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He slips the blindfold off my eyes in the next moment and I blink, expecting a rush of brightness. But the sun has gone down, so even though there is a large open window and a skylight, the room is dark except for a single flickering candle on the counter near the doorway.
Xavier prefers the dark. Because he doesn’t like people seeing his face, or for some other reason?
Either way, I don’t turn back to look at him. For a while I strain to make out details of the bathroom as my eyes adjust. The bathroom is large, like his room. I can make out a shower in addition to the jacuzzi bath. There’s a high, wide window that’s actually uncurtained and open to the moon and a scattering of what seems like a million stars.
The bubbling jets drown out all other noises but I smell the sweet scent of my body wash in the moments before Xavier lifts my left arm and starts rubbing the soap up and down into my skin. My arm feels small in his large hands as he soaps my forearm and then down to my wrist, then to my hand.
He pays particular attention to each individual finger. Momentarily our fingers lace together as he works the soap and my breath hitches stupidly at the intimacy.
Then his other hand joins the first and he begins the most relaxing and amazing hand massage I’ve ever received. I have to fight against groaning and going limp against him. The struggle is real. Especially when he gives my right hand the same treatment as the first.
Between his gentle, expert ministrations, my full tummy, and the warm, soothing jets, I feel like I might just drift away on a pampered bubble.
I might even actually drowse for a few minutes while he continues washing me. He uses a washcloth to wash my face and neck again, then down to my chest where he cups and washes each breast with particular care.
In the back of my mind, I know I’m supposed to be actively mentally fighting against him. But I’ll get back to that tomorrow. Just… need to close… eyes… for a second…
I wake briefly when I feel him rubbing frothy shampoo into my hair. He massages my scalp as I lean all my weight back against his chest. When he rinses, he holds my neck easily with one broad palm to tip my head backward while he pours water from a cup he fills from the bathtub faucet.
Then his hands move with the washcloth down my body, around my hips to my inner thighs.
He drains and refills the tub to get fresh water after his initial scrub down, keeping me against the heat of his body so I’m warm the whole while. Then he continues where he left off. He grabs the flesh of my inner thigh and kneads it with more strength instead of the gentle massage he did on my upper body.
I can’t stop the groan at how good it feels. I spent the past two days crouched in awkward positions. The first day I stood a lot, not wanting to sit on the dirt. The last day I gave in and sat on the ground. My body, however, is used to nice ergonomic furniture and I could never seem to get comfortable. Not to mention the awkward as hell position I squeezed myself into in the doghouse for what felt like an hour-long rain storm.
Even thinking about that should have me mad as hell again. But when Xavier flips my body around in the bath so he has better access to massage up and down each thigh with both of his strong hands, again I let myself put off other concerns for a later date.
Like tomorrow.
Or the day after.
You know… soonish… after my body recovers from the blissful pile of goo he’s currently turning me into.
He continues working down to my calves and all the way to my toes where he proceeds to give a foot massage that—and I can’t even believe I’m saying this—rivals his hand massage.
My head drops against the curved side of the tub with one of the jets at my back, further working any and all tension out of my body. I watch Xavier through half-lidded eyes. My eyes have fully adjusted to the dim light. His face looks almost fierce with concentration as he lifts my other foot into his lap, soaps it, and starts rubbing his thumb deep into my arches.
At my contented moan, his eyes flash up to mine. One edge of his mouth quirks upward but then his focus goes back to my foot. If he’s self-conscious about his face, he doesn’t show it. Maybe a little that first day when I initially reacted to it, but never since then. He always seems so assured of his mastery over me. Master. Pet. Ugh. I really will get back to being upset about that soon.
He squeezes the pad of my foot between his palms and my eyes drop shut again. I’ve all but drifted back off to sleep again when his hands shift me in the water.
“Hmm?” I ask drowsily.
“Wake up, little kitten.” He sounds amused. I blink and look around. The jets are off and the water laps lazily around us.
“Lean your forearms on the lip of the tub, flank in the air.” He indicates the wide surface at the edge of the tub opposite the faucet where a folded towel has been laid. Then he lifts me so that my elbows are braced on the soft towel. My knees on the bottom of the tub, ass just out of the water. Aimed right toward him.
My mouth drops open as soon as he’s got me positioned just the way he wants. But then I close it.
All right. Here we go again. I really can’t even fault him—okay yes, I can sure as hell fault him for the whole locking me up like a dog thing. But apart from that, from all I hear from my girlfriends, this whole bath time seduction scenario is far more than they usually get in the way of foreplay.
He rubs up and down my ass, or flank as he referred to it. The action feels like it’s one he’s performed a million times. I’m slippery from the water and he splashes more water up with every pass he takes, squeezing both my ass cheeks. He separates and kneads them in his large hands like he has every right to manhandle me so intimately without even knowing me a full week.
All the sleepiness flees under his touch. While before his caresses felt clearly meant to clean away the grime and relax me, now there’s an intent to the way his fingers flex and stretch my flesh.
Still, I’m shocked when his palm lands on my ass. I yelp and swing my head around to look at him. His gaze is locked on my ass, which he’s gone back to rubbing and kneading.
“Count,” he says calmly, his thumbs circling closer toward… toward… that place, “and ask Please, Sir, may I have another?”
