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He held my left hand, turning it over against his palm. “We’d better take this off before we get started.”
I’d been wearing a watch since shortly after we’d returned from Pisa, a timepiece that rarely left my wrist. Goodluck might not like watches, but I treasured mine.
Fort unbuckled the thin, black leather band, the watch face reflecting the stark light in the ceiling above me. The face was clear, just a thin sheet of glass, so all the miniscule working parts inside the watch were bared to the world. Fort had designed it for me, a promise to be open with me, to connect even if his inner workings were complicated. The fact that the style became a runaway bestseller, the season’s most coveted accessory, well, that was wonderful. But not as wonderful as the symbolism of that watch around my wrist.
He placed it on a shelf, near enough that I could keep an eye on it. Even when he took it off my wrist, I didn’t want it out of my sight.
“Okay, Sparkles.” His rough voice thrilled me. “Arms by your sides.”
I couldn’t see his face as he leaned down to fasten my wrists into cuffs at each side of the chair, but I imagined he wore the dangerous, assessing look I’d come to know well. He moved behind me then, and I squeezed on the shaft inside me as I heard him undressing. He reappeared at my side, yes, wearing that look—and nothing else.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Maybe. Probably.“Yes, Sir,” I said aloud.
He knelt in front of me, a pair of sleek, black, over-the-knee socks in his hands. “Then let’s get you dressed.”
He held my gaze as he gathered the first sock and pulled it onto my toes. He smoothed the thin cotton up my legs, over my calves, then up over my knees where they ended in a line of embroidered flowers. Sometimes there were bows instead, and sometimes sewn-on jewels. I hoped the flowers meant he was in a romantic mood.
“How does that feel, baby?” he asked. “Are you getting ready for me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He started putting on the other sock. “After I hurt you, where does my cock go?”
“In my ass, Sir, because I’m a maso-slut.”
He smiled, giving the second sock’s cuff a playful tug. “You are, aren’t you? Thank God.”
He spent a few minutes pinching and twisting my nipples. It hurt so much worse than wearing clamps. At least clamps only gave one burst of pain before my nipples settled into numbness, but with this type of play, the pain went on and on. When I moaned for a break, he slapped my breasts instead, making me squirm on the unforgiving shaft in my ass. My hands were cuffed, so the fists I made were useless to push my tormentor away.
“Do you want more?” he asked. “Or would you like to move on to your caning?”
My ass clenched and my legs trembled. “You just caned me last week.”
“Oh, no. Don’t you want the cane?” He started unbuckling my cuffs, not really sounding all that sympathetic. “How about a strapping instead?”
I studied him, wondering what the catch was. “A strapping and what else?” I asked.
“A strapping, with a strap. Because I’m a kind sadist, I’ll let you choose between that and the cane.”
“You’re not really a kind sadist.” I whimpered as he lifted me from the chair. The shaft slid out of my ass, leaving me empty, yet full of dread. He was still going to fuck me there, after he did something hurty, because he liked me to be all opened up with pain.
“Okay, not a kind sadist,” he admitted. “But I’m a sadist who loves you. So you get to pick: cane or strap?”
“I’ll take the strap, Sir.” Was there any question? Strappings were much easier to handle. They stung and they were painful, but they didn’t feel like your ass was being slashed to ribbons by slices of fire.
“The strap it is,” he said, leading me to the St. Andrew’s cross. “Of course, since you chose the less painful option, I think I’d better use some naughty cream too.”
My eyes went wide, and a flush heated my cheeks. “But you didn’t say—”
“No, I didn’t say, but you don’t have a choice if I decide to do mean things, do you?”
I moved my hands behind me to cover my butt. Naughty cream was a pepper-based compound he rubbed into my ass cheeks to intensify the heat of a spanking. Even after the spanking, the burn from the cream lingered, sometimes for hours.
I mashed my lips shut so I wouldn’t get myself in trouble by begging for a reprieve. He was already screwing a punitive attachment into the X-frame, a short, rounded bar perpendicular to the frame that I had to straddle. Of course, it was placed in such a way that any slouching or squirming resulted in uncomfortable pressure against my pussy.
When he was done, he stood back, gesturing to the rack. “You know what to do.”
