Chapter Forty-Two Rae
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rae
I SCRAMBLE TO OBEY. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice. This isn’t about what I want. It’s what I must do. The simplicity of it satisfies in ways I’d never imagined.
As if the look and feel of the General weren’t enough, as if his smell didn’t wrap me in something safe and scary and weirdly wholesome, there’s this sense that I’m here for his pleasure.
No thinking. No planning. No responsibilities at all.
I obey, I react, and I soak up all the praise, and I please him.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so free.
The second I take my shirt off, the air changes. It’s cooler. I’m more vulnerable. The only barrier is my plain cotton bra, which I scramble to pull down, exposing myself as if it’s my entire job. Exactly what I was made for.
And the worst part? It’s that Grant’s not even looking. He’s turned his back to me while he grabs things from his desk, and it’s awful how badly I crave his attention.
He turns to look at me, and against all expectations, he’s holding my trench coat belt and nothing else. “You okay, Sunny?”
I look down at my own body, my explicitly presented breasts, and fight to hold back a giggle that somehow gets out anyway.
“Is this funny to you?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head, nerves turning fear into hilarity, bubbling up until a choked laugh shakes my shoulders. “I’ve never done this.”
“You’re doing great, sweet girl.”
His hand, warm and firm, nudges my chin up. I keep my eyes closed as it lowers to skate over my left breast, strokes the side, the bottom curve. My right breast now, caressed, gently, lightly, the touch an exploration. A message. This is good, it says. This is right.
Both hands now, just butterfly touches, the backs of his knuckles, the side of his thumbs.
No pressure, just skimming, barely there.
When his breath hits me, warm and humid, my eyes open on their own, and what I’m staring at is the top of Grant Bowman’s head.
Big, thick brown waves, messy after a day of running his hands through them.
There’s a cowlick, a sweet swirl that I’d never have seen without the bird’s-eye view, and for some incomprehensible reason, it makes my pulse pick up speed.
Like he’s shown me a secret part of him.
A touch of vulnerability in this fantasy scene.
A soft underbelly that I’d never have known existed.
The moment his breath touches my skin, I’m lost to the connection again.
His mouth is hot silk around my aching nipple. My eyes roll back. “Oh god.”
Pulling, pulling, and soon nipping with his teeth, and then over to the other one, and his hands are on me, and I am moaning, and my hips have taken on a whole rhythm of their own.
When he comes up for air and tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him. I trust him.
“Here.” He reaches around me, and it’s only after there’s a tug at my hair that I realize it’s my belt that he’s winding and winding into something intricate and almost solid.
It takes a while. Long minutes during which I float, suspended.
At the end, he says, “Touch,” takes my hand, and shows me the thick rope he’s made of my curls, containing them and, if my imagination’s anything close to right, also providing something for him to hold.
My body likes that idea as much as my brain does.
When Grant rises to gather the rest of the items from the desk, I am full of sensation, my blood pumping thick and warm, my muscles aching for something. Anything.
He’s back with the little wooden craft pins, picks one up, opens it, lets it snap closed, picks up another, and then uses them to tease my breasts.
Just exploration and touch until he reaches my nipples, presses the clips open, and gives me a long look before letting one, and then the other, close gently over the tips.
I gasp at the pinch. The two tiny pings of pain are enough to send everything else into a hot tailspin.
Another moment of eye contact, Grant’s steady gaze gauging my reaction before bending to place a kiss on each gently pulsing point. He frames my breasts, admiring his work, and pleasure sparks through me, as light and airy as bubbles in water.
“All right, Sunny. New rule. You ready?”
“Yeah.”
At his side-eye, I quickly amend my response to “Yes, sir.”
“Good. No more errors, okay?” He lifts the ruler. “Or I’ll have to use this.”
“Uh… Yeah…” I nod, spacing out with my eyes on the transparent plastic.
A light thwack to my breast startles me into a squeal and turns the heavy weight in my belly into something hot and syrupy. “Sir.”
“Excellent. Now. Suck my cock. And once you’ve finished me off, I’ll give you your orgasm. But only if you’re a good girl. No touching yourself, Sunny…” He’s so serious, so intense. I’m hanging on every word. “If you touch yourself…” He raises the ruler. “You get this. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, he rolls his chair close and sits in it, a king on his throne.
It’s the most apt description, given that he is all I can see, feel, hear, smell. He’s the ground under my feet, the ache in my thighs. He’s the tightness at my scalp; he’s the clenching at my core. He’s every fantasy I’ve ever had, and the satisfaction is guaranteed.
When he manspreads in that chair, erection proudly framed by his pants, there is not a bone in my body that doesn’t crave him like water. Like the last molecule of air in the world.
The man says down, and I drop to my knees like they’re not sore from the hardwood. Like the pain isn’t something I’ll carry with me for days. For the rest of my life.
There’s a before this moment, and there’s an after, and I know I can’t go back. There was sex pre-Grant. And now there’s this, and I am screwed for everything else.
The worst part is that I. Do. Not. Care.
I let him pull me forward by the hair, and I lick him like a lollipop.
He’s not just the perfect weight of this cock, the perfect fit in my mouth; he’s the very best smell, an ambrosia taste too rich to be real.
His shape, his sound, this feeling. God, the feeling.
I’m squirming, my thighs shifting in an attempt to eke out the tiniest bit of friction.
Anything to alleviate this ache between my legs.
I know as soon as he pulls me off him that I’ve been caught.
“Sunny.” His voice resonates. “Are you trying to come?”
Uh-oh. My pulse is loud in my ears. Finally, I nod.
“You are aware of the consequences?”
When I nod this time, I’m filled with a bright, hedonistic glee.
“Tell me.”
“The ruler. Sir.” I have to work to hide my grin.
“Not much of a punishment if you want it, Sunny.” Another sigh. “What’s under the skirt?”
“Tights. Um, panties.” I’m breathing hard. “Sir.”
It takes him a minute to gather up my skirt and pull my tights and underwear down.
I shut my eyes hard as he gives my bottom half a good, long look, and when I finally open them, he’s staring blandly at my face.
Only there’s nothing bland about the pink cast to his cheeks or the quick rise and fall of his chest.
He rolls on a condom and pats his knee. I try to figure out the best angle of approach and let him guide me face down across his legs, until I’m ass up on his lap. Ready for my punishment.
How surreal is this?
A giggle tries to work its way up and out of my mouth, but I keep it in. And wait, stretched here on his lap with his cock against my belly, his hand on my ass, and the other below me, playing with one pinched, aching nipple.
This is exactly where I’m meant to be. Here. Now. It feels like fate. Like the end of my sexual rainbow.
Subspace. The word flits through my mind at the exact moment the ruler lands on my ass, and my entire body flinches. Seconds later, his hand soothes. I sink into him again. Give him my weight, my trust. I am submerged.
“There it is.”
That hand fondling my breasts sends shards of pleasure to my pussy, so sharp I think I’ll scream.
“Good. Just a few more.”
I nod. Agreement, acquiescence, consent, a demand. Call it what you want, I am fully on board.
“Good,” he mutters right before slapping my ass again with a piece of plastic that has no earthly business feeling this good.
Sharp and angry for a split second before the pain washes into pleasure so wide and deep that my extremities fizz with it when the next smack lands.
And the next. And the next. And all the while, he’s telling me how pretty my ass is in pink like this.
My dimples and curves. How gorgeous I am when I moan.
How my pussy’s begging for his cock, and I’ll get it.
But only when he’s done. When he’s ready.
My breasts are pulsing, my nipples throbbing, and my pussy’s this swollen, empty ache, and he’s moved on to the other cheek and then shoves my legs wide, and—“Oh god,” I moan, when the ruler lands right where I want it, on my clit, and the feeling’s so big and bright that I’m going to explode and I tell him, and then he’s somehow hauled me up and I’m straddling him, a rag doll in his arms. His erection notches at my entrance.
“Fuck, baby. Fuck, look at you. So wet. So needy.”
I whimper.
“I want you to come for me, so hard.”
I stare down at where he starts forging his way inside me, slowly stretching me.
And it’s tight. But it’s good. Better than anything, with his thumb teasing my clit and my breasts cradled in one hand and he’s back to working my hips and my weak legs lift and fall and—holy shit, he’s all the way in and I’m so full, and then… then…
My clit, my insides, a flash of pleasure/pain at my breast. He’s taken the nipple clamp off, and I am wailing, except there’s no noise because he’s soaking up the sound with his mouth. I am detonating.
“Next time…” His voice grates against my lips. “I want to feel this bare.”
“Oh god,” I pant.
“There it is.” He takes off the second clamp, and my whole body clenches. “Oh fuck.”
My climax builds to a sharp point… and then breaks.
Everything disappears in the wash of sensation. I close my eyes… and I’m gone.