Chapter Twenty-One The Artisan #2
She flinched, and so did her grip on my cock. Just that reaction made me twitch; I was sure she felt it.
Her ivory cheeks steadily became red, the color spreading as she let the actions ferment.
“Please”—she was glowing, glassy-eyed, and squirming on my shoe—“let me use my mouth.”
“What for?”
“I . . .” She twitched as I slid my shoe between her legs more. “I want to feel your cock pulsing at the back of my throat, hot and eager.” Her voice dropped, rich like an imported cigar. She cupped her hand between my legs and placed her lips on the prominent bulge.
God, the mouth on this woman makes me think I should attend a confessional just for hearing her.
Her hips rolled against my ankle, her abdomen flush with my shin.
“You know, they say positive reinforcement works just as well as conditioning,” she started, her eyes fluttering up. “Do I get a reward for this lesson?”
“Do you deserve one?”
She swallowed whatever clever words she’d reserved for her next response.
“I would think the simple friction against my shoe would be enough for you,” I taunted, keeping a careful eye on her expression. “It’s quite a sight to see the pampered pet groveling, quivering with even the most meager contact. Why don’t you finish? Is that reward enough for you?”
The corner of her lip twitched, her hands balling in my pants. With the most wicked smile, she said, “No, I want more.”
“What you want and what you are allowed are two different things, princess.” I laughed. “Do you need a moment to correct your attitude and try again?”
“Or what?” She smirked. “Will you punish me?”
“I may.” I shrugged, though my veil of nonchalance was being whipped away with every retort. “Do as you are told.”
“No.” The single word was breathless, like the resistance was just as arousing as the friction between her legs.
“Very well, then.” I reached down, yanking her up by her nightgown.
I stepped back, sitting at the far end of the sofa. With one tug, she was over my lap, her torso over the arm of the couch.
The silk was soft in my hand as I ran my palm flat against the backs of her thighs, her hips in my lap. The silk lifted, her bare skin exposed. I paused, just in case, but there wasn’t even an utterance from her. Though her legs were shaking in anticipation.
She was finally getting her reward.
I brought my hand down across her backside. She yelped, clutching the edge of the sofa. A red impression of my hand formed.
“See what you do? Princess treatment only comes when you’re good.” My hand came down again, and the sound that came from her was like a mewl. “Brats get a special type of handling.”
“Is that what I am?” She smirked over her shoulder, the absolute bliss on her face making her appear nearly drunk, glassy eyes and all. “Your hand is soft, you’re going far too easy.”
My hand raised, coming down on her backside again with a sharp slap, the sound cracking through the air.
Her legs tensed, then relaxed again. “Light as a feather,” she moaned. “It tickles.”
Slap!
Her nails dug into the sofa, her faced burying into the pillow to muffle her yell. “Again, my God, I can almost feel it! When will the discipline begin—”
My fingers in her hair, pulling her head slightly back. Far enough where it was difficult for her to talk, not too far where she couldn’t breathe.
I leaned toward her face. “Maybe next time I should find something to put in that mouth of yours.”
Her lips slowly formed the daring impression of the word please.
“Take it without talking,” I whispered.
Slap!
She flinched, biting her lip.
“What a good girl,” I praised.
Slap!
Her eyes clenched shut, a tear sprinting down her cheek.
I raised my hand and paused.
“Look at me, dear,” I instructed sweetly.
She opened her eyes; they were red but not distressed.
“You’re doing so well. Can you take one more?” While this was entertaining, and putting me at my own limit, I needed to know if she wanted it.
She swallowed thickly, a silent nod with eagerness.
The last slap cracked through the air, my hand maintaining contact with her skin before slipping between her legs.
I glanced over her backside, completely red; it would certainly be bruised tomorrow. As my fingers slipped between her legs, I smirked.
“Ah, it seems like you claimed your reward before we finished.” My fingers played with the wetness between her legs.
I let go of her hair, brushing my fingers through to undo any knots I may have created, rolling her over in my lap.
She slumped with her head on the decorative pillow, her face and chest as red as her behind. Even her breathing was deep and therapeutic, like she was recovering from some great undertaking.
“Did I tire you enough to retire to bed early?” I pulled her gown over her legs, shifting beneath her into a more comfortable position.
She simply nodded, unable to open her eyes any longer.
Even as I held her, she trembled slightly, charged from the shock of orgasming on her own.
She seemed comfortable enough here, so I didn’t move.
I reached to the side, grabbing a sketchbook from the small pile on the floor, then dug between the cushions for my pencil.
If I would be stuck serving as her sleep cushion, I may as well take the time to relax too.