each rotation growing wider and quicker. It felt nice, but also like he was winding me up. Priming me for what was would happen next.
Since I could see onscreen, I knew when the first strike was coming, but it surprised me all the same. It didn’t hurt in the slightest. For such a strong guy, I’d expected him to put more force behind it. It hadn’t been a spanking. This had been a kiss.
When a smile bowed on my lips, Clay smiled too, but I got the impression he was smiling for an entirely different reason—like he knew something I didn’t. He did, didn’t he? He’d scripted this evening.
E slapped the paddle against me again, this time on the other side of my ass, and I swallowed back a giggle. “Is that supposed to hurt?”
E’s gaze flicked to the screen, and he cocked an eyebrow in question.
Clay laughed lightly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Was he answering me? Or speaking to E? Maybe both.
E’s strikes increased both in intensity and frequency, heating me inside and out. My skin warmed from the rush of blood, and I watched the screen with fascination. It was one thing to hear and feel the sharp slaps of the leather while my hands were tied and my bare breasts were pressed to the table, but that was just the first layer. I could also watch E as he swung the black paddle through the air and see how he enjoyed the reverb of each strike as it rippled across my flesh.
And at the same time, I got to see Clay’s reaction to it and the way his eyes hooded behind his glasses. He stared at us with so much hunger, it should have been frightening—but of course it wasn’t to me. It only turned me on more.
The blows alternated sides, and even though my panties were still on, the whisper-thin fabric didn’t give me any protection when E really began to spank me. He reared back and brought the paddle crashing down on me hard enough that the smile on my face dried up.
It didn’t hurt, really.
The discomfort was like sitting on too-hot leather seats in the summer, only more focused.
The man who loomed over me had his attention locked on to what he was doing, and his jaw was set. It wasn’t until a soft moan slipped out of me that it broke his focus. His gaze flew to the screen, checking in with both me and Clay, and when he determined my moan was in pleasure, he resumed his work.
He looked even more beautiful like this. All the power was supposed to be Clay’s, but E was the one wielding it, and satisfaction streaked across his face as he delivered blow after punishing blow. The loud, uneven tempo of his paddle filled the room, and my skin began to burn all over from his relentless paddling.
Clay asked it even as he already knew my answer. “Do you like it?”
“Yes.” I dropped my head forward, resting my forehead against the bindings around my wrists.
“No.” His tone was stern. “Eyes up and on me.”
I lifted my head and peered at him through the strands of hair that had fallen into my face. Behind me, the paddling had paused. It was so E could grab the back of my underwear and wedge it up between my cheeks, exposing more of me to his spankings. My skin was the prettiest shade of pink I’d ever seen.
I groaned with both pleasure and discomfort when he swung again. The blow was so hard, I lifted on my toes and my back arched, but that made E scowl. He put his hand on the small of my back and shoved, pushing me back down into position. His corrective hand stayed where it was like a warning, and I burned even hotter at his touch.
Oh, my God. Could he see how turned on this was making me? My underwear had to be soaked, and more heat flooded my face. The paddle cracked against my skin, and I pushed air out in a hiss through my tight teeth.
E’s spankings were merciless, but so was the way Clay stared at me, and weren’t these spankings really his? He’d drafted and designed this scene, probably down to how many strikes I’d receive and how hard I’d get them.
“Shit,” I groaned. Pain banded across my cheeks, and I tried to shift under the weight of E’s
hand, encouraging him to find a different spot for his next blow. And yet . . . even though it hurt, I still liked it. The prickly heat left after the leather was gone felt intoxicatingly good.
Clay’s lips were parted so he could pull in a deep swallow of air, and his shoulder moved rhythmically. What was he doing? Oh, my God. The paddle was so distracting, it took me a moment to realize he was jerking off.
My fingers curled into fists at this idea.
He was turned on, and I was the cause of it.
And what about E? It was hard to tell if he was breathing hard from the scene, the exertion, or a combination of the two. He seemed far too focused on his task to think about anything else right now.
As I whined and wiggled, it had a polarizing effect on the men. Clay’s hand pumped at a faster tempo, but E’s face took on a dark cast. It looked like he wasn’t enjoying it quite as much as he had been when we first started.
“You’ve got an ass of steel.” Clay’s expression was sinful. “I guess I need to find someplace new.”
His tone was deceptively casual, but the way E went still announced this was an order. He contemplated what to do, then rested the paddle across the small of my back so he could unroll his shirt sleeves. It was odd that the leather was cool against my skin, when it had created fire all over my backside.
Once he had the line of buttons down the front of his shirt undone, E pulled it open and off his shoulders, revealing his tan, sculpted chest. Even better? His jeans sat low on his hips, showing off the notched V that disappeared beneath his waistband. I thought Clay had a body built for sex, but E had one built for fucking.
He tossed his shirt on top of his bag, snatched up the paddle, and swung it so quickly, I didn’t have time to brace.
“Oh, fuck,” I babbled. “Fuck.”
Because he’d aimed lower, and I discovered through searing pain that the backs of my thighs, unlike my ass, were not made of steel. I jerked my head back, only for the rope to go taut and yank my bound hands with it. The agony of E’s strike went on and on, no matter how I tried to run from it. And there was his other hand, which pressed down on my hip and pinned me to the tabletop. I collapsed forward with a thud, surrendering to—
“Fuck,” I swore again, only this time in pleasure, because E’s hand moved and was now between my legs, his fingertips massaging my clit.
The distraction gave me much-needed relief from the pain, and the stroke of his fingers on my damp panties was so good, if he kept doing it, it wouldn’t take long to bring me to orgasm. It was like the pain was a shortcut, a way to bypass foreplay or prepare my body in seconds.
“Look at me,” Clay demanded, but there was an edge of a plea to his words.
Endorphins pumped through my system, and my head was a chaotic mess, but hearing him centered me, and as I raised my fuzzy gaze to find him, E pulled my panties to the side and slid a finger deep inside me.
My moan was low and throaty, and onscreen I watched both men enjoy the effect they had on me. E’s mouth hung open with lust, and Clay’s hand moved fast enough it made his shoulders vibrate.
I tensed the muscles in my arms and back when E added a second finger and began to fuck me with them. He wasn’t done either. He raised the paddle and returned to swatting my ass, where the skin had graduated from pink to a brilliant red.
“It was worth it, wasn’t it?” Clay’s voice was hypnotic. “Taking the pain to get the pleasure?”
“Yes,” I whispered. A thousand times over, yes.
“You look so fucking good like this. Your ass painted red and tied up for me to use any way I want. You want that, too, don’t you?” His hand moved faster still, and pleasure dripped from his face. “You want to be used?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
He looked thrilled but feigned a scowl. “Naughty girl. You’re going to make me come.”
“Show me,” I begged.
As Clay reached forward and tilted the camera down, I shifted my focus to E for a fraction of a second. He’d paused the paddling, perhaps to focus on what his fingers were doing, or maybe to catch his breath. He had a faint sheen of sweat on his face and chest and was breathing hard. I understood. All I had to do was lie across the table and take it, and I was sweating, too.
Clay’s lower body came into view. His pants were undone and around his ankles, and he ringed his thumb and forefinger around his cock. His light grip pumped up and down in short, shallow strokes, focusing mainly on the tip. These weren’t maintenance strokes to keep himself hard—these were edging ones. Like a full fist wrapped around himself would be too much and he wasn’t ready to lose control.
“See what you do to me?” he asked, although his question was rhetorical. He pushed the screen up so his face was back in the camera’s view, and his attention drifted to E. “Again.”
The fingers inside me retreated, and E’s deep breath in was so heavy, it was audible. He had reservations, but Clay did not, and he looked irritated at how his stand-in was hesitating.
“Again?” Clay asked me. If I wanted it, that should help with E’s unease, wouldn’t it? And I did want it . . . because E had stopped touching me, and with the pain I’d get pleasure.
“Again,” I confirmed.
ELEVEN
E’s inhale had been loud, but his sigh was so quiet, I doubted the microphone picked it up. Clay didn’t seem to hear it either. He was pleased when E adjusted his grip on the paddle and prepared.
Trepidation swirled in my stomach, and shivers broke down my legs. Would it be worse this time? And if so, would the ‘after’ be even better? Or would the strike of the paddle be less intense than the anticipation of it?
On top of it all, there was my strange fascination with the experience. A large part of me wanted to see how much I could take. It hoped for the vicious slap of leather in a place that would make tears spring into my eyes. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and held my breath, bracing for the blow I knew was coming while my gaze was fixed on both the man who’d ordered it and the man who’d carry it out.
The paddle swung so fast, as it cut through the air it made a whooshing sound, and I heard the crack of it against my skin before the impact registered. The pain entered my body through the back of my thigh and stormed up my body, filled with fury. It consumed me with its white heat, the strength of it so powerful I couldn’t breathe.
Agony carried me away, but this time instead of fighting it, I let it sweep through me. A sob welled in my throat, but I cut it off, so it came out as a startled cry. In my misery, I was only vaguely aware of the paddle dropping to the floor and the hands on me.
I stared at the screen through blurry eyes, seeing one man while being touched by another, and the two of them began to morph into one. He told me I was beautiful while his fingers stroked my clit, and as the pain gripping me started to relax, I began to float.
“Such a good girl,” the man cooed. “You’ve earned this.”
He pushed his fingers inside me and reached around with his other hand to rub my clit, and a long moan poured from my mouth. My ass and the backs of my legs were on fire, but everywhere else was lit up and singing.
In my floaty space, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Even my thoughts slowed, as if my brain had been powered down to conserve energy and only the critical systems were still operating. It was nice and dreamy.
But it couldn’t last forever.
A sense of urgency grew and swelled, spinning my mind back up and making me aware. Oh, my God, I needed to come. The fingers plunging inside me, working together with the ones massaging my clit, created an ache that rivaled the one throbbing in my skin. I had an irrational fear that all the tension inside me was a bomb, and I had to get it out before it detonated and killed both me and the man at my side.
“Oh, my God,” I gasped, shifting my hips against the table so his fingers could drive deeper and hit just where I needed them to. “Oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”
“Yes,�
�� he encouraged, although it came in two separate voices, one echoing the other.
The orgasm swelled as a tidal wave of ecstasy and crashed into me, wiping all thought away. It was far more devastating and amazing than anything that could be done with just a paddle or a pair of hands between my legs.
I writhed against my restraints, making the cords wrapped around my throat constrict, but the sensation only added to my enjoyment. Just as I couldn’t escape the pain, I couldn’t run from the pleasure either. Not that I wanted to.
The orgasm crested and started to recede, and the man began to peel apart, splitting back into two separate bodies. Clay and Mr. E were equally responsible for my pleasure, and as they shared the credit, they also shared the same look of satisfaction.
My knees were jelly, and I lay on the top of the workbench, not caring how my breasts were flattened against the rough surface as I struggled to catch my breath. There was movement behind me as E stepped back and disappeared out of the frame. I turned my head, resting it on my outstretched arms, and watched as he pulled open the door to the storage closet.
It was big enough, it was nearly a room and had a light, and when he flipped it on, my mouth would have fallen open if it weren’t already. This closet had to be where Clay stored unsold pieces or prototypes because it was packed with furniture. Some pieces were upside-down and stacked on top of others.
E must have known what he was looking for, but not exactly where it was, because he stood in the doorway with his back to me and scanned the closet for a long moment. It gave me time to admire the sculpture of his body. He was broad and toned, and the tan of his skin said he’d spent a lot of summers shirtless.
Whatever he’d been looking for was found, and he disappeared inside the closet, making noises like he was moving things around. When he emerged, he was carrying a large . . . panel? The rectangle was padded, covered in black leather or vinyl, and three sides of it were outlined in red. He carried it by a strap handle, and once he reached the center of the room, he laid it cushion side down, revealing the other side was cushioned too.