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She rears back. “What?”
I cup a hand behind my ear. “All these complaints, yet there’s still no mention of your safeword.”
Phoenix’s nostrils flare, and her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. She strains against her wrist bindings and curls her hands into fists. But she’s not fooling me with these protests.
“You’re the type of woman who is too ashamed to admit your fascination with depravity.” I keep my voice light, as though I’m just musing.
“You can tell all that from one conversation?” she asks with a huff.
“It’s what you haven’t said that’s more telling.”
Her eyes narrow before flashing with realization.
I nod. “This scene can end with one word, yet you cry and whine and fail to exercise it. Why? Because you want this just as much as I do but want to absolve yourself of responsibility with a display of resistance.”
Her cheeks flame the same shade as the lightbulbs. “S-shut up.”
“Worry not, sweet tart, for I will shoulder all the responsibility for this evening’s acts of debauchery.”
Phoenix clamps her mouth shut.
A better man would feel a modicum of guilt for holding up a mirror to her foibles, but I never said I was good.
The bottle’s neck is wet from her secretions, and I have to brace it against my chest to prevent slippage. It takes every effort not to lick it clean, but one has to keep appearances, at least on the first date.
After piercing it with the attachment on my Swiss Army knife and making a few twists, I uncork the bottle with a satisfying pop.
My nostrils fill with the mingled bouquet of white wine and fresh pussy, and my cock fills to the point of bursting. Apparently degrading young women as feisty as Phoenix does wonders for my refractory period.
I reach for the U-shaped silicone toy I bought from the Red Room and adjust its thin arms for her shape.
“What’s that?” Her voice trembles.
I raise the mauve object into her line of sight. “An occasion like this should have merited a metallic implement to hold you open, but this is the best I could get at short notice.”
“That isn’t an answer,” she growls.
“Have you not heard of a labia spreader?”
She shakes her head.
“Petal pusher, intimate opener?” I ask.
“No, but I’m beginning to get the gist.” Her voice trembles.
My lips twitch. “This will hold you open wide enough to hold a sufficient quantity of wine.”
“Oh, shit.” She throws her head back and moans.
“Scat isn’t one of my kinks, but if you insist—”
“No,” she shrieks.
I huff a laugh. “Stay still and don’t spill a drop.”
“That’s difficult, considering I’m not actually a cup. Can’t you go upstairs and get a glass?” she says, her voice rising. “Or drink straight from the bottle?”
“Tut, tut, Miss Stahl. We’ve had this conversation. Any further outbursts from you will be met with punishment.”
