Firebird (16 page)

He felt her shake, felt her hips press up against him with urgency. As her excitement mounted, she closed her eyes and threw her head back. “Look at me,” he said. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to see who’s giving you pleasure.”

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, flushed and fuck drunk, but self-consciousness bloomed soon enough. It wouldn’t do. He would have to train it out of her. He wanted her to be nothing less than an uninhibited, mindless slut in bed, her self-awareness a thing of the past. He flipped her over and reentered her from behind. He forced her to spread her legs wide when some self-protective instinct had her drawing them together.

“Let me fuck you. I’ll do as I like to you, won’t I?”

She moaned in tortured assent and opened to him. He held her hips hard and fucked her, glorying in his mastery of her. Her arching, helpless attempts to find her own pleasure drove him on all the more. He came with a growl, shuddering through his own nerve-bending orgasm. He purposely didn’t let her come. Afterward he lay beside her and told her again, “Look at me.”

She looked over, flushed and beautifully unsatisfied. “If you want to come, girl, you’re going to have to come my way. There’s no other way, is there?”

“No, Sir,” she said, her gaze shying away.

“Look at me.” His sharp tone drew her focus back to him. “I want to be able to touch you whenever and wherever I want to and not have you flinch. I want you to talk to me about sex without blushing and looking away from me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s hard for me.”

“I know, and you’re not good at sex. I remember,” he teased, then fixed her with a stern look. “I think a more focused training program is long overdue.”

She swallowed. “Um…maybe.”

“The correct answer is ‘yes, Sir,’” he said, taking her face in his hand.

“Yes, Sir. Yes, please train me. I want to please you. I do, more than anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his, and he felt again the magnetic connection to her. Each time it shook him more.

“Good girl.” He released her and smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Now, I’m not going to restrain you. You control yourself. I’m going to touch you—everywhere—and you’re going to let me. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And every time you pull away or cringe or blush, that’s one stroke of the crop.”

“The crop?” Her eyes went wide.

“Yes, I know you’ve never felt the crop. It’s about time you did. It hurts. So try, girl. Try your best.” He slid his fingers down her belly to the warm, smooth opening between her legs. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good. If you let yourself go, I’ll make you come. Do you want to come, girl?”

“Yes, Sir.” Her words came out in a sigh.

“Then let me touch you.”

He began the slow, intimate work of desensitizing her to inhibition and embarrassment. He played with her, fingered her, stroked her, explored every fold and crevice of her. She blushed red—he knew she couldn’t help it—and dropped her eyes away. “That’s one, girl.” She looked back at him, a rebuke and a plea at once, but he only laughed. “Two. For looking at your dominant that way.”

He kept on, fascinated. He loved watching the pleasure war with the self-consciousness behind her gaze. The earned strokes mounted—three, four, five, six, seven, eight—but she persevered and gradually he felt her open to him. Her submission seemed to deepen, the blushes replaced with the flush of heavy arousal. When he had her near the edge, he stopped, took one taut nipple in his fingers and pinched hard. Her eyes closed. She gasped and jerked away slightly. “Nine,” he said, and her eyes popped open. He pinched harder, and her hand came to his. She stopped short of trying to stop him, but he hissed and said, “Ten. Put them over your head. Both of them.”

Tears welled in her eyes as he pinched her other nipple, but she obeyed. She kept her hands open and limp on the pillow over her head.

“Please…”

“Please, Sir,” he corrected. “Eleven. Am I hurting you, little one?”

“Yes, Sir.” Another flinch and shake.

“Twelve. Lie still. Just accept what I do to you. Just take it. You’re going to be fine, and this gives me pleasure. Hurting you.” He saw the desire flaring alongside the pain in her eyes. Two sides of the same coin. “Breathe deep. I’ll let go in a minute.”

She held still, tense. It would obviously take more than one round of training, but he was already looking forward to future sessions.

“Okay,” he said, releasing her. “Good girl.” But from there he dove his fingers into her pussy, got them slick and wet, then pressed his fingertips against her asshole. He teased her there, poking in one fingertip, then two. She flinched and squeaked. She tensed herself against the intimate invasion, and within moments the count rose to fifteen. “Stay right there,” he said.

He got up and crossed the room, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out a small silver toy. He opened the bedside drawer to pull out a bottle of lubricant and drizzle it onto the toy while she watched wide-eyed.

“Turn over,” he said when he returned. “On your hands and knees, ass up.”

She swallowed, hesitated.

“Sixteen,” he said. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She rolled over on all fours. Again he stifled a smile. She was one huge cringe.

“Seventeen. Head down.”

She lowered her head to the bed. He knelt behind her and noticed she was actually shaking. He made some soothing noises, rubbed the small of her back. Then he used one hand to press down on her, holding her still. “This is only a small plug. I want you to wear it for one hour. Believe me, this is for your own good, because I am going to use your asshole soon, and it will be uncomfortable for you, even with training. So be a good girl and open up for me.”

He pressed it against her. Many moans, twitches, and flinches later, she was up to twenty-five strokes with the crop, but the lovely silver toy sticking out of her ass gave him a deep sexual response. His cock ached to be where the plug was. He wanted to be driving into her ass.
Not yet
. He leaned down over her, reached around to flick her clit and run his fingers over the tips of her nipples. She bucked at the lightest touch.

“Soon, girl. Not quite yet. How does that feel, the toy in your ass?”

She moaned, and he swatted her thigh.

“You’re already getting twenty-five with the crop. Stop whining and answer properly. How does it feel?”

“It feels naughty, Sir,” she finally managed. “It feels bad, but good.”

“Like you, hmm?” His fingers began to move in slow circles around her clit. Her trembling increased, and she swallowed a gasp. He smiled. “I’m going to make you come now, before I punish you. Otherwise all you’ll be thinking about is how horny you are. You are a horny slut, aren’t you?”

Only the smallest pause, then, “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir, I’m a horny slut.”

“Yes, Sir, I’m a horny slut. Please, please, let me come!”

Lovely begging. He could feel her humming, drawn up tight under his hands. He could make her do any manner of things right now; she was so desperate to get the release he had thus far withheld. But he had tortured her enough.

He thrust his fingers inside her pussy, then drew the moisture downward to stroke across her engorged clit. He gloried in the helpless cries she couldn’t stifle, the violent shudders that wracked her body. When he sensed she couldn’t hold off any longer, he told her to come. He held her hands down to the bed as the orgasm possessed her. He felt her teeth open against the side of his hand, felt her tongue come out to taste his skin. She bit him. Not hard, but hard enough that his cock ached and he had to subdue the impulse to impale her. When he finally felt her go limp, he guided her down onto her tummy. He let her rest, stroking her damp skin. He enjoyed watching the tiny tremors that still shook her from time to time.

“Okay, girl,” he finally said. She moaned as he got up and went to the closet. She looked back over her shoulder as he returned with the whippy crop in his hand. Gorgeous, submissive look. It made some wild thing inside him start to come unhinged.
Focus. Control
. He was determined to see the scene through, as much as he’d like to bury himself inside her at once. She twitched her bottom slightly to the side, the toy still shining between her cheeks. Nice try at distraction. He smiled and tapped the crop next to her face on the bed.

“You had your fun. Now I have mine.”

She looked over at the thin black implement, too spent and sated to show much of a fear response. Girl goo. Beautiful. He sat beside her on the bed and began to stroke the whippy end of the crop up and down her silken back.

“We had some lessons today. Some training. What did you learn?”

“To let you touch me. To not flinch and blush.”

“Hmm.” He drew the end of the crop down between her legs and teased her there. “Are you blushing now?”

She hid her face. Decidedly blushing. He chuckled low in his throat. “As I suspected, it will take more than one session.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she said, and she sounded so truly sorry his cock ached.

He buried his hand in her hair, twisted it in his fingers. “Well, you’ll learn.” He stood and took up the crop. He gave a couple of tentative strokes. She cried out by the third stroke, and the fourth made her collapse on her side, her hands reaching back to cover her cheeks.

“Please!”

“Please what?”

“Please, Sir!” She drew out the
Sir
into a plaintive whine. He knew it hurt. He’d purposely waited until she’d orgasmed so there would be no sexual arousal to dampen the pain. When no safe word came, he went for restraints and tied her hands behind her back while she made little hiccuping sounds of distress. Then he decided to tie her around the waist to the bed, a project that involved lots of rope, lots of adjustment and readjustment until he had her perfectly secured. That is, secured enough to struggle a little but not to twist away. It was all worth it when he resumed, when he got to watch her dodge and fidget through the remaining twenty-one strokes, unable to pull away. She pleaded, “Please, please, please!” and with each plea he grew harder for her.

“Quiet, girl,” he said. “Punishment hurts.”

She didn’t use a safe word even though he pushed her a little further along the pain continuum than he’d pushed her before. He wondered whether she didn’t use it because she didn’t need to or because she wanted to be the perfect submissive for him. He’d have to have a serious talk with her about the fine line between selflessness and self-preservation, about the dangers of perfectionism in S&M. He thought he was skilled enough to recognize her limits, but even the best of dominants erred sometimes.

Later. They’d talk later.

For now he dropped the crop, climbed on the bed behind her, held her sore red ass with the silver toy still shining between her cheeks. He stroked the welted, hot flesh and reached for the bedside drawer.

She was still tied down, and she was wild and wet. He ripped the condom open and rolled it on, then positioned himself at her pussy. She made a deep groaning sound and strained at the ropes, arching for him. Neither one of them seemed capable of human speech. All he could think of was the unbearable need to be inside her. He eased forward, his throbbing cock nudging against the toy in her other passage. The feeling of tightness was incredible. Double penetration. She loved it just as he expected she would. He noted her little hands making fists and felt her trembling just before he was lost to the world. She came within moments of him, howling and bucking, far, far too gone to ask permission first. Afterward he lay sprawled over her, spent and deeply satisfied. He didn’t untie her for a long time.

Chapter Thirteen

“So Angie said she heard from Bucky that you were sharing an apartment with Jackson. Is that true?”

Glenna was desperately trying to get to the bottom of things, and Prosper felt awful for being secretive when Glenna had been such a good friend to her. But at the same time she couldn’t let Glenna, the biggest gossip in the company, know what was going on with her and Jackson.

Unfortunately it was only her first day back at work, so she was too tired and disorganized to think on her feet. She grasped for a plausible, innocent explanation.

“He…he was at the bar when the accident happened. He doesn’t want me to work now, after the head injury and everything. He wants me to concentrate on
Firebird
, so he’s letting me stay in his guest room for free. But that’s all it is. Just staying at his place. Like a roommate. I have my own room.”

That wasn’t a lie. She did have her own room, not that she ever used it. Glenna didn’t have to know that.

“So you’re totally living with Jackson Spencer. Is that what you’re saying?” Her voice rose to a disbelieving squeak. “Basically you are totally living with him in his house! Just you and Jackson!”

Prosper laughed. “I know what it sounds like, but it’s not like that. We’re just…” She waved her hand. To say
we’re just friends
would not be true. To say they were lovers would be more accurate, but she couldn’t say that, not when she knew Glenna had been sent to get the gossip by the other dancers who watched from across the cafeteria like hawks. “He’s just helping me out. That’s all.”

More truth. He was helping her. He was part lover, part life coach, part sadistic tormentor. His help took the form of patient reminders to eat healthy meals and rest, and instructions on how to be more proactive about reaching her goals. He made her create lists and timetables for progress. The torment came when he started calling her “girl.” Training sessions, careful and exacting lessons on how to address him, to serve him, to please him sexually. She put her head on her hand, starting to daydream.

“Prosper!” Glenna said. “You can’t just wave your hand like that! So what is he like? The real Jackson Spencer? Is he a slob? Does he have girls over? Is he a male slut? Does he have any weird, gross habits?”

Prosper’s mind flicked to the night before when he’d collared and leashed her and made her suck his cock with the lead wound tightly around his fist. “No, nothing too weird.”