I drop my hand. “I won’t have a sub who won’t protect herself. If I can’t trust you to stop me, then we can’t play the games I want to play. I can’t push your boundaries. Can’t test my control. Married or not, I can’t use you.”
I’m three steps away before she grabs my arm. “My safeword is red,” she says, like she’s reciting facts for a test. “Mypause word is yellow.” And then, when I still look toward the stairs: “Please. Don’t go.”
I wait for a count of five before I turn around. When I do, she lowers her eyes. She drops her hands to her waist, twining her fingers together like a child caught lying. “Please,” she says again. “I’ll use it if I need to. I promise.”
I can see from the set of her jaw that it hurts her to say that. The words sound like they’ve been squeezed from somewhere deep inside, the place where she buries all her self-doubt, all her fears that she isn’t the kick-ass ball-buster she thinks she is.
It costs her. And that’s worth a reward.
She yelps as I half-carry, half-drag her over to the cross. It’s the thing she really wants. It’s the perfect introduction to my dungeon. To my rules.
She fights as I buckle her into the cuffs, pushing against my chest, going for my eyes. I lean into her once she’s trapped by the metal crossbars, using my weight to hold her in place as I bind first her left wrist, then her right.
She tests the bonds like her life depends on her breaking free, snarling when they don’t give the breadth of a hair. “This is the way you like your women, arsewipe? Tied up, so they can’t run away?”
“No,” I say. “This is for girls who haven’t agreed to play by the rules.”
“I’m not a girl,” she spits. “I’m a grown woman, and you’ll treat me like one.”
Interesting, that she takes such exception to my calling her a girl. I suspect she wouldn’t have a problem withbitch, orpussy, orcunt.I’ll make a point of calling hergirluntil she yields to it.
“Grown women don’t make messes with Magic Markers,” I say. I trace the outline of a dollar bill on her collarbone, purposely keeping my touch light as I measure the green scrawl.
She arches toward me, head going back, lips parting. I watch her nipples peak beneath her demure white gown. When sherealizes she’s reacting, she tightens all her muscles. “Leave me alone, douchebag.”
“The mouth on you,” I say, half-turning to the armoire. “A gag will take care of that.”
“Big man,” she says, the Irish coming stronger in her voice. “First thing ya think of when a woman starts t’ talk. Gag her. Bind her. Ya won’t dare.”
She wants it. I hear that in her tone, see it in the hungry flare of her gaze. I don’t know what draws her—the thought of the buckle around her head or the ball against her tongue, maybe anticipating that she won’t be able to fill her lungs with a full breath. My sub wants me to strap her into a gag.
And that’s the reason I won’t do it.
She is not in charge.
I am.
I trace the letters on her chest slowly—F-U-C-K-Y-O-U—making my touch even softer. She squirms, trying to pull away, but the cross leaves her no room to maneuver.
“Grown women don’t swear, just to prove they can,” I say. “I was right the first time. Youarea girl. A whiny little brat.”
“Fuck you,” she says. This time when she glances toward the cabinet, she lingers on the canes.
I’d laugh, if she wasn’t being so obvious. Instead, I grab her left leg, pushing up her white skirt to close my fingers around her knee. She struggles, but I’ve taken her by surprise. Caught up short by the bonds around her wrists, she doesn’t have a good angle to kick.
I fasten the buckle around her foot, opting for one notch tighter than she likely finds comfortable. It’s easier to catch her right ankle; she has no room left to fight.
“Yer a vicious gobshite, aren’t ya?” she growls. She tests her bonds, yanking hard, hissing when she realizes this isn’t a game. She’s pinned on the cross, spread-eagle, completely under my control.
To prove my point, I shove the skirts of her wedding gownabove her waist. The fabric catches at her back, pinned between her ass and the cross. She swears at that, a long string of slurred syllables, and I can’t be sure if she’s cursing me in English or in Irish.
Smirking, I slip a hand between her thighs. She’s wearing white lace panties, wispy things I could tear off with one twist of my wrist. I wonder who chose them for her—probably that sister who stood up as her maid of honor. I can’t imagine any Red Cap Raider ever buying them in a store.
“Curse all you want,” I say, tracing the lace edge like I’m reading a secret message in ones and zeroes. “But that won’t change the fact that you’re mine. And I get to do whatever I want to with you.”
To prove my point, I yank her panties to one side and shove my thumb inside her.
She’s soaked. My hand feels like it’ll catch fire from the heat of her. By reflex, she curls away from my attack, but the cross and her bunched dress don’t leave her anywhere to go.
