Stockholm Syndrome (11 page)

She could hardly believe what she was doing. She wasn’t a
big fan of oral sex. She knew the basics, for while he hadn’t believed in
cunnilingus, her ex-husband Joel had been a blow-job enthusiast, especially
when she had her period and he couldn’t fuck her. It had been a thankless and
one-sided task, and she’d come to hate the smell and taste of him.

But now she was hungry—no, starving—for the taste of Mason
Brady.

She drew him out, pushing his boxers down and wedging them
under the heavy sac of his testicles when he made no move to help her. His big
body trembled as she held him, long, thick, and engorged, too wide to wrap her
fingers around. He watched her avidly, his eyes narrowed, all dark, dilated
pupils with scarcely a glimmer of green.

She wrapped both hands around him, one above the other, and
moved them slowly up and down, learning the feel of him, the texture of his
skin and the power beneath the surface. He grew even larger as she fondled him,
and she let her slow caresses build up speed and rhythm until she was jerking
him off diligently.

When two drops of gleaming liquid oozed out of the slit of
his straining cock, she bent to caress him with her mouth. She licked the top
clean of his fluids and let his taste spread over her tongue. Her body
responded as if she had taken a hit of pure pheromones—which she probably had,
she thought wryly. Her pussy was so drenched that the narrow crotch of her
improvised hot pants must have been soaked through.

He was waiting, his whole frame tensed, for her to move, to
continue what she’d begun, but she was gripping him in suspended torment while
she savored him. A sense of power grew within her. Holding him in her thrall
was heady stuff.

On impulse, she leaned in closer and trapped his cock
between her breasts. She pushed them together with her palms and held him in
place in her deep cleavage. He was long enough that she could bend her chin
down toward her chest and take the tip of him into her mouth.

The noise that ripped from his throat was pure animal. The
arms of the chair creaked as his fists tightened.

She sucked the head of his cock and traced the underside
with the tip of her tongue. More rubbing with her breasts and teasing with her
tongue had him jerking his hips, trying to get deeper into her mouth.

She finally released him from her cleavage and bent lower,
licking up and down his length and getting him slippery with her saliva. Then
she gripped him firmly near the base with one hand and sank her lips over the
top, sucking hard and stroking him in time with the pulling of her mouth.

She reached down with her other hand and felt the fabric of
her shorts between her legs—drenched, as she suspected. She slipped her fingers
under the shorts and panties, into her cleft, seeking out her throbbing clit.
But after just a few moments of touching herself, she withdrew. She was on the
verge of coming, and she couldn’t afford to do that before she finished with
Mason.

But what should she do? Should she make him come with her
mouth, and would she be able to swallow when he did? Toward the end of her
marriage, she’d gagged every time with Joel—not that he’d cared—and she didn’t
want that to happen with Mason.

It was the alternative that she really wanted. Her pussy was
achingly empty, her channel clenching unsatisfyingly on itself. The solution
was right there in her hands, so why shouldn’t she take what she wanted, what
her body needed? It was all for the sake of her escape plan anyway…

She laid his cock down, her cunt spasming at the sight of it
curving up to his belly button. Oh god, it was going to spear her so hard and
deep! Her legs were shaking as she rose from her knees and pulled off her
shorts and panties.

She straddled him again, heart pounding, wondering if he’d
finally react.

As she reached between them to position him at her opening,
she looked at his face and caught her breath. He was gritting his teeth so hard
that the tendons in his neck stood out and the muscles of his jaw visibly
bunched under his stubble-covered skin. His eyes were barely open, a
diamond-hard glitter under slit lids, but he watched her with a single-minded
focus that blistered her senses. Her mind screamed danger. This was a man on
the very edge of losing control. He was pure unadulterated power, and barely
restrained animal instinct.

But so was she. She’d never been this aroused, this feral,
and this determined to take what she wanted at any price. She stared back into
the furnace in his eyes and lowered herself onto his cock.

This time, there was no pain. There was nothing but the
overwhelmingly powerful sensation of being stretched and filled, to the utmost
and beyond. It should hurt, she expected it to hurt, but her capacity seemed
limitless. Every fiber of her being was fixated on the point of their joining,
and the world beyond their bodies seemed to swirl dimly around them, disjointed
and distant.

The slow slide onto his flesh finally ended with her body
rammed against his, thighs splayed, and her delicate, feminine folds stretched
taut, in a moment so intimate, it took her breath away.

Then she rose up, dragging at his cock with her inner
muscles, so that she could do it again and again, that glorious slide to
pleasure and possession. She rode him for what seemed like an age, totally
captivated by the changing and growing sensations, until her climax tore over
her like a hot wind, taking her utterly by surprise and burning away her defenses.

***

The irony of the situation didn’t escape Mason as Evelyn
impaled her lush body on his throbbing cock. He was getting what he wanted, but
he couldn’t
take
it. His self-imposed restrictions absolutely precluded
him from being anything more than a recipient. It was being
given
to him,
no doubt with strings attached.

So he sat gripping the damn chair, and suppressing every
natural inclination that he possessed.

Dominance wasn’t a lifestyle choice for him. It wasn’t about
exchanging power and scenes in dungeons with the associated accoutrements,
although he’d indulged in more than his share of that over the years. It was an
absolute necessity, a part of his identity, a facet of his personality.
Attaining sexual satisfaction hinged on the submission of his partner, or
partners. The more complete it was, the more intense his pleasure, and the
better he could attend to the titillation of his sub. Nothing else worked.

But Evelyn was dominating him. She’d taken on the role of
aggressor and seen it through without hesitation. He couldn’t believe that she’d
gone so far as to actually fuck him! He would have bet good money that she’d
chicken out from his lack of encouragement or her own wavering commitment, but
she’d been like a firebrand—uncontrollable and hot. And there wasn’t a damn
thing he could do about it!

Now she plunged up and down on him with intense
concentration, her inner muscles squeezing and contracting around his cock as
she strove toward orgasm. She dug her nails into his pecs, her eyes so
unfocused and hazed with lust that he was sure she was oblivious to everything
but her quest for fulfillment. A red flush spread over her breasts, up her neck
to her cheeks as she strained over his hardness, and the visible, uncontrived
evidence of her extreme arousal was as erotic as hell.

He looked down to where they were joined. At that moment she
leaned back, propping her hands on his knees behind herself to support her
weight, giving him an unrestricted view. Her juices had drenched his groin. She
was stretched over him so tightly that the lips of her pussy were spread wide,
her glistening, swollen clit jutting forward, vulnerable and exposed. When she
raised herself, he could clearly see the skin around her opening, pulled taut
where his girth split her flesh apart.

He had only a split second of warning before her climax hit.
Her eyes squeezed shut, her head rolled back, and she held her breath, mouth
gaping in a silent scream. She crushed his cock with her inner muscles, the
contractions pumping the essence from him as he joined her in involuntary
paroxysms of pure, carnal sensation.

***

Mason pushed his chair back from the desk and stretched, flexing
the muscles in his shoulders. He’d spent the last couple of hours researching
Stockholm syndrome on the Internet. It had been an exercise in frustration.
While there seemed to be consensus that the condition existed, it was not
formally classified. One problem was that there was no ethical way to conduct
clinical studies on it, since it was impossible to humanely kidnap and
traumatize people to investigate the effects. Another was the small number of
actual case studies that existed, and of those, their experiences had differed
so vastly that no conclusive evidence as to the triggers and course of the
disorder could be obtained. He’d waded through psychological terms and medical
definitions, and wrapped his mind around evolutionary theories and Freudian
explanations, but nowhere had he found what he wanted—a neat checklist of
causes and symptoms that would tell him, beyond doubt, whether Evelyn had
Stockholm syndrome or not.

What was he to do?

Mason was no fool. He could read people. It was part of what
made him a successful businessman. His ability to suss out what people wanted,
individually and en masse, had helped him develop one award-winning software
application after another. His talents hadn’t hurt in the sexual arena either.
Understanding what his partners needed, sometimes better than they did
themselves, had made him an exceptional Dom.

Right now, his instincts told him that Evelyn wanted to
escape and see him punished for what he’d done to her.

He also understood himself well, and viewed his own motives
with an uncommon objectivity. He acknowledged and accepted all that he was, strengths,
weaknesses, and the stuff of humanity in between. His guilt over what had
happened with Evelyn was a weakness. Because he wanted her forgiveness so
badly, he was predisposed to believe in anything that might indicate a
softening of her feelings toward him.

Armed with this knowledge, and his sound instincts, he
thought himself immune to any manipulation on her part. Or he had, until that
morning. Now he was confused. Her passion had been real. She’d wanted him. She’d
said that she’d forgiven him, and had proceeded to show him exactly how much
she liked him. Oh, how tempted he was to believe her!

But he still held back, remembering, uncomfortably, the last
time that he had made a poor judgment call. He’d trusted Bianca, his sub for
more than four years. He’d asked her to marry him, and he’d fallen in love with
her. Then she’d cheated on him in the worst possible way, betraying their
sacred trust with another Dominant, and annihilated his heart so badly that he’d
sworn off love forever.

Yes, where women were concerned, his good sense flew out the
window as soon as his heart got involved.

He needed to test Evelyn.

***

When Evelyn awoke the next morning, she saw no reason to
hurry out of bed. Mason would be out most of the day, riding around the
perimeter of his land with George, repairing fences, checking on his horses and
his small herd of livestock and generally doing what she sarcastically thought
of as “Lord of the Manor” activities.

He’d explained this at dinner the night before. The meal had
been uncomfortable, filled with awkward silences and a painful undercurrent of
lust tarnished with mistrust. They’d eaten quickly and retired to their
separate rooms early, leaving a distressed Edna clucking over the untouched
dessert.

The awkwardness had begun the moment she’d disengaged from
Mason’s stiff, unmoving body on the armchair. He’d left without saying much and
she hadn’t seen him again until Edna had called them to dine. She’d gone to bed
miserable, fearing that her campaign to escape was already in tatters.

Today, with Mason gone and the mood between them soured with
doubt, her body felt tired, sore, and used, and a depression hung over her like
a low gray cloud. She wondered at the strength of the passion that had
overtaken her, because now she felt so cold. The hours of the day ahead seemed
interminable, and she didn’t know if there was any hope left to cling to.

Edna arrived a little later with her breakfast. The food was
delicious and Evelyn ate well, despite her melancholy, which made her feel a
little better. Then, when she returned to collect the tray, Edna had good news.

“Mason said to tell ya that ya don’t have stay locked in
your room today, sweetie. You’re allowed the run of the house, but ya mustn’t
go outside.”

“Oh, has he already left?” She didn’t show how delighted she
was, for fear of making Edna suspicious. Maybe Mason had decided to trust her a
little after all. Whatever his reasons, she was grateful. The thought of
another day spent cooped up in her bedroom had been unbearable.

“Him’n George left ’bout six this morning. George just
phoned me now to give the message.” She tapped her ample cleavage where she
kept her mobile tucked into her bra.

“Okay. Can I go anywhere in the house?”

“Yeah, just not outside. I’ll be going down to the cottage
after I clean up these breakfast things. I need to do some planting in my
veggie garden.”

Her heart thumped. She would be on her own in the house, at
least for a while. Maybe she could find a phone.

Edna waddled out with the tray, and Evelyn leaped up to
dress. Fifteen minutes later, she opened her door and ventured into the hall toward
the kitchen.

“Edna?” she called loudly, looking around. Only silence
answered. She was alone.

She didn’t bother with the kitchen, lounge, and other living
areas in the central part of the sprawling house. She’d spent enough time in
those rooms to know there was no phone there, or anything that might be of help
to her. Instead she set off for the part she’d never seen. Mason’s wing.