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A privilege. "Please," he said with a dry throat and tongue.
She moved away from him and he thought she was going to turn him down again. He would deserve it. He hadn't done enough to prove he wouldn't be a total shit to her at the first opportunity. Because he would be. It was the desolate truth.
The chains holding his arms above his head loosened enough he could drop them to his sides, but he was still bound. A scraping, a chair moving across the room. The noise stopped behind him, and he heard her body settling into it.
"Turn around, get on your knees and come to me."
He dropped. She'd given his arms enough slack to be at his sides when standing, but when kneeling, they were raised to shoulder height again, just enough freedom to be frustrating. But he wrapped his hands around the chains and used the anchor to move forward on his knees. He bumped into her leg.
"Stop there," she said.
Leaning forward, she ran a strap around his throat, buckling it securely. She hooked his wrist cuffs to the back of it, the chains swaying above him. Now his hands were denied the ability to participate.
"Use your mouth to figure out how I'm sitting. You don't touch my pussy with it until I command you. And I won't forgive an 'accidental' contact."
He started with her knee. He had to suppress a quiet oath as his lips trailed over her inner thigh and he realized she was sitting in a chair with arms, and she'd draped her thighs over them, spreading them out like Rod Stewart's double entendre reference to angel wings. He wanted to touch her with his hands, his body, with every fucking inch of himself, but she'd taken away everything but his mouth with which to worship her.
He stopped over her pussy, and hovered there, breathing hard to inhale her arousal. His head was bowed, his fists clenched. An ache was in the center of his chest, hard enough to clog his throat. What was the matter with him? He could play with her now, soon as she did what he was sure she would, have him go down on her. He would be able to prove how good he was at that. Way better than goddamned Rob.
Yet when she molded a hand around the back of his skull and drew him to the center of that flower of soft, glistening flesh, all he wanted to do was eat her out like a starving animal, suck on the petals of her labia, bite them, thrust his tongue into her deep. Fuck her with no control, no finesse, just pure hunger, a driving need for her that was riding the edge of violence. He wanted her to gush, to grind herself against his face, scream her pleasure as she suffocated him with her sex.
He wanted that because he knew his uncontrolled, raw response was what she wanted. His wants didn't matter, and understanding that was such a relief, such a release of weight, he swayed. He didn't want to have a name. He didn't want to be created and released from this goddess's presence to make his way in the world. He didn't want to be Duncan or Marius; he wanted to be the marionette in a goddess's workshop, serving her however she desired, no other demands or expectations on him.
Not because he wanted to escape his life, but because for the first time, he felt like he'd been given one. Something that mattered. Someone that mattered.
And that terrified him, awakening the blackest parts of his soul.
Before she'd pulled the chair over, she'd ditched her bra and panties and shrugged back into his shirt, liking the feel of it but not wanting any barrier between her flesh and his mouth. It was working on her like he'd never want anything but pussy again. She came in a matter of minutes, though she'd intended to hold out longer. Regina arched up, rubbing her cunt against his face, his clever tongue, the firm lips, the roughness of his jaw.
The chains clanked as he strained against her. He made animal noises of need as savage as her cries. He kept going as long as she needed, and modulated his strokes to a hungry yet gentle licking so she could keep him there, enjoying the aftershocks.
She was a little amazed at the force of the shudders still coursing through her. God. Goddess. Everything in between. If that was what a little visualization could become between them, coupled with strap-on and oral play, then actual sex might realign the planets.
She gripped his hair, stroking, pulling. She permitted him to keep nuzzling her. When she finally put enough pressure on him to make him stop, he braced his jaw against her inner thigh, his breath bathing her soaked labia. Her heartstrings tightened at the evidence he didn't want to be pushed away.
She studied him, the flushed skin below the eye mask, the set of his jaw, the way his body was quivering, his muscles all tight. Intuition told her not to unchain him. He was resting between her legs, but he was not at rest. She could almost feel those demons howling, telling him he needed to get his shit together, take charge of this bitch. Yet she didn't think they had the upper hand yet. From the way his skin was creased around the outside of the blindfold, she suspected his eyes were closed tightly, as if warding off their battle roars. When she stroked his hair off his forehead, he leaned into her touch.
"Introduce him to the pleasures of submission and safety in the here and now to get to the treasure beneath. There's a trove there." Marguerite's words. Had they gotten there?
Maybe not, but they'd taken some steps in the right direction.
He still had some of her "clay" on him. A mix of heated wax, lotion and some other ingredients she'd tailored from a spa treatment she thought could have intriguing applications on a sub. As she'd painted it on him, drawn shapes in it to tease and caress him, she'd enjoyed every reaction of his fine body.
He probably hadn't realized when he finally started to climax, since the beauty of the wand and sound combo was that the climax had no beginning, middle or end. It was just endless. But her eyes had drunk in the gushing fountain from his cock, the way it had splattered his thighs, the slender rod plinking to the floor, expelled by the force of his ejaculation. That cream still marked him, drying like the remains of the lotion-clay mixture.
Gentleness could be administered with every bit of ruthlessness as the bite of a single tail. Each sub was different in what could break him down. The key wasn't the degree of pain administered. It was about consistency; not relenting until whatever strategy was employed unlocked what was inside of him. Sometimes that door got blasted off its hinges. She hadn't made it that far, but she was pretty sure she'd made it harder to close.
Now for the next step. He needed aftercare, but the question was what kind. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly, and the press of his forehead against her was getting more insistent, like he wanted to drive his head through something far harder than her palm.
In a few moments, he'd be as ready for cuddling as a dangerous animal coiled in the back of a cage. "Sit back on your heels," she said quietly, when she could trust her voice. She had to reinforce it with touch, putting her palm to his chest and pushing him into position. When she rose from the chair, the tail of the open shirt she was wearing--his shirt--brushed his face. He caught the hem between two of his fingers, though his hands were still bound behind his head.
"Let me go," he said, his voice hoarse and raw.
"In time. Let's get you settled down first." She unhooked his cuffs from the collar, but left the chains attached. "Sit all the way down on the floor."
He started to comply; she began to walk away. And then everything happened so fast, even in hindsight, she wasn't sure how he'd done it.
She'd seen him fight three men in the ring with brutal ferocity, and still she'd underestimated how he could use those skills.
