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Getting off on being forced, now?
Only it wasn’t that, not quite. But it was certainly stepping right up to the edge of it. The experience seemed to have tapped into a deep, dark river of need and lust I had no idea flowed through me.
Who was this man? And why had he never shown his face while we were actually married?
You are still married. A rather important detail, don’t you think?
“Why are you still wearing clothes?” Nick rumbled as he slipped inside the room, catching me totally off-guard. I almost yelped in surprise, so deep had I sunk into my own thoughts.
“Come here.” He took me by the forearm, his grip like steel, and yanked me stumbling off the bed. I collided with his chest, my head swimming a moment. He slapped my hands away as I began to pull the tie securing my sweater. “No. Hands down, slut.”
Brusquely, my body being pulled this way and that, he stripped me, the sound of tearing thread making me wince as he flung the sweater to the floor. Then he savagely hauled my bra off, accompanied by the muffled snap of the underwire giving way.
That’s one pair of panties—and one bra—down the tubes.
“Yes…I thought there’d be more marks. But…these are nice.” His fingers touched the scattering of ghostly bruises shadowing my breasts. I drew a sharp breath as he fingered one of the more tender spots, but my nipples drew up tight and hard regardless, as if my breasts were begging for yet more harsh, cruel treatment. He smiled as he tweaked one of them quite hard, making me hiss with the sharp pain. “These tits of yours need more, don’t they? Do you want me to be rougher with them? Do you like it when your big tits are hurt?”
I shook my head quickly, my cheeks flushing hot once again.
He chuckled softly. “Liar. I’ll do better next time, though.”
Next time?
For what seemed an eternity, he held me like that, totally controlled, his big hand like a harsh manacle around my forearm, using it to turn me, then again, to look upon me at different angles. His gaze never left my breasts as he fondled them with his other hand, squeezing, slapping, lifting them one after the other upon his broad palm, until—despite my mortification at being so blatantly objectified—my breath was coming fast and shallow, the heat between my thighs spiraling higher and higher.
“So beautiful,” he finally murmured to himself, as if I wasn’t even there.
“Think we might want to, uh, talk about this?” I was already wondering what on Earth I’d say, even as I asked the question.
But he seemed to completely ignore me. “Get your fucking pants off.” He leveled a glare at me, his jaw firm. “Don’t make me wait.”
“Um, okay…” I struggled to remove my slacks, bending over before him, growing frustrated as my heels tangled in them, my self-consciousness amplified even more by the mortifying sway of my breasts as I tried to comply. “Damn…it.”
Nick made zero effort to assist, looking on impassively, silent, his gaze cool, an element of command, of confidence, of complete assuredness about him that was so unlike the man I thought I knew.
But I liked it very much indeed.
Finally extricating my heels from the mess of my pants, I rose to my feet, willing myself not to cover my breasts, knowing full well he’d disapprove of hiding from him like that.
And that was something else about him that I was instinctively responding to, that level of selfish, almost callous control of me, that had suddenly made me even wetter, the lips of my sex slippery, hot.
“Get on the bed,” he muttered with a quick lift of his chin. “On your back.”
He watched me as I clambered onto the covers, the self-consciousness of being clad in only my much-too-high heels while he was fully clothed deepening my embarrassment…and my arousal too. I gave a little sigh as I turned to my back, the coolness of the fabric welcome, even comforting.
Nick knelt on the mattress below me, touching my left thigh.
I fingered the strap at my left ankle, assuming he wanted those gone as well.
“No. Leave them.” He slapped my calf lightly. “Spread your legs and pull your knees up as far as you can. Show me that cunt.”
I blushed hot as I complied, almost whimpering at the audible sound the wetness of my sex made as my labia splayed apart in that blatantly exposing position. My clit was throbbing still more then, and the urge to touch it was so very strong that I nearly succumbed to it. Somehow, though, I held back, instinctively knowing it was something he wouldn’t want me to do.
This was still about him controlling me, though to what end I remained completely in the dark about.
I held my legs up, splayed, displaying every secret part of me, the high heels only emphasizing my debased, degraded position—which, shockingly, seemed to amplify an illicit arousal in me that I hadn’t a hope of understanding.
That he was still fully clothed, the contrast between us emphasizing the suddenly massive unequal power dynamic shouldn’t have turned me on, but it most definitely did.
