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She gave him a solemn look. Showed him her phone. “Can’t speak to that. I’m not that old.”
“You—”
She grinned and dropped her legs back down, trying to hop off the desk before he came out of the chair to grab her by the waist. When he succeeded in doing so, blocking her escape, she lifted her legs again to lock them over his hips. Not an invitation. Not exactly. One of those heel tips dug into his ass, but she touched his face and gave him a searching look. Signed, then typed.
“Let’s go to your place and work on your balance.”
No question—there was more than one meaning to that statement.
Did Mistresses routinely carry this kind of thing with them? Tiger eyed the plug she’d laid out on his kitchen table. Guess a Mistress never knew if she might need to whip it out and shove it up some amenable sub’s backside.
When they’d arrived at his place, she’d been all business. No chitchat about the house or property. She’d shouldered the bag she’d pulled out of her Mustang, since she’d followed him home, and asked for directions to his guest bathroom.
He was considering all the things she might be doing in there. Including checking her email, meditating, or taking a power nap, if she’d absented herself for psychological effect.
Or because she was giving him time to perform the list of commands she’d left him, typed on his phone and laid out on the table in front of him.
Take care of anything you need to do in the bathroom.
Take off everything and leave it there.
Except your shirt. Leave it by the kitchen sink.
Put your hands on the top of the chair.
Spread your legs shoulder width.
Put your gaze on what’s on the table when you get back.
Wait for me.
He’d watched her go down the hallway, hips swaying, head tipped to study the pictures he had on his walls. She might not have made any comments about her surroundings, but she was taking it all in.
It was a decent place, the house a seventies ranch he’d updated. The draw for him had been the barn for his vehicles with an attached three bay garage, plus twenty-five acres with water access.
No question a man lived here. His pictures, whether framed art or photographs, mostly related to cars and motorcycles. His furniture was comfortable and fit his size. She wouldn’t look bad curled up, cute as a kitten, in his recliner. In those llama pajamas.
He imagined her napping there on a weekend—if she ever slept. The two of them hanging out, maybe watching TV or taking a hike in the woods. He had a bass boat and could take her out on it.
He liked to do that when he wasn’t working on customizing cars or bikes here. He also wasn’t averse to spending a Sunday afternoon in his recliner, watching sports, catching a favorite movie or taking a nap after a hard week’s work. Particularly in the summer, when New Orleans’ heat could make mechanic work especially grueling.
His glance went around the kitchen. A lot of the Fallen Angels he’d grown up around didn’t care about cleanliness beyond keeping the coffee table wiped down so nothing sticky fouled their coke lines. He might occasionally have some homey clutter, like a few shirts draped over a kitchen chair to damp dry from the laundry, or change left on his dresser, but everything was blissfully clean. Zero odors of old food, mildewed towels, and sweaty, unwashed men.
No woman had ever lived here. Inhaling Skye’s fragrance, he realized that was a scent it lacked. It also gave him a twinge of remembrance, of his mother’s light perfume in his childhood home. Before it stopped being a home at all.
Oh fuck, they weren’t going there. He was stalling and he didn’t really know why. No matter how rarely he’d done it, he knew the house met basic bring-a-girl-in standards. He went to his bedroom and the bathroom there. Though he’d shaved yesterday, he gave his face a quick touch up in the shower. To make himself ready for Mistress standards. They could get dirtyon the bike later. He wouldn’t mind getting real dirty with her. The thought gave him a grin.
All clothes off, she’d said.Yes, ma’am.After he complied, he padded back to the kitchen, and put his shirt by the sink. She was still in his guestroom, but she’d come back while he was gone. That was when he’d seen the plug.
“Shit.”
He’d been plugged and pegged before. Until Abby introduced him to being fucked with a strap-on, he’d been resistant to the idea, but now he didn’t mind it. The climax could be incredible. So could feeling the Mistress writhe against him, her grip on his waist and hips, nails driving into his flesh. Her breath between his shoulder blades, her body melting against his back, letting him hold her up after the clit stimulator took her to orgasm while thrusting into him.
However, though he would suck on her fingers if she liked that, putting a plug or phallus into his mouth was a hard limit. He had zero interest if what the Mistress wanted was to roleplay a guy fucking him. Inviting a man to join the action was also a no-go. Not his thing. He liked his sexual encounters one hundred percent female.
When Abby had first been overcome by her schizophrenia, they’d done a few sessions to give her a vital shot of normalcy and control, a need Tiger understood way better now.
Those sessions had been done in the presence of Neil, though, a fellow Dominant and now her husband. While Neil had never touched Tiger, unless it was for aftercare help, it wasn’t Tiger’s thing, having an extra dick in the room. However, he wished Abby all the happiness in the world. She more than fucking deserved it.
