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Tiger’s gaze slid back over the plug. It was bigger than what he usually took. Curiously, there was a black marker on the table next to it. Plus a reassuringly fat tube of lubricant.
Remembering her instructions, he put his hands on the top of the chair, spread his legs, and stared down at the items. He was still carrying the shit from earlier in the day, but this was helping. In or out of the club, this was the same, hearing or no hearing. His mind went to full sub mode, erection thickening as he waited on her pleasure, wondered how she’d let him serve her.
He flexed his hands on the back of the chair. After their last session, he knew he had a new hard limit. No blindfold. No making him keep his eyes closed for too long. Before, he’d liked being blindfolded, hearing the shifts of her body, anticipating where she might touch him next. He wondered if he’d ever again trust anyone enough for that level of sensory deprivation. Swimming in a quiet, dark world, no sight, no hearing, his only awareness the movement of her hands over him.
The vibration through the wood floor told him she’d returned. Though he wanted to see how and if she’d altered her appearance, he kept his gaze where she’d ordered it. His eyes half closed as her hands drifted over his shoulders and down his back. She was wearing gloves, with a satiny smooth feel to them. She’d used them before. They went past her elbows and were incredibly sexy.
She’d always conveyed a deep, erotic appreciation of his body through her touch, as if she was marking every muscle, every inch of skin, every scar, the small hairs on his nape and arms, his chest. The smaller bones of wrists and ankles. She was thorough in her tactile praise. It made him glad to have the kind of body and equipment to please a woman.
To please her specifically.
Her hand slipped through the opening provided between his braced arm and body, and curled around the plug on the table. She used her other hand to put her phone before him and show him what she’d typed.
“I’m going to fuck you with this first, Tiger, for my own pleasure. If I decide to let you come, I’ll kiss you between your shoulder blades. If I don’t, I’ll leave you aching and hard, a plug up your ass to remind you what behavior you owe your Mistress. And the respect you owe yourself, every day.”
She ran a gloved hand over his shoulder, fingers sliding along the tattoo, as she tapped the phone to move to the next screen she’d pre-typed for him.
“You covered this up to send a message. You’re no longer part of them. But it’s in your heart. It can’t be removed. You can never not be connected to them.”
Skye had figured out what he had. A trauma could knock you back to fucking childhood. Losing his hearing had returned him to the quicksand where he’d struggled to define himself according to his own expectations, rather than a past that had tried to lock him into theirs.
She hadn’t technically asked a question, but he knew the answer she needed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pressed against him. She was wearing a cotton shirt with nothing under it, the give of her breasts and points of her nipples against his back. True to her threat, she was wearing a harness. While she’d talked to him, she’d fitted that big ass plug into it. It brushed against the back of his thigh.
She put her hand in the middle of his back. She wanted his torso flat on the table. With his height, that meant he had to partially bend his knees, an awkward and vulnerable position.
He wasn’t into pain or humiliation, but he suspected this wasn’t that. She intended to make this difficult, make him earn her forgiveness. And his own, for the self-flagellation.
He'd taught himself to be in his own corner. Mistresses liked that confidence, a man who didn’t have to be constantly reassured, his insecurities stroked.
“You’re not a child pretending to be a man while looking for another mommy’s tit to suckle.”
Cyn had said that. The closest thing to a compliment he’d ever received from her.
He realized that reminder was Skye’s intent. While a lot of people wouldn’t understand it—men or women—his submissive nature in moments like this was the strongest part of his maleness. Because this was a choice. To serve, to care, to be strong for whatever she needed, because he could be. He could surrender to her as a man, give her whatever she needed, as a man. He’d remember that next time he faltered over something as crazy as a pair of keys falling soundlessly on the floor.
She could expect that from him, that resolve and will. He wasn’t too head stuck up his own ass to turn down her help, but she wasn’t here to be his caretaker. Just the opposite. She was the Mistress he wanted to care for, to prove himself to. To live up to the expectations she knew he was capable of meeting.
All those overlapping thoughts returned him to himself. Gave him balance, an anchor.
Yes, ma’am.Message received, reinforced, and accompanied by a surge of fierceness that made him feel as if he was standing in a line of fire between her and him. He wouldn’t falter on that line.
As he’d suspected, Skye had paid attention to her surroundings. Behind his kitchen trash can he had a folded stool for Aubrey, to reach the dishes in the upper cabinets. Skye brought it over and set it up it beneath his knees, the wood surface cushioned with a dish towel. He had to hold his thighs together to make them fit on the narrow width.
She’d brought her own tie-down strap. Of course. Butt plugs, tie-down straps…like a Domme girl scout. She looped the strap above his knees and ratcheted it closed, snug enough the strap dug into his flesh without cutting off circulation.
She circled the table. She was wearing the thin tank he’d worn under his dress shirt for the memorial. He’d had it hanging up in the guest bath with some other shirts, doing that damp dry thing since he’d done laundry a couple days ago. She wore the tank knotted at her waist over wet latex pants. The harness was buckled over it. The message wasn’t sexiness. It was, “I’m ready to work, and the job is to fuck your stupidity right out of your head.”
She still looked hot, though.
She stretched out his arms and made him clasp the edges of the table. After guiding his head down until his cheek rested on the flat surface, she squeezed the back of his neck with a pinch of nails, the message clear.Stay where I put you.
She showed him her phone.You can switch from side to side if your neck starts to hurt, but right or left, your face is on this table.
Picking up the marker, she leaned over to write on the top of his right hand.Me.Then she moved to the other. She caressed his side with gloved knuckles as he turned his head to see what she’d written there.Trust.
