AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He’d take that crop to her. He’d tie her up.
All things she enjoyed.
Even if she lost, she won. No need for panic.
She savored the challenge, giving in to an irrational need to prove to him that she was capable. The very act of demanding this useless, pointless task sent a jolt of excitement racing to her clit. The tightrope walk only made her ache with desire.
She reached the doorway and paused.
“Move it.”
She stayed put another moment, feeling the weights sway.
He could, he had the option, he just might use that damned cane.
She hadn’t ruled it out.
Of course, she hoped caning was reserved for a more egregious sin than the jaunty peal of a bell from a breast.
But the option never left her consciousness. It always hung in the air.
“I’m waiting,” he said. “I don’t want to wait.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She moved, even picked up the pace, ever so slightly. If only she had perfect little teacup tits, instead of her D-cup cliff. There was too much clearance, too much momentum.
Of course, if they just lay on her belly, where was the risk? He wanted the damned things swinging, threatening her with failure.
That was part of the fun.
He’d sent a text that afternoon, ordering her to make preparations. She’d carefully cleaned her little collection of toys, and then laid them out on a towel, so they could dry in the bottom of her bathtub.
And, he just had to have the Christmas dildo.
She misstepped on the rug in front of her sink, froze and cringed, waiting for peal.
The bells didn’t ring out, though. They just dangled, weights tugging just perceptibly once more. Her cunt tingled.
She breathed again.
Damn it.
She released the tension in her shoulders, relaxed her abdomen and continued her journey.
She breathed. She stepped.
“Almost there,” he taunted, in that singsong tone he used to tease her. His tapping grew more urgent, the tempo increasing.
She had a sudden impulse to just let the bells ring out. Rile him up. Wipe that smirk off his face for just a minute, and refuse him the satisfaction of her very best effort. He’d take her there, in the bathroom, where things weren’t so well lit or comfortable. Bad lighting, metallic echoes, all somewhat removed from whatever ridiculous notions he held about the romance of her overpriced apartment.
No silk sheets. No antiques. No playing pretend at Lord of the Manor.
She could ruin this nasty little game of his.
She had, maybe, three steps to go. She was wet, loosened; she felt every last movement, as the clamps jiggled.
She stopped at the bathtub’s rim, and looked back at him, her braid falling behind her right shoulder. He reclined on her chaise lounge, his boots carelessly propped upon her upholstery.
