Master Me (29 page)

Then he groaned that he was too, and that made everything even sweeter. He emptied into her barely a second after she’d climaxed, jerking against her body and pouring out a series of unintelligible noises. Though in amongst them, she definitely heard him say…

“I knew, God, I knew you’d be this good.”

And that was all right. Yeah, that was pretty sweet.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but every time she went to say it, it just seemed so ordinary and dull and provincial. And though he was much less mysterious than he had been, in many ways he was still cool. And still kind of mysterious.

She glanced across at him, but that wasn’t a good idea. She hadn’t expected him to be just looking at her. Though why that seemed so oddly thrilling when they were both laying naked on her bed, like little strange bookends, she had no idea.

“So. What do we do now?” he asked.

That was a good opener. She was grateful to him, for making it. But even so, she couldn’t quite say the words. She couldn’t quite say, “
what are we, now? Are we lovers? Are we in some kind of relationship? Are you still going to email me, every day?”

If he answered no to any of them, there would definitely be some disappointment.

“I’m not sure. You fancy a pizza?”

That big version of his smile spread over his face. He looked pretty young, anyway, but even younger when he smiled like that. Hell, he was probably younger than she was. Twenty-eight, she judged him at. Maybe one year between them.

“I could go for pizza.”

She swallowed. “And then what?”

It was as close as she was going to get to the big questions. For now, at least. Though really, she should have known that she didn’t have to hold back. She should have known him, ever and always.

“Then we be together. Because I say so—and apparently, I’m a very masterful sort of person. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She would. Oh God, she absolutely would.

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Charlotte Stein has been published in numerous erotic and erotic romance anthologies, and has written her own longer length works for both Black Lace books and Total-E-Bound. She has been writing for more than half her life, but only recently worked up the courage to submit something to actual publishers. Thankfully, the story ended well.

Email: [email protected].

Charlotte loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at www.total-e-bound.com.

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The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Story of O: Pauline Reage

Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V.

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The carpet against her knees had always felt soft when she was walking on it barefoot, but after forty minutes of kneeling, Helen was convinced that it was made of sandpaper, not wool. She shifted position, just a little, just an inch, and Connor’s hand
moved.

God, that hurt.

How many times had he tugged sharply on the chain? She’d lost count. She’d tried to stay completely, perfectly still, but it wasn’t easy and the blindfold wasn’t helping. She wasn’t disorientated, just distracted. Connor was sitting at his desk, writing, and the scratch of his pen, and the rustle of paper, told her exactly where he was.

If he’d taken that sense away from her, too, plugging her ears, it wouldn’t have mattered. She could still smell him, each breath she took leaving her more helplessly aroused than before. It was a subtle seduction of crisp cotton and clean skin, and she wanted to find the places on his body where that scent became earthier, richer, and nuzzle into them.

She inhaled deeply and regretted it when the clamps pinching her nipples gave her away, the small bells hanging from them chiming, a cool sound, like water over rocks. The echoes were drowned in her moan when Connor sighed and pulled again at the slender chains linked to the clamps. The end of each chain was held in his hand, warmed by his palm as she’d discovered when he’d needed both hands to refill his pen. He’d coiled the chains and pushed them inside her mouth to hold, the irregular bumps pressing into her tongue and palate. The taste of the metal had lingered after he’d taken the chains out and she’d licked at her lips, trying to take the metallic tang away.

He wrote in navy ink, always, with a fountain pen worn shiny where his fingers gripped it. The sound of the nib travelling over the paper was like a language she didn’t speak but could guess at in places. It didn’t matter. She’d be given the pages to read and she’d see for herself where he’d changed his mind and scratched out a sentence with an impatient click of his tongue and be able to guess at why he’d done it.

Connor leant over, his leather chair creaking, and let go of the chains. Helen felt them strike her thighs softly, the chains swaying with her quick, caught breath. Small though it was, the additional weight increased the pain in her tender, tortured nipples. The clamps weren’t overly tight because Connor had known that she’d be wearing them for a while, but they’d been on for almost too long to bear.

Connor capped the pen and put it down, two distinctly different clicks. Helen hadn’t reached the state where she was floating, anchored by her awareness of Connor and a quiet exultation in the perfection of her submission. Not today. Not for a long time, really, though that was a passing thought, no more than that.

“You fidgeted a good deal,” Connor said and unfastened the blindfold as he spoke. Helen closed her eyes when it fell away and opened them slowly, blinking in the muted light of the study. “How many times did you move?”

Being wrong was allowed but trying to pass off a guess as a certainty wasn’t. Helen tried to add them up, all those flashes of pain, jolting her body like a slap, but her thoughts had been too scattered.

“I lost count at seven,” she admitted.

“Oh, dear,” Connor said, his lips quirking in a sympathetic smile that was entirely false. “Let’s see if your ability to do basic math has returned. You moved nine times, so how many strokes will you get?”

Losing count doubled the strokes and tonight Connor wouldn’t hold back. Helen felt a familiar tightening between her legs, a throb of anticipation, sweetly powerful. “Eighteen.”

“Then we’d better see to them, hadn’t we?” He ran his fingertips over her cheek and down to her left breast, cupping it and jiggling it, drawing a gasp from her. “We don’t have much time.”

She sobbed as the clamps were unfastened, harsh, panted breaths that sounded loud in the peace of the room. A few tears trickled down her face. “God, that hurts…”

“Yes,” he said.

One word and it meant so much. Acknowledgement that yes, her nipples were throbbing with a fierce, bright pain that he’d caused and appreciation of the way she was keeping her back straight—mixed with a regret she shared that they were so close to the moment when he’d have to leave.

“I wanted it to. You needed it to.”

He gave her time to compose herself, waiting for a nod before gesturing her up, his hands steadying her when she stumbled on cramped legs.

“Over the desk,” he said and moved his chair back to give her room to slip between his knees and the desk.

Getting into position, stomach against the cool wood, her legs spread wide, leaving her open, exposed, took an effort of will that Helen knew Connor wasn’t happy about. Even tonight, she knew that he wouldn’t let it go.

“You can do better than that by now, Helen.” The disapproval in his voice was relatively mild but she bit her lip, wishing that she could get over a shyness that really was pretty pointless given Connor’s comprehensive exploration of her body over the past eight months with his hands, eyes, and mouth. “I think we’ll make it twenty.”

Helen shivered, part apprehension, part longing. Those last two were going to hurt. She felt Connor’s finger slide into her through the slick, heavy wetness that kneeling naked, waiting, had caused. His hands were strong, capable hands, the fingers long enough to reach deeper inside her than her own could. A second finger joined the first, fucking her with a slow deliberation.

“I wish you weren’t going away,” she said, the words spilling out before she could check them.

Behind her, Connor sighed, and withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty. “I do, too, but this is one trip I can’t avoid. Tom’s jittery as hell about the restaurant and he needs me to hold his hand. I’ll be back in eight days.” He tapped her bottom. “And for talking without permission, I’m going to make sure the marks I leave on you last until I get back.”

“I want them to,” she said, the disobedience of talking not as important as the need to get over to Connor just how much she was going to miss him. “I want to look at them in the mirror and—”

His hand came across her mouth, silencing her though his palm was barely touching her lips. She could smell herself on his fingers and she wanted him to slip them inside her mouth for her to suck clean.

“Please stop talking.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk and she squirmed, a bad-tempered wriggle of pure frustration. This wasn’t the first time that Connor’s business had taken him away, but his trips had been overnight, no more. Eight nights sleeping in that huge bed alone, eight days without Connor there, a constant presence in her life, shaping it to suit himself and in the process making her feel safe, loved.

From where she lay, spread out on his desk, she could see the clock on the wall. An hour before the car came to take him to the airport. It wasn’t long enough. He’d play with her, spank her, all at the unhurried pace that drew her inexorably along with him, but they’d both be aware of the minutes ticking away and she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the afterglow, curled up in his lap or at his feet, her backside smarting and her body keenly aware of every sensation it was experiencing.

“I think you should be glad that I don’t have time to deal with you properly,” Connor said, a trace of amusement in his deep voice. He was only nine years older than her twenty-four but at times like this, it felt like more. “You wouldn’t enjoy tonight at all, sweetheart. You’re being very disobedient.”

I would
, she thought rebelliously.
I’d love anything you did to me.

She knew that Connor, if he decided to exercise an imagination she’d come to associate with words like ‘fiendish’ and ‘diabolical’, could easily come up with a punishment that would be no fun at all—but even then, she’d probably still get a kick out of it on one level, at least. This was all so new to her that even standing in a corner, a book on her head, sent a frisson of excitement through her, blunting the edge of the boredom.

And of course, if the book slid sideways and fell to the floor, she’d get punished properly, and that was, oh, that was—

She felt his breath warm against her bottom then he bit her, sucking at the captured flesh hard enough that she could almost feel the mark form in an explosion of colour, matching the fireworks behind her tightly closed eyes. He eased back when she was whimpering, striving to stay still, licking at her skin then kissing it.

“Beautiful,” he said in a murmur, tracing the shape his teeth had left with his finger. “Your skin takes a mark so well.”

She heard a drawer slide open and closed her eyes, wondering what he was taking out. Twenty. The number governed what he would use. She couldn’t take twenty with the crop, but he might use it for the final two strokes, leaving deep, stark lines of scarlet against her flushed, bruised skin.

She wanted this. Had craved it for years with what had been a bewildered desperation until she’d met Connor at her birthday party in late June and everything that had been indistinct and fuzzy had sharpened to a clear focused certainty.

He’d escorted his cousin, a neighbour of Helen’s, to the party out of what Helen could only assume was a rare moment of kindness, since Karen and he had nothing in common but a surname. Bored, he’d taken refuge in Helen’s bedroom and had picked up the book she’d been reading. A book she’d thought was safely tucked away in a drawer, but which had actually been under her pillow where it had announced its presence by digging into Connor’s back. Helen had gone to her room to touch up her lipstick and had found him with her book in his hands. She could’ve explained a read-to-pieces copy of the
Story of O
, laughing it off, but it meant too much to her to do that. She’d stood in front of him, nakedly vulnerable, her voice shaking with tears and temper as she’d berated him for prying into her personal belongings, and he’d run his hand through hair the colour of cream sherry, rumpling it into a messy tangle, and had stared coolly at her with eyes two shades darker than his hair until she’d stopped talking.

Then he’d tossed the book down on the bed and begun to recite the opening lines, never looking away from her, and the clamour of the party had faded to a meaningless hum.

She’d moved in with him two months later, and had found that it was possible to merge real life with fantasy very easily when Connor was the one orchestrating events. He’d led her patiently along a path he’d walked many times before and if she’d sometimes rebelled when he’d refused to let her explore some of the darker places they’d passed, she had to admit that some of them looked a little scary.

“I have limits, too, you know,” he’d snapped once. “Lines I won’t cross, no matter how prettily you beg me to hurt you and yes, you look good on your knees, but there’s not an ounce of fucking submission in you right now and we both know it. Try to top me from the bottom again and I’ll tie you to a chair and make you watch me play with another sub, one who knows what she’s doing.”