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I shook my head wildly, but I knew the blush in my cheeks would have betrayed me beyond the shadow of a doubt even if Christian didn’t seem able to read my thoughts without any apparent effort. I resolved that he would never hear me say it, though. An independent young woman like me should feel entitled to her secrets, shouldn’t she—even if the man who takes care of her can guess them?
Christian smiled a new sort of smile, one I hadn’t seen before: his face turned suddenly mischievous. It made my eyes go wide as a jolt of anxiety made the butterflies in my tummy go crazy.
He took his hand away. With parted lips I let out a pitiful, whimpering sound. Like an absolute fool, I hadn’t counted on this element of his ‘inspection’—how it could turn into an interrogation with pleasure, instead of pain, generating the irresistible compulsion to talk.
“How often?” he asked softly but very mockingly. “Every night?”
I bit my lip and tried to move my chin back and forth to deny it. Another desperate, kittenish noise escaped my throat as I found I couldn’t muster the will. Something in Christian’s eyes told me that even if he took all the advantage of my wanton needs that a dominant man could take, he would guard my secrets carefully, and use them to train me not merely for his own enjoyment but for our mutual pleasure.
With a tiny sob, my lower lip still firmly between my teeth. I gave a little nod.
“Say it, Rebel,” he murmured. “Say it out loud, and remember to say it the right way, too.”
My eyes traveled downward, unable to help myself, needing to see the forbidden sights below both our waists. I watched my master’s hand go up and down his massive manhood. I saw his hand hover over the hot, wet pussy he had uncovered by destroying my lacy panties. I looked back at his cock, and I felt such a surge of need for its filling presence in my aching sheath that my hips tried to rise as if to present that empty, wet hole for fucking.
Then the memory of what Christian meant to do crashed in on me. The idea that only by pleasing him would I earn the reopening of my sealed pussy made me gasp, and the fear that he would treat me with even greater severity if I failed to obey made me speak the truth.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered. “Every night. Thinking…”
My voice trailed off as I looked back into his eyes, a new flash of heat coming into my face.
“Yes, Rebel?” he asked, his smile morphing from mischievous to gloriously happy—so happy that a surge of what, to my dismay, I had to recognize as love despite the insanity of falling for this man, filled my chest.
“Thinking of you, sir,” I breathed.
CHAPTER27
Leah
His hand returned to my pussy, and I cried out, very near to orgasm simply from the gentle friction of his fingertips on the hood of my clit.
“Well,” he said, his voice low and almost hypnotic, “that’s lovely to hear. It makes me feel a little sorry to close you up so that you won’t be able to play with your clit for a few days.”
My pussy clenched hard, and I let out another humiliating little noise of submission. Christian tsked softly.
“At the same time, though, it will definitely make for a very important step in your training. Learning to wait for your reward until your master takes his pleasure in disciplining and enjoying you will help you learn perseverance.”
He delivered these complicated words slowly and deliberately. The steady up-and-down rhythm of his fingertips, though, the way they slid up and down so easily, thanks to the wetness he found pooling at the entrance to my terribly warm vagina… the gentle little circles he made at the top so that I struggled against my restraints… all the wonderful, tormenting pleasure Christian seemed so casually to force on my helpless body… it all made it very difficult to follow his strangely philosophical lesson in the relationship between sexual submission and essential life skills.
“Are you ready for your punishment?” he asked, his eyes narrowing just a little. “I know this pretty pussy is ready, and I’m ready to spank it and seal it. But areyouready, Leah? It’s time for your final decision: either you accept my discipline or you end it now and go back to trying to stumble your way through life.”
I swallowed hard. Christian’s ideas seemed to come from an intellectual realm into which I had trouble entering. At the same time, though, a petulant part of my brain wanted to reject the idea, I knew Christian spoke nothing but the truth.
My trajectory from school to the New Modesty and then out here demonstrated that I had only ever wanted things to be easy for me—I had only ever wanted to stumble through life, just like my dominant billionaire had said. Somehow, amidst the wayward stumbling, I had gotten lucky enough to find a billionaire without having to try very hard at it. Thanks to some divine providence over which I had no control, a wealthy, wise master had taken an interest in guiding me with his firm hand.
That firm hand, it had turned out, would be applied to my bare bottom and my wanton pussy when I misbehaved. The understanding that old-fashioned discipline could help me learn important life lessons didn’t come as a welcome revelation. The butterflies seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my belly.
I had stumbled my way into two months of luxury allowance, and the man who had bestowed that support was telling me in no uncertain terms that earning more of it would require real submission to his training and to his will. If I took away the wrong lesson from the story so far—that I could get rid of Christian and just keep following the path of least resistance—I would end up losing that stroke of extraordinary good fortune.
Christian had given me another chance. I had thought I was the one to do that for him, letting him back into my apartment and giving him control, taking a risk that he would do something crazy. Instead, he had redefined sanity for me.
If I obeyed him and accepted this dark punishment I would belong to him, and from this point forward I would obey him or suffer even more punishment. He wanted to make sure I understood that though it might seem that I had the passive part in our relationship, I would have to work at it just as hard as he did.
He kept gazing into my eyes, and he kept rubbing my pussy slowly and gently and very possessively, the way he might absentmindedly run his fingers over a knick-knack he had on his desk… a little sculpture of the spaceship inMoonglider, maybe… a small thing he owned and hardly thought about.
My bottom squirmed with each light stroke, my hips moving wantonly, trying to rub my clit against his hand harder than he obviously meant to touch me. He tsked again, in that gentle, patronizing way.
“Are you ready to keep your apartment neat?” he asked. “Think about that, Rebel. I’m not going to open you up and fuck your pussy otherwise.”
