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“Is that something you’d like to make a reality?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling though his chest, so that I felt it on my back.
The scent of his cologne overrode my senses. “No, Sir. It’s just a fantasy. I only want you.”
“I don’t have to want you.” He gripped my mound roughly. “I already have you.”
“Yes, Sir.” My entire being was focused on him. Nothing existed beyond my hunger to please him.
If I could please him, he would please me, and make sure his pleasure was returned ten fold.
His hand moved too quickly for me to anticipate the smack that landed on my vulva, and I yelped.
“I love every sound that I make you make.” He closed his hand over my throat, pressing on those little points beneath my jaw, but not my trachea. That was far too risky; he enjoyed causing me pain, tormenting me with pleasure, but he would never actually harm me. He slapped me between my legs again, twice in quick succession, and my thighs quivered. I could only whimper.
He released me and pushed me to the floor, not roughly, just as though I were a toy he was finished playing with for the moment, and my body throbbed with longing for contact. He knew exactly how to wind me up, to make me want him more.
“Go upstairs and wait for me.”
I started to get to my feet. He pressed me back to carpet with one exquisite Italian leather short-wing blucher. “Not like that. I want to see you crawl.”
I rose on my hands and knees, my back dipped, my hair falling over my shoulders. I knew what he saw; my tight, round ass in the air, my black thong accentuating the curve. He wanted to see me crawl, so I did, slinking in long-legged stretches across the carpet, to the bottom of the stairs. Navigating those was a bit trickier. Luckily, I heard him stand and go to the phone, so he didn’t see my awkwardness. At the top, I could have gotten to my feet and gone into the bedroom, but he’d just said “upstairs,” and he’d said nothing about getting up.
The volume of the music over the in-room sound system grew louder. I didn’t know who he was talking to on the phone downstairs, but I suspected it would have something to do with the noise level he was expecting. When he came up the stairs, he’d shed his jacket and pulled off his tie. Without a word, he bent down and looped the black silk across my face, pulling it up hard between my lips and teeth to secure it behind my head.
My signal when gagged was to hold up my hand and open and close my fingers three times, and all the action would stop, so I was never nervous at having my mouth obstructed. The drooling it would cause would be utterly humiliating. I couldn’t wait.
He grabbed my hair and wound it around his fist, then with a little “hmm” as he reconfigured his plan according the limits I’d set, he released it and leaned down to haul me over his shoulder.
“Mmph!” The startled exclamation was garbled by the gag.
“I have been working out, after all,” he admonished, more like the Neil who was my fiancé than the Neil who was my Dom. He deposited me on the bed and, snapping his fingers, ordered, “Lie there and don’t move.”
At the end of the bed, I’d left two coils of black jute rope and a pair of bandage scissors. Occasionally, he liked to tie me up, and it seemed tonight I’d been wise to be prepared. He hovered his hand over the rope then moved to the wand massager.
“For what I’m going to do to you tonight,” he began, moving to plug the cord into the wall, “I am going to need you as wet and as open as possible.”
He returned to the bed, to the three dildos I’d left there. I’d brought a curved glass one with nubs along its length, a velvety-soft white, ambiguously shaped one, and the main event, a large, purple monster even bigger than Neil’s cock.
He picked up the latter and weighed it in his hand. My breath hitched. He set it back down. “I want you to kneel on the bed, with your knees shoulder width apart.”
He’d brought the flogger upstairs with him, and he tossed that and the black leather covered paddle onto the bed.
“Arms behind you.”
There was a specific way he liked to tie my arms, that didn’t put as much stress on my elbows and shoulders as some ties did. My bent arms folded across my lower back, my hands grasping near their opposite elbow. He climbed onto the bed behind me and quickly braided a single cuff around my forearms, looping across my wrists loosely so as not to cut off circulation, and to leave my hands free.
“How does that feel, Sophie?”
I rolled my head and both of my shoulders, one at a time. Nice and loose, only the slightest twinge of a reminder that there would be tension and aching later. I tried to tell him, “Perfect, Sir,” around the gag, and a torrent of drool rolled from my lower lip.
He smiled to himself and went to the
end of the bed. “And can you still signal me? Snap once to answer.”
I snapped my fingers. When I was bound and gagged, three snaps were my safe word.
“Good.” He reached for the wand and the paddle, and stood at my side, idly running his thumb over the black switch on the vibrator. “Do you know who I just called?”
I shook my head, my gaze fixed on the bulbous head of the wand. It looked innocent enough, but with the flip of a switch it became one of the most powerful implements of torture in his arsenal.
