AT HER COMMAND: A MISTRESSES OF THE BOARD ROOM NOVEL
- 1 year ago
- 44 min read
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Clouds could cluster around a man’s mind and soul. When she found the way to part them, to glimpse the fire and need that lay behind that screen, it told her even more clearly than words what needed to happen next. “Invite me in, Lawrence. I promise to drain all your blood, steal your soul, and have you thank me in the morning.”
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Now his eyes crinkled at the corners. Humor returning, even as it had to push its way out of the shadows. “So you’re staying the night?”
“It depends. On what shape you’re in when I’m done.”
On how much aftercare he’d need after he gave her everything she demanded. She held that thought to herself.
Her fingers tightened on his belt and this time she didn’t ask. She stepped forward, executing gentle pressure.
Five foot seven or not, the man was a brick wall when he didn’t want to be moved. But just when she thought he was going to give her that hard no after all, he relented, letting her into his place.
Once inside, she eased him arm’s length from her so she could close the door. She flipped the latch with a decided thunk, remembering what he’d said about needing to be sure their space was secure before he gave over control to her.
As she turned her back to him to do that, he gravitated toward her. A predator was good at taking advantage of an unguarded moment. Though his torso didn’t touch hers, she expected there was less than a hand span between them. He confirmed it, by resting his forehead against her shoulder. She went still, waiting to see what he thought he had the liberty or implicit permission to do. His hands crept to her waist, dug in, and then he laid a kiss on the bare collarbone offered by the scoop neckline of her silk shirt.
He stayed like that, his forehead against her shoulder again, his hands at her waist. Holding her, but also holding himself, she thought. Giving himself strength by drawing from her presence, her strength. A simple, subtle sign of trust and faith in that power. Or hope for it.
The man could overwhelm her, not just with the power of his need, but with how strong a hold he had on the reins to it. When she convinced him to hand those reins to her, it was very possible her world might change in ways she didn’t expect.
Easy, she thought. Slow it down. For both of you.
She’d had a brief impression of a living room with a flatscreen, an open floor plan that led to a kitchen, but none of that interested her. Not right now. She didn’t want any distractions. She wanted her entire focus, everything filling her senses, holding her attention, to be him.
She put her hand over his on her waist. “Show me where you spend the most time when you’re here.”
If it was the bedroom, she expected he’d choose his second most preferred living space, to avoid being obvious. Or to avoid temptation. She didn’t disagree with that.
Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen. The island there doubled as his dining table. A sliding glass door led out to a small patio. Through the half-open vertical blinds she glimpsed a tiny backyard enclosed by wooden panels on the left and right sides. While it was open to the woods behind the townhome, the panels provided semi-privacy between his patio and that of the neighbors.
No dishes in the sink, all surfaces clean. The kitchen was mostly white walls, brown and white granite counters. But along the backsplash of the stove were a line of brightly colored tiles, each with a Day of the Dead sugar skull design. Matching skull saltshakers on either end. A cast iron skillet had a permanent spot on one of the burners.
Hanging from the handle of the stove was a dish towel that looked hand-embroidered, likely a gift from a family member. It was the SEAL emblem, a fierce-looking eagle with a bowed head, the talons grasping a trident. It was flanked by two solid blue functional towels.
Lawrence stood a short step behind her left shoulder. Because she knew he was watching her reactions, she let her gaze travel at a leisurely pace over the room again, for a different reason. She wanted to check out her options.
There was the refrigerator, the handle of the stove. Cabinet handles. She liked breaking a sub’s control, so none of that was sturdy enough. Her gaze returned to the refrigerator, and she marked the broom and dust mop tidily tucked in the space between it and the counter. Then her attention returned to the kitchen sink. Double-sided, fiberglass.
Moving to the sink, she tilted her head in that direction, indicating he should follow her. The small area made her hyperconscious of his scent and heat. They were closed into their own private world, no work requirements here for either of them. He didn’t disrupt what was building between them with the offer of a drink, the option to sit down or other such nonsense.
What she’d felt standing next to him in the doorway to Lindi’s office space, what she’d sensed when he had first come into their board room, was a mere echo of the force of attention she felt from him now. It told her how much he’d been suppressing behind that façade. The increased heat in his gaze, the dense energy that surrounded her, reminded her that he had a woman he wanted in his home, and it was just the two of them. He was more than capable of overpowering her and taking what he wanted. Not that he would, but he would push her awareness of that, see how she would react, to give the sexual energy between them a dangerous edge.
That edge, if they both gave into it, could turn this into just sex, offering quick relief. The bottom level. But she was banking on him knowing, just as she did, that so much more was possible here than that. Even if it was still mostly subconscious for him, that knowledge, when the conscious mind got out of the way, became far more powerful.
“Face the backsplash. Put your hands on the edge of the sink, shoulder width apart.”
He kept his eyes on her as long as was possible before full compliance. When he did, her hand was there, in front of him. “Lean forward until your chest meets my palm.”
As he adjusted to the new angle, his shoulders flexed out, ass, back and thighs taut. A standing push-up of sorts.
“Until I say otherwise, you’ll do what I say. You won’t speak unless I ask you a question. Everything is about what I want, what I demand you give to me. Do you understand?”
“Ma’am is what you give to any woman. Mistress is more acceptable.”
“Yes…Mistress.” His voice roughened on the word as if she’d given him a gift.
“Have you ever called a woman that?”
“Good.” She meant it. She liked an experienced sub, one who knew how to seek what he wanted within the club walls, but Lawrence was a lake of submissive possibilities, just waiting to be channeled.
“If at any point something concerns you, you may use a word to tell me to take a beat, slow it down, explain. Touch base. Don’t fight me on that. This isn’t about macho endurance bullshit. It’s about my intention to take us both where we want to go. That word helps me know if I’ve made a wrong turn on that journey. What word will you use?”
“Good. If something needs to stop immediately, you will say what?”
He had to fish for that. After a pause, she placed a palm on his back. “How about ‘sanctuary?’ A reminder to you that if you call a halt to things, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a safe thing, and I will respect it, and keep you safe.”
She expected the resistance in his eyes, and increased the pressure of her touch against his back. “You think I can’t hurt you, Lawrence, but I can. There are so many ways to fuck up a person’s head. Especially when doing this, and accepting how much control I want. I’m looking for things way deeper than just two people getting off. You want more than that too, don’t you?”
“I think so. I know the things I’ve thought about since I saw you, they weren’t just about sex. Though I’m not averse to that.”
“I’m not surprised. Straighten for me, but keep your hands on the sink.”
When he complied, she ducked under his arm, came up in the small space between him and the sink. She propped herself against the edge, her elbows in close to her body. She rested her fingertips on his chest.
“What did I tell you I wanted you not to wear, Lawrence? Earlier, at the office.”
True chagrin crossed his face. “Oh, shit. I intended—”
“We’re in the beginning stages,” she said firmly. “It was a suggestion, a glimpse of my preferences. I didn’t issue it as a command.”
But she saw what she wanted to see in his expression. It bothered him, a lot, that he’d overlooked something she’d wanted. She suspected he was a full-on anticipatory sub. Once in that headspace, he’d take whatever she said as a command. If he fell short, no one would be harder on him than himself.
There were a lot of perks to that kind of sub, but it had to be monitored so he didn’t take it to excess. “In the future, if I order you to do something and you forget, or interpret it according to your wishes, not mine, the choice of punishment is mine. When that punishment is done, it’s done. Punishment is entirely my area, Lawrence, not yours. I have a feeling you’ll need to be reminded of that. But not today. Understand?”
She could see him warring with it. “When you were a SEAL, did you waste time apologizing for a fuck up?” she asked, more sharply. “Or did you fix it, and make sure it didn’t happen again? Because actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words.”
She’d found the right path. Things settled, and he nodded, though the gesture still came with the tight jaw. She caressed it, enjoying the smooth feel of the clipped beard. “Good. Quiet now. You’re mine to play with.”
Proving it, she unbuttoned the shirt, her fingers brushing warm muscled flesh. She spread the fabric open, conscious of his arms braced on either side of her as she fanned her fingers over lightly furred flesh. The male biceps pressed against her arm quivered, while the heartbeat under her palm increased.
She slid her hands up, under his collar and then out toward his shoulders, taking the shirt off of them, pushing the fabric down and keeping it there, from elbow to elbow, fabric folded against the lower part of his back. He didn’t lift his hands without permission, which some men would have done, incorrectly anticipating her wanting to remove the shirt fully right now.
Good boy, she thought, though there was nothing boyish in front of her. A man this fit was a work of art, a beautiful display of well-earned muscle, his upper torso as graceful a shape as a stallion’s arched neck.
“Lower your right arm so I can get around you.”
He did, and she slipped behind him, trailing her fingers along his side beneath the open shirt, then across his hip bone. Now she took the shirt all the way off the one arm, and with a quiet word, had him do the same with the other. After laying the shirt over one of the kitchen stools, she had him put his hands back on the sink. “Remember not to move them unless I say so. You’re doing well, Lawrence. I’m pleased.”
That quiver increased, a man’s power and ferocity, leashed only by her demand. She had no idea why anyone ever did drugs, when something like this could be created merely between the give and take of two people’s wills.
She moved to the island, to the stool that was farthest from him, because he could see what she was doing in his peripheral vision, if he strained. She wanted him to see, even as she wanted him to fight to keep his head still, obeying her order to face the backsplash.
She removed the scoop-necked blouse, revealing the dark blue demi-bra beneath it, cups low enough to hint at her nipples. She left on her skirt, but inched it up enough he could see the garters. The fasteners were jeweled purple roses. She heard the intake of breath, saw the ripple along his back and shoulders.
She took her time unhooking the garters and skimming off the stockings. Then she slid her matching panties off her legs, offering a quick glimpse of hips and shadowed places before she had the skirt in place again.
She rolled the panties into a soft ball, and returned to him. No head movement, but his eyes were everywhere, pupils dark and full. They moved over her face, the brush of her hair on her shoulders, her mostly bare upper body. His attention paused on the scar over her left breast, a five-inch crescent that had healed to a deep mauve groove. It was widest near the sternum, tapering to a threadlike shine past the swell of her bosom.
She shook her head slightly, a warning. It drew his attention back to where she wanted it.
“Open up,” she said, and his lips parted. She tucked her panties in there, effectively gagging him. “Easy to spit out and safeword, but just in case, lifting your right hand will mean gray, left hand will mean sanctuary. Closest hand to the heart. That means lifting it and keeping it in the air. Not getting startled by something I do and shifting your grip, or momentarily pushing away from the sink because you can’t control your reaction.”
He watched her as if nothing in the universe could be more important than her and what she was telling him. It was a heady feeling, even as she reminded herself it was all new to him, the actual doing.
At some point, she wanted to hear all those fantasies he’d had about a woman dominating him. Every detail. But right now, she had other pleasing things to do.
She’d brought in her Louis Vuitton purse, shaped like a monkey, furred with brown sequins and possessing rhinestone ruby eyes. She tucked her hose and garters into an interior side pocket, then removed what else she’d decided to bring when she’d chosen her clothes for tonight. She laid it out on the island.
Multi-colored pieces of quarter-inch jute, all rolled into one ball. A pair of EMT snippers. She read the sudden tension in his features and answered it.
“No restraining your ability to move in my defense. I remember.”
She moved behind him again. This time she reached around him, unbuckled his belt, freed it with a few firm tugs that brushed his canted ass against her upper thighs. She slipped the button of his jeans, worked them off his backside.
“Toe off the shoes. Stand on the end of the socks and pull them off, too.”
He did. She worked the jeans down, putting her hands inside the denim to help the slide and enjoy the heat of him caught in the cloth of the seat, the resilient flesh against her palms. “I have a cat who likes to curl up in the seat of my jeans after I take them off,” she commented. “He’d like yours better. A nice, tight circle.”
He grunted at that, making her smile. When she had the jeans down to his calves, she lifted her touch away from him. “Kick them off.”
He did, and she set them aside with the shoes and socks. Now he only wore black shorts that clung to his ass. She trailed her fingers down one buttock, flipped her hand over and did the other cheek with her knuckles. A shiver went up the middle of his back, and she followed that trail. He had no tattoos, but way too many scars. She traced them with her fingers.
“Is this how you imagined it, Lawrence?”
He shook his head.
“Is that a bad thing?”
He shook his head again and then, in a surprise move, he let go of the sink, reached back and clasped her wrist, the one against his waist. She would have admonished him for the infraction, gently, since it was his first session and he was new to it all, but she held off and focused, reading the significance of the gesture.
He moved to interlace his fingers with hers, hold tight. His head had dropped, while his breathing had elevated.
“Okay. Sshh, it’s all right.” Her brow creasing, she ran her hand up and down his back. “Easy. Whatever it is, it’s okay. You’re all mine. I’ve got you. Now let go of my hand and behave, before I have to get rough with you. Trust your Mistress.”
It was rare she used a possessive like that, particularly in a first session, but in this moment, she was his Mistress.
He reluctantly loosened his grip, returned his hand to the edge of the sink.
She kept her hand on his back, making easy circles as she murmured to him. “There’s a part of you that has probably wanted something like this for quite a while. You didn’t know how much until now. That tempts me to push you hard, Lawrence. Break you down, strip you raw, teach you to beg. But not tonight. Tonight’s not for that.”
He listened to her so intently. She wasn’t sure she’d ever had a man’s attention so fully. Even in session, a submissive’s mind could fragment, go in a lot of different directions, even as they orbited around the Mistress’s demands. His focus was gratifying, intoxicating.
He’d unlocked something in her with that yearning, spontaneous grip, a strong man desperate for what she was. While she recognized the euphoria of an exceptionally good beginning, there was more to the way he grabbed onto this. Like he’d been floundering in deep water and had finally, after so long, been tossed a lifeline. That reaction connected to the man himself, not just the sub side.
She wouldn’t chase that down tonight. Tonight’s timing called for a lighter handed approach. Yet even knowing she was right about that, it was more difficult than expected to rein herself back. The more limitless the needs of her sub, the more the most demanding parts of herself came to the surface. Since she was getting the feeling Lawrence’s needs were going to be the deepest well she’d ever drawn from, it was hard to resist going deeper than she should tonight.
Her friend and fellow Mistress Abby had said once that it could take a lifetime to get to the bottom of that well, with the right sub. And maybe not even then. When you went that deep, you might hit the core of the Earth itself, where fire was an endless, liquid need, boring through the soul.
All right, enough of that. She was getting carried away. In another moment she might hit Domspace, for God’s sake. Pushing away the disturbing realization that Lawrence’s simple gesture and the close energy contained in a small kitchen had pulled her that deep, that fast, she realigned herself with the moment. To do that, to settle them both down, she focused on the physical.
She hooked his briefs and pushed the back fabric down to his upper thighs. Mother of God, that was an ass. All flexing muscle, it begged for teeth marks.
Cyn—another member of her executive team, and yes, another Domme--was a biter. Ros could see her going after that perfection like an erotically starved piranha.
Reaching under his arm, she unhooked the band of his briefs from the head of his erect cock. It was so thick the removal of the cloth confines barely changed its position, hard and tight against his belly, pointing up and out.
She let the side of her hand graze it, enjoyed the convulsive jump. Yeah, you eager beast. You’re going to get to know my touch very well. You’ll learn how to behave to get my approval, and everything that goes with that.
She pushed the underwear down far enough they dropped, and he could step out of them. “Straighten up and turn around,” she said. “But put your hands back on the sink on either side of you. As far as you’re concerned, your hands are chained there.”
As he complied, faced her, his gaze had shifted to the left.
“Look at me.”
He did, a little reluctantly, and she knew why. “You don’t have trouble looking at me with lust in your eyes,” she observed. “The conquering hero, restrained by my word and your will, an acceptable masculine pairing. Meeting my gaze while my panties are stuffed in your mouth? That’s something different. But your discomfort, that kind, is irresistible. This moment is about what I want, and you won’t hesitate when I give you an order, sailor. So you keep your eyes on my face unless I say otherwise. Even when I look elsewhere, when my attention comes back to your eyes, I expect you to be looking me full in the face.”
His gaze rested there, high spots of color in his cheeks. She’d flustered him, but he’d obeyed. She wasn’t into humiliation; this wasn’t about that. When she had a man under her control, she knew every trick and evasive maneuver. She left the soul and mind no retreat points. Full surrender was the only option. Full submission.
The lace of her panties teased his lips, making her think about the heat of his mouth on the flesh the sheer fabric had been covering.
“Can you taste my arousal, Lawrence?”
He nodded, another spark of heat going through his eyes.
“Good. Stay still.”
She propped her hips against a stool and settled into a full study of his warrior’s body. Like everything about him so far, unexpected emotions came with the exploration.
More scars. Deep ones that even her eyes, untrained in medical knowledge, knew had been life-threatening. A long gash across his pec, a slice on his collar bone, and a tiny nick on his throat, below his ear. If connected, they would have formed a diagonal line. It brought to mind a blade slicing upward, him falling back so it slashed across his chest but caught his collarbone and ear, rather than cutting his throat.
Round, shiny scars, which had to be bullet holes, below the shoulder and in the thigh. Dropping to her heels, she took a closer look at a scar that ran from the widest part of his calf to just above the ankle. It looked like a jagged edged knife had sawed the flesh away. But in the middle of that was a surgically precise line.
She was used to evidence of childhood injuries, like a broken bone from falling off a swing set. Active, athletic men could certainly have their mishaps, too. White water rafting, playing basketball with buddies, wall climbing in a gym, an afternoon run on a greenway. They left small scars, bragging rights.
She’d even had an active member of the military or veteran under her control a time or two, but never one from special forces, with years of service to his credit. Maybe because one willing to relinquish control, even at this level, wasn’t common. Or maybe they were, but most didn’t have the salary to afford Club Progeny, her usual fishing pool. Still, she suspected a SEAL with a submissive orientation, comfortable enough to embrace it, was as rare as a snow leopard.
She laid her hand on his calf, felt what was beneath it. Reached for the other one. There was a difference, for certain. “I’m thinking you have some issues with this leg, as well as some random aches and pains from the other scars. We’ll talk about that before I demand anything very strenuous from you, but you can use your safewords if we run into issues sooner.”
When she glanced up at him, his eyes were straight ahead, his body tense. He wasn’t avoiding her gaze because of the gag this time. He’d forgotten that. Her touching his calf, that jagged scar and the surgical one in the midst of it, had unlocked something else.
She remembered Dale had said an injury had led to his leaving the SEALs. Not the kind that qualifies him for a handicap sticker, but it knocked him out of being an operator. She suspected she’d just located it.
Most men didn’t care to admit any physical limitations, and ironically the ones who pushed their bodies the hardest were the worst about it. She knew how to handle that, but it wouldn’t be in this meet-and-greet session.
She straightened. “Lawrence, you’re not looking at me. Do you have trouble following my orders, sailor?”
That same jerk and chagrin combination. She could tell he was mentally cursing himself, telling himself to get his act together. She caressed his face, his stretched mouth, with a fingertip.
“Don’t forget again,” she said softly. “Or I might show you what I can do with that metal spatula.” She dipped her head toward a clay container full of kitchen utensils, by the stove.
Maybe his fantasies hadn’t included that kind of play. But the flash in his eyes, the curl of his hands on the sink, said it had definitely gotten his attention.
She liked the hair on his chest. Brown with a gleam when the light hit it right. Curling up toward the throat and spread out in a light mat that would become straight dark strands when he took a shower. The arrow of hair bisecting his six pack went to a trimmed thatch of the same brown hair over his attentive cock. Impressively sized balls cushioned the base.
“Stay.” Retrieving the broom and dust mop, she unscrewed the cleaning ends and left those tucked in next to the fridge before bringing back the two painted wooden dowels.
She threaded the broom handle behind his back, under his straight arms, in front of the elbows. “Lift your hands, clasp the pole.”
He complied, the position arching his back and making his chest profile more prominent. She put the mop handle on the island and unrolled two pieces of colored jute from the ball she’d left there. Eyeballing it for the proper spacing, she tied a loop around two different spots on the rod. She put it on the floor, nudging it with her shoe until it met his bare toes.
“Look down,” she said. “Adjust your feet so they line up with the two loops and put your feet inside the loops, the rod under the balls of your feet, weight on your heels.”
As he followed her direction, she continued. “As far as you’re concerned, your wrists are bound to that broomstick you’re holding, and your legs are locked in place by a spreader pole. Do you understand?”
One short nod. Another element was rising in his gaze, one she’d hoped to see. Acceptance of her control was there, but the man, the inner beast, was growling against the bars of the cage.
“You want to fuck me, don’t you? An angry, powerful part of you wants to put me on my back, spread my legs, show me who’s boss, the strongest predator in this room.” She reached out, traced a line over his pectoral, did a sinuous track to his navel and back up again. “You don’t scare me. I know I can put my arm through your cage bars and be all right. Because there’s another part of you, just as focused.”
Her gaze rose to his, held. “It wants to prove you’ll serve me however I demand it. That’s how you’ll show your true fierceness to me. You’ll tear anything apart for me, for the clasp of my hand on your cock, calling it mine. Calling everything attached to it mine. I could ask you if I’m right, get you to say it. But I don’t want that. I want you to show me.”
His green eyes reflected an incredible mix of emotions, showing he was as much in his own head as he was trying to figure out hers. Despite her earlier self-cautions, she knew she was going to be a little more intense than she usually was in a first session. She wanted to cut him loose from the swamp of debris she sensed was in his head, that had made him grip her wrist like a drowning man. In the protected bubble of a session, when everything was going right, such idealistic thoughts came easily, without doubts.
Everything was definitely going right.
“Stay still,” she ordered, and turned back to her ball of jute.
She unrolled lengths of red, blue and green, laying them out on the counter. A glance at the sugar skull tiles told her she’d come close to the color scheme. Aesthetics mattered, and were a particular pleasure, when she could incorporate them.
She noted his growing arousal only seemed to increase his focus, not the usual thing. But she was handling a man who was trained not to blink, particularly as things became more chaotic, because loss of attention had life-altering consequences.
Hypervigilance. That was the term for it. While she liked that close regard, her Domme side knew he needed to learn to dial it back some. This wasn’t a mission, there was no enemy to fight. Everything in this space was safe. He could relinquish some attention and control. A blindfold might help, but that would take time and negotiation. For now, there were other ways to get him to ease up.
Picking up a longer blue piece of jute, she turned to him and looped it around the base of his cock. She began to twist and tie, create the knots and diamond pattern she wanted.
Jute was prickly. She watched him adjust to the mild discomfort as she worked her way from base to head. Her knuckles were brushing him, her fingertips, so his cock was twitching under her touch, getting admirably harder and thicker, which pressed him tighter against the rope. She’d allowed for that, so it wouldn’t dig in too much.
Her head was bent beneath his, his mouth so close to her temple, and she let her lips curve, showing him she was aware of that. His chest rose and fell, his hands curling and uncurling against the broom handle. She let the energy between their bodies build, and submerged herself in that dense heat, savoring his self-restraint.
After she was done creating a rope sheath, she ran her hand over it, gripping him fully. His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, obeying her command. Muscles flexed in his abdomen, his shoulders, his upper thighs. A bit of lace fluttered from the panties in his mouth, stirred by his breathing.
She ran her thumb over the head of his cock, pressing her nail against the slit, letting the bead of arousal pool on the top of her nail like a drop of thick honey. When she brought it to her lips to taste it, he spoke a muffled word against the lace gag. Her blood heated.
She liked the way he said her name. All four syllables. She liked when he called her Mistress even more.
Turning, she removed a metal rod from her bag. It was about the diameter of her pinky, and eight inches in length.
His pupils dilated, eyes slightly widening. She suspected the guttural sound against the panties this time translated to a fucking hell no. She suppressed a smile, kept her expression bland and waiting. Wanting to see what he would do. His gaze flicked from the rod to her face, and then he said nothing. He didn’t raise a hand to safeword. Just looked at her with a challenging expression.
That only lasted a moment, though. In the space of a breath he shifted from intrigued, engaged, aroused under her control, to detached, ready to fight. Another turn of the dial, and a deeper response gripped him. His gaze traveled between her face to her hand, back to her face, back to her hand, and then straight out, staring at the wall.
Resignation. Ready to endure. A martyr to someone else’s pain.
He’d been hurt by a woman. A lot. Not physically; she doubted that. But one had emotionally battered him, so that this reaction could be triggered when he thought he was being tormented in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons. He wouldn’t back down, even as it tore his soul apart to be treated that way by someone he wanted. Loved.
She knew that expression, those feelings. Seeing it in him shot uneasiness through her. She took an involuntary step back. She despised that look and everything that created it.
His gaze snapped to her face when she moved away. She closed her eyes, shutting him out for a second. Raised a finger, an order to him to maintain. Then she breathed. Just breathed. Grounded herself in the present. When a sub was under a Domme’s control, there was no other place she should be.
She imagined every glorious inch of him, how she had his irresistible body arranged, the beauty of his hungry expression. Meet-and-greet, damn it. This was not going to go down that road for her, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let it go that way for him.
She opened her eyes, met his. “It’s all right.” Placing her feet on either side of one of his, she gripped his bound cock again. She stroked it and felt that quiver return as he looked down at her, their faces so close. His gaze was troubled, so she shook her head at him, leaned in, her breast cupped in lace against his chest.
“This rod isn’t what you think it is. But more importantly, you need to learn a safeword protocol isn’t like calling uncle in a wrestling match. It’s not an admission of defeat, a declaration that someone has bested you, or is stronger than you. Would you like me to explain more about what it actually is?”
Wariness lay in those green eyes, but those troubling things were receding. She wondered if he’d been surprised she’d picked up on his change of attitude so quickly. SEALs weren’t the only ones trained to watch people closely, anticipate what they were going to do, what they were thinking. And though her sessions weren’t supposed to be life or death situations, the disruption of a session, of an emotional flow that intimately connected the two people in it, was a loss that could wound deeply.
He nodded. A slow up and down, once. “Good.” She let him see her approval, and felt him relax a slight bit more. It helped her do the same.
“Say you and I decided to go hiking,” she said. “We’re going to climb to a mountain top, where the view is phenomenal. But if I need to take a break to rest and watch wildlife, or you think we should detour to swim in a creek, because it’s such a hot day, those pauses make it a day to remember. That’s what a safeword is. A timeout to make sure the experience is worthwhile, and we get where we want to go, together. I said this is a journey. I meant it.”
She lifted the small rod so he could see it. “This doesn’t go in your urethra. Sound play can be very pleasurable, but it’s also a pretty advanced play that I wouldn’t spring on you the first time we’re together.” She lightened the moment with a playful smile and a tap on his cheek. “But I will be chuckling over the look on your face for awhile.”
He gave her a narrow look, but there was amusement in his eyes as well. “Let me show you what it is used for,” she said.
Dropping her hand, she threaded the rod into the rope sheath around his cock. Despite his increased thickness, she’d gauged the harness size well. The ropes were snug, but not cutting into him unbearably. She had to work the rod into the diamond-shaped openings, but she managed it. Looking up at his face again, she adjusted the rod half a turn.
The movement tightened the sheath and the rough knots lining his cock. To a man, very conscious of the vulnerability of his parts, that piece of mindfuckery could feel like gravel being pressed into a roadbed by a passing truck.
His jaw flexed, muscles in his arms constricting as his hands clenched the broomstick. Yet he held. He didn’t move, though his expression wasn’t detached anymore. She’d gotten through. He was with her again. She raised one hand to his shoulder, slipped it over to cup his nape, as she kept the other hand on his cock and that rod. She turned the rod back, releasing the tension. His gaze had dropped to it, so she sharpened her tone, just a little, keeping it to a low purr.
“Where did I tell you to keep your eyes?”
They came back up to her, but she was ready to reinforce the lesson this time. As tempting as the spatula was, it was farther away from him than she wanted to move. “So you’ll remember…” She turned the rod again, this time for more than half a turn.
He stiffened again, a groan coming through the panties. As his gaze clung to her face, she showed him what his obedience, his straining, powerful body, his unflagging cock, despite the discomfort, was giving her.
“Excellent.” She glanced down to thread the ends of the rod into other openings, causing minute pulls on the ropes that had growling moans coming from his throat. The head of his cock was glistening. The pain was arousing him, something a Mistress like her loved to see.
When she was done, she removed her grip on the rod. It would stay in place, keeping the ropes tight. She cupped his heavy testicles, squeezing and playing. His hips quivered, his thigh muscles flexed. He was fighting not to thrust forward.
“You’re working so hard to be good, to meet my expectations. I appreciate that very much, Lawrence. You don’t know what that does for me. Or maybe you do. If I’d taken the panties off now, they’d have been soaked all the way through.”
Putting her hands beneath her skirt, she ran her fingertips over her damp cunt, and brought them back out, putting them under his nose. His nostrils flared as she painted the dampness on his stretched lips.
“Drop to your knees.”
She stepped back, enough to give him the room to do it, while staying close enough to spot him if he needed it. The mop handle under the balls of his feet made the maneuver challenging, but he did it, showing impressive command of the muscles in his thighs, his core. When his knees were on the floor, he straightened up for her again, his hands still clasped on the rod under his arms.
She removed the panties from his mouth, set them aside. Then, putting a hand on the island to balance herself, she lifted her left leg and braced it against the sink, over his shoulder. The skirt creased up toward her hips, the position putting her sex within inches of his face.
And look at that, he’d remembered to keep his eyes on her face, though the effort showed. “You have my permission to see how wet I am. You may put your lips where you are wanting to put them, ease your tongue out to take one taste. Then I expect you to sit back on your heels again.”
She curved one hand around the back of his head, enjoying the feel of the short, thick hair as he leaned forward. This wasn’t an exercise in control only for him. From the first touch of his mouth, all the arousal she was containing rushed toward that contact, making her want to rub, drive his tongue in deeper, work herself against his face.
Instead she remained still as one of the bar stools, even as everything beneath her skin was vibrating madly. Oh…God. His tongue slowly, slowly penetrated her, took one slow swirl before sliding away. When his nose was pressed against her clit, the quivering care of his movement translated into a full fondling of the aroused area.
“Very good,” she managed in a breathless voice as he sat back, and she returned to standing on two legs again. Now the hunger in his gaze was threaded with a male satisfaction, knowing what he was doing to her. She picked up the panties, put them between her legs and rubbed, pushing the fabric partly inside to saturate the silk as much as possible. Then she nodded to him. “Open up.”
His lips parted, and with him staring up at her as she replaced the gag, her cunt throbbed. It might be one of those words only used in romance novels, but it didn’t make it any less true. When a man this tempting was at her feet, offering himself, the flesh between her legs throbbed, ached, clenched, quivered.
As he complied, she studied her handiwork, steadying herself. His blood-flushed cock was a dark contrast against the colorful jute. His hands were tight fists on the broom handle. His legs, spread for the pole, only accented the lean ropes of muscles in his thighs, the set of his hips.
She removed her phone from her bag and laid it on the counter. As she crossed her arms, she projected a relaxed attitude, as if she were having an office conversation, rather than talking to a naked, self-restrained man.
“You know my executive team are all Mistresses. Did you imagine them putting you on our board room table, spreading you out, locking you down? Going after you in so many ways that you’d lose count of how often you’d come? There’s a reason we keep a full pitcher of water in there. Dehydration kills.”
Amid the boiling lust and need, she relished the slow warming in the eyes fixed on her face, the hint of humor.
“I would like to take a picture of you for them, Lawrence. I won’t include your face. If you don’t want me to take the picture, I won’t. If you want to think about it before I share it with them, that’s fine. But may I take a picture now? Before I share it with them, I will ask you again. If you say no, I will delete it from my phone.”
He considered it, gave her that slow nod. She took the picture, careful to capture only his bearded jaw and mouth above the neck, because she simply couldn’t leave his mouth out of it. Too many wonderful fantasies associated with a man’s mouth. Especially gagged with her panties.
“Hmm. Nice.” She looked at it for a long moment, then she let her gaze travel back to him, moving up his torso. Part of it was to savor. Another part was to log important things. His shoulder with the bullet mark and scar across the pectoral was looking tight. The broom handle was starting to bother him. Not enough to safeword probably, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong kind of discomfort. She noted the leg with the scar tissue was also looking a little restive, the ball of his foot shifting slightly, back and forth.
She moved forward, put a hand on his chest. Applied pressure so he moved back, off the handle. She dipped the toe of her heeled shoe over it, sent it rolling back to the island behind her. She kept moving him back until his bare ass met the cabinet below the kitchen sink.
“Brace your feet again. Wherever they’re comfortable for your balance. Lean against the sink.”
She reached up, removed the panties from his mouth. After she mopped up some inevitable saliva, she rubbed her thumb over his lips, smoothing any lingering irritation. She tucked the panties in her bag.
“Sorry,” he said, probably about the spit.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “Except speaking before I gave you permission to do so. How are you doing? Anything requiring the word ‘gray’?”
“But maybe soon.”
The strain in his voice told her he was feeling the rod’s constriction on the cock harness, fighting the urgency of his erection. She’d been keeping her eye on the color of his flesh, and it was getting close to time to give him some relief.
He flashed her a grim smile. “Maybe. Mistress.”
He’d acknowledged it for her. Didn’t deny it with a foolish stoicism.
“Good.” She leaned against him, running her hands over his restricted arms. As she let her fingers make their way down his belly, slow and easy, his breath accelerated, and his cock moved against her upper thigh, the tip fully wet now. When her hand closed on his cock again, there was no fabric to muffle the part growl, part groan that came from his lips. But he had learned well. His gaze was fastened to her face as if she was the last thing he’d see before death. Sometimes her subs saw that as a gift from heaven. Other times, a curse straight from hell. The sweet spot for her was the perfect balance between both, where he loved and hated her equally in the same moment.
She slid the rod free, which pulled on the ropes and knots an uncomfortable second before their hold eased. His chest rose and fell in a breath of relief. His fists squeezed the pole as the pain washed through him and away.
She closed her hand over him again. Flexing her grip, she worked the knots against him. The abrasion was balanced by the friction, a rubbing she enhanced with her thumb on the knot that had been placed at the V-point of his coronal ridge.
His body surged with the response she’d been anticipating, perhaps more than he had, since she’d kept him focused on her demands. Staring her in the eye, holding the panties in his mouth, managing the discomfort of that rod, listening to her talk. During all that, he’d been banking his arousal, pushing it back, pushing it down, and then she’d locked it up tight with the rod. Suddenly it was ready to spill forth, coming up fast and nearly violent, all that need.
Hard to control, even for a male with his discipline. Which was exactly what she was intending to prove to him. Show him he could let loose, give her the control, the authority to say when, so he didn’t have to worry about the control, the saying when. The staying in charge.
He was teetering on the edge, so she was ready for his look of desperate disbelief as she began talking again, casual, as if she had all the time in the world.
“I like watching you when I’m doing this.” Her gaze flicked down to his fists, white-knuckled on the broom handle. “Your hands out of the equation, everything up to me. It gives me so much, Lawrence. It makes me want to demand everything from you now. But right now, I’ll settle for this.”
Because she loved being a Mistress, she had a hell of a lot of practice at it. She could gauge where a man was at, how close his release was, and she could deny it, bring it back, so close, deny it again. She did it to him, several times, until his hips were bucking hard, the movements of his body rattling the cabinet doors beneath the sink. That desperation had grown, the primal beast rising.
“Are you going to come before I say so?” she asked, her voice deceptively soft.
He shook his head, violently. “Fuck…God…”
“That’s not a proper response, Lawrence.”
“Hmm.” She took him up again, so close, so close. His fevered gaze held her eyes.
“Do you want me to be merciful, Lawrence? Do you want my mercy, or my cruelty?”
“I want…” His voice dropped to a guttural rasp, his green eyes savage as only a warrior’s could be. “You. Anything you want to give me.”
The impact of that went from heart to cunt, a ripple shockingly close to a climax. Her knees trembled, but she steadied herself, kept working the jute over him, her fingers.
“Do you want my cunt?”
He nodded, that quick, violent jerk again. “Fuck, yes.”
It only took a sharp look this time, the bite of her nails.
“Willing to earn it?”
A groan broke from his throat as she took him toward that edge, past words. Her body was flush against his side, the broom handle pushing into her rib cage, his fingers gripping the stick against her upper arm.
“Tell me,” she snapped sharply.
“Then come for me.”
If he had an ounce of will left, she suspected he might have tried to hold back, prove that he could hold out even longer if she demanded it. But she’d pushed him well past that point. He’d done far better than she’d ever seen a first-time sub do. While being fully engaged in the moment, responding to her on all levels.
His hips jerked, his toes curling hard into the floor tiles. She’d positioned herself to the side, so as his cock jetted, she watched the white fluid pump out of him, bathe her hand as he groaned under her stroking grip.
His head dropped back, jerked forward. His whole body tensed, arched, then bucked forward again. Violently enough the handle running under his elbows, across his back, couldn’t take the stress.
The wood snapped with a sound like a gunshot.
She hadn’t expected that, but in protective reflex, her hand immediately left his cock, pressed against his chest as the reaction tipped him forward. With the same kind of instinct, his arm fell around her, gripping her hip, holding her as the two pieces slid free, clattered to the floor. All while his hips were still working.
She returned her hand to his cock, milking the last of it out of him. His climax was on the downward slope, the fluid coming in short spurts instead of thick fountains. They leaned into each other, the counter bracing his body providing an anchor for them both.
As he finished, his head was down, his chest rising and falling fast. After one more gentle squeeze, she released his cock and laid her palm on his chest again.
“Okay,” she murmured. “I’ve got you.”
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