Chapter 11
Odette
I ’m in agony, but I don’t know whether it’s an agony of pain or an agony of pleasure. Both have become one, so intertwined I can’t separate one from the other. The pressure of the clamps on my sensitive nipples is bad enough, but the one he settled around my clit is almost overwhelming.
He told me it would hurt and it does, yet I feel as if I could also come at any moment and I can’t get my head around that.
It’s weird how pleasure and pain can be so locked together, because I always assumed pleasure was pleasure, and pain was only pain.
Yet when he attached those clamps and pulled on the chains, the pain and pleasure fused, becoming something so intense that part of me wants to scream my safe word, while the rest of me wants to scream more .
His blue gaze was everything, the whole world, and when he told me he wanted my tears I couldn’t stop them from falling.
It was kind of liberating in a way, because it was clear my tears didn’t bother him.
They bothered Lucas, though. He never said anything explicitly, but I know he didn’t like hearing about the attack or about my feelings around it, because it made him angry.
He didn’t understand that I didn’t need him to do anything, I only wanted him to listen.
My parents, too, had no patience for my fears and so I learned to keep them bottled up and to distract myself with school, sublimate my anxieties into getting good grades, and pushing harder to get better.
I never took failure well and neither did my parents, so Mr. Fairfax sitting there watching me weep without judgement just felt… freeing.
Then he grabbed my wrist when I tried to wipe my tears away and the kiss he pressed into my palm felt like he’d lit a fire inside me.
The warmth of his mouth on my sensitized flesh added to the agony of sensation, and then that look in his hard blue eyes, as if he could see something in me that I hadn’t known was there…
God. I was ready to do anything he wanted. Anything at all. And I remembered what he told me so when he asked me if I wanted to come, there was only one response I could give him. Yes, I fucking wanted to come. I burned for it. But only if he wanted me to.
I wasn’t expecting him to kiss me again, so I’m in shock as he pulls me in and his mouth covers mine.
But it’s not the same kiss as before. That was light, gentle, and this is…
not either of those things. His tongue pushes into my mouth, taking what he wants the way a conqueror takes a castle, without mercy and without quarter.
His fingers wind into my hair, holding me in place as he ravages me.
I sense that he doesn’t want me to respond, he only wants to master me, and that’s good because even if I wanted to, I can’t kiss him back, not with him exploring my mouth as if he owns it.
He tugs on those fucking chains at the same time, too, the heat of the kiss and the agonizing pull of the clamps making me burn like I have a fever.
I give a sobbing moan against his mouth and then his teeth are sinking into my bottom lip, giving me a sharp nip that turns my moan into a wail.
I can’t bear this and yet I want more. I want more of his kiss, more pressure on the clamps, more pain, more everything, because this is the most intensely alive I’ve ever felt.
And despite being under his command, I’m also so inexplicably free.
I have pleased him — I saw the glitter of heat in his eyes when I said your will, Master — and the way he’s kissing me…
I think he likes this as much as I do and a burst of confidence fills me.
A confidence I lost two years ago, that shattered and broke that night outside the bar.
It’s not the same pure confidence that I would conquer the world like I did when I graduated high school, but it’s there.
A fragile hope of something better. So, I lean into the kiss, not demanding or insisting, but taking what he gives me, letting him know that I am here for his will and his alone.
He tastes of the alcohol he was drinking earlier— a good scotch, rich and strong— and something else, a flavor intrinsic to him and it makes me hungry. Everything about him makes me hungry.
He tugs at the chains again, sending lightning strikes of pleasure/pain radiating out from my nipples and my clit, and I cry out again against his lips.
Abruptly, he pulls away, one hand still buried in my hair, and in a series of deft, practiced movements, he takes the clamps off my distended nipples and clit.
As soon as the pressure disappears, the blood rushes back in and it hurts like a bastard.
Tears roll down my cheeks and I whimper like a wounded animal, but his mouth is back and he’s kissing me again, slower this time, deeper, as if he’s tasting me, relishing me.
Then I feel his hand reach down between my thighs, to where I’m so sensitive, and he’s sliding one finger into me.
The sensation is so intense I give a muffled scream against his lips, but he doesn’t stop, sliding another finger in and then a third.
I’m so wet there’s no resistance, and when he starts to work them in and out of me, the pleasure is like a blade slicing through me.
He doesn’t touch my swollen clit, but he doesn’t need to, the friction and the feeling of being stretched by his fingers is everything.
I can feel an orgasm barreling down on me like a freight train and I don’t think I can stop it.
“No,” he warns against my lips. “Don’t you fucking come.
Automatically I fight the urge, panting and sobbing, but he doesn’t stop the movement of his fingers and it’s relentless, and no matter how hard I struggle against it there’s no stopping the climax.
It’s like a tsunami, gathering strength and power as it builds, and then it’s rolling over me, the force of the pleasure shattering me as if I’m made of crystal.
I scream and scream against his mouth, shaking and shaking, the broken pieces of me rubbing against one another and magnifying the intensity. I lose track of where I am, of who I am, completely at the mercy of the ecstasy shaking me apart.
His hands withdraw, but his arms are closing around me and lifting me, and I’m only half-aware of being carried over to the couch.
I expect him to set me down on it, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he sits with me in his lap and wraps a blanket around me, then he holds me as I shake and tremble with the aftershocks, tears still rolling down my face for no reason that I can see.
He’s so hot, his chest hard, his arms strong, and I’m enclosed in them like a secret he wants to keep.
My head rests against the warm stone of his chest, and I can hear his heart beating, slow and steady. I let the sound of it fill my head, and soon my sobs fade and my breathing becomes more even, matching the beat of his heart.
For a few blissful moments, I think of nothing at all, floating in a wonderful post-orgasmic haze that I never want to end.
Then he says, “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
He eases me onto the sofa cushions and vanishes through the doorway again, but he doesn’t leave me for long this time. I’ve barely registered he left before he’s back, and once again I’m in his lap, held in his arms.
“Drink this,” he instructs and holds a glass of water to my lips.
I don’t even think about disobeying, sipping at it, letting the cool water ease my throat, a little painful after all that screaming. This must be the aftercare I’ve read about, when a Dom provides physical comfort and reassurance after a scene. Well, if so, I like it very much.
He makes me drink the whole glass and while I’m sipping, I become conscious of something very hard beneath my butt.
My God, if that’s his cock — and really, what else could it be?
— then he’s huge. Also, he must be desperate for release, and yet he’s making no move on me.
It’s as if it doesn’t matter to him and part of me is turned on by his control, while another part is exceptionally pleased with myself that I’ve got him in this state at all.
After I’ve drained the glass, I rest my head against his shoulder and look up at him.
For once he’s not looking at me, staring off into the distance instead, and slowly I become aware of how tense he is.
His expression is about as readable as a lump of granite, and I’m suddenly desperate to know what he’s thinking.
Does he not like this part? This aftercare thing?
He doesn’t give the impression of a man who is used to giving comfort, I guess, considering how hard he is, yet he’s doing it for me anyway. Perhaps he feels he has to?
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice husky in the silence. “I’ll be okay in a moment.”
Instantly, he glances down at me. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I came when you told me not to. And also…you don’t have to hold me like this if you don’t want to.”
He’s staring at me, not in the way he stares when he’s giving instructions, but as if what I just said has surprised him. “Why do you think I don’t like holding you?”
“You’re tense. In fact your whole body is tight.” I shift, ready to move away, but his arms tighten around me, and this time it’s my turn to be surprised. “What?”
“Did I tell you to move, sub?” he says roughly.
“But you don’t like?—”
“Whose will is important here?”
I take a little breath. “Yours.”
“That’s right. And if I want to hold you, I fucking will, understand?”
I stare up at his hard features, the force of his command beating me down, making me want to curl up against him and not push. But I can’t stop myself. “Then why are you so tense?”
A muscle flicks in his hard jaw. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”