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9
EMME
Well. Now I knew. This could not be what I’d arranged? It was going to take a while to figure out what I should do, considering I was tied up with something in both lower orifices.
I frowned at Mr. Scott through my wildly tangled hair, and ran my tongue around my abused mouth. The taste of him still thrilled me. I was such an ass. My brain was made of Swiss cheese and feral mice with a fetish for spanking. Something like that.
Holeswas doubtless a more appropriate word than orifices. The teacher in me had reared up and suggested a complex word when a filthy one was best.
He pulled the rope from where it was anchored above me, then began to extract the horribly large, inserted toys that had stretched me, turned me on, and made me want to annoy these men. The dildo came out first.
I was determined not to make a sound, and managed it, even if my insides were topsy turvy as if I’d both sat on a bees’ nest with my butt and been fingered at the same time.
The assholes. “This proves it.”
“She speaks.” He sounded distracted as he removed the rest of the bondage tape they’d used to hold those things inside me. “What does it prove?”
“This isn’t CNC. I never agreed to two of you.”
“Maybe you didn’t. What does it matter? I can tell you’re a slut for pain and dominance and degradation. What does it matter who does it to you?” He bent me forward and began to remove the butt plug. He pulled, but the thing sat inside me and refused to budge at exactly the wrong spot. It swirled up awful sensations.
“I have places I have to be, and I don’t trust you. Why would I?” I squeaked and jumped as the butt plug popped out.
The entire time I was roped to the beam, I’d fantasized about pouting and scowling at them, so they’d fuck me hard.
And what had he done? After that half-hearted BJ, he’d been kind in a weird dommy sort of way. That had done an end run around my defenses.
The bastard.
“Not trusting me is the first good idea you’ve had in at least 24-hours.”
Once the arm binders were gone, and dressed in only the collar and leash, I was led to the shower in a downstairs bathroom.
Who did all the cleaning? And if he had someone coming in, could I alert them to my plight?
If they existed, he would have given them time off and would not let them return before he had murdered and dismembered me. My gory-inclined imagination had a great time poking at that idea. I pictured him scrubbing my blood off the walls.
Stop imagining.
We were in the shower for ages. Hot water poured over us. Soap and bubbles dribbled. He had a thing for soaping me up then washing it off while running his hands all over me. My intimate parts had never been cleaner.
Getting slammed against the glass shower wall and kissed hard while he did other things—heaven.
Although my leash was somewhere else, with him inches away, I had little choice.
Being abused, pawed, fingered, and aroused, having a man make me beg for that arousal with his fingers, then being spanked over his timber-and-wicker laundry hamper for being ‘too noisy’?
It was what I had arranged. It was what I wanted. Just…that aftermath at the end of the week had become iffy.
I also needed an orgasm so I could think straight. No coming for you. He’d said that whenever I was close.
Later, I waited where he put me—kneeling on the floor, dressed in a tiny transparent chiffon skirt and top, with him lounging on the sofa reading his book and snacking on strawberries and nuts he was cracking open.
His lack of interest in me was galling.
Every so often he fed me a strawberry.
“Open your mouth.”
