Chapter 22. Jude
"Can we go to the club, please? I'm dying for you to meet all my friends. They're important to me," I say, looking at him with my best puppy eyes. the ones I know work on anybody.
He gives me a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. I'm sitting at his feet. That's where I like to be. I like my dog bed. It still reminds me a little of Emmett, but I do my best not to think about that.
His hand is on my head, rubbing gently, playing with my hair, though he's still focused on his computer. "You said you didn't like going there, babe."
"I know, but Glynn texted me this morning and they really want to see me again. They say they miss me, and I miss them. Maybe with you there, it won't be that bad."
He gives me a skeptical look. He's worried. Worried about my reaction if I run into Emmett. It's true that I can't control myself around him. Too many open wounds. But I still really want to see Callum and the others.
I'm pretty sure he's also still a little upset about last time, and he has every right to be. I was a little shit. I cringe thinking about it. He was right, I shouldn't have done that, and I paid for it. But I still feel pretty damn bad about it. I want to show him that this time will be different.
"Fine, but if you don't behave…" he says, looking at me with a smirk, and I know he's actually fine with going.
My heart beats faster. "You are going to spend one month caged, and I mean it, and every time you beg for release, I'll let you out of your cage just to edge you and put you back there. Do you understand, pet?"
I feel my cock strain against the cage, and all I can do is growl in response.
"Is that a yes, puppy?" he asks, teasing, and I say ‘woof woof’ as an answer, barking. He laughs. He's in a good mood. That makes me very excited.
"Daddy, may I get up, please?" I ask, because getting out of my spot requires permission. I could crawl, but my knee is killing me.
"Sure," he says. "Get up and get ready. I want to fuck you before we go, so you're there very calm and composed."
Fuck. My cock twitches even more.
"Will you unlock me, pretty please with sugar on top?" I beg. He's about to say something, but I add: "I'm making the case for your benefit, Daddy! Imagine yourself playing with my cock, feeling how hard and wet it gets, stroking it. The cage isn't fun for you either, is it?!"
"I suppose you're right."
"I am?!" I ask, excited. He laughs.
"Yes. I will play with you and lock you back. Never said anything about letting you cum, though."
"Daddy!" I protest.
He gives me that look - the one that says I'm in charge and you know it - and I feel my whole body go still with anticipation. His hand reaches under his shirt, slow, deliberate, and pulls out the small silver key from the chain he wears against his chest.
"Come here," he says, and his voice drops into that register that makes my knees feel like they're made of water. I step closer, and he hooks a finger into the waistband of my boxers, tugging them down. The cage is right there, and my cock is straining against it so hard it almost hurts.
His fingers are warm when they find the lock. He doesn't rush. He never rushes, no matter how much I want him to. He turns the key with a soft click, and then the cage comes apart in his hands, piece by piece, and the relief of it, the sudden freedom, makes me gasp.
"Easy," he murmurs, and his hand wraps around me before I can even breathe.
I'm already hard. Painfully, obscenely hard, and the first stroke of his thumb along the underside makes my vision blur at the edges. He's watching my face with those blue eyes, reading me.
"Look at you," he says. "So desperate already."
"I've been locked for two days, Daddy," I manage, and my voice comes out wrecked already.
"I know exactly how long it's been, and you're still staying locked for three more." His grip tightens, just enough, and he gives me one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound out of me I didn't know I could make. "I've been counting too."
His other hand finds the back of my neck, gripping firmly, grounding me, and he pulls me closer.
I can smell his cologne. He works me slowly, maddeningly, his thumb circling the head on every upstroke, spreading the wetness that's already leaking from me.
My hips jerk forward involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on my neck in warning.
"Stay still."
"I can't…!"
"You can. You will."
I bite my lip and force my body into stillness, trembling with the effort. He rewards me with a faster stroke, then another, building a rhythm that has my thighs shaking.
Then he stops.
I nearly scream.
"Turn around," he says. "Bend over the desk."
I move so fast I almost trip over my own boxers pooled at my ankles. I hear the drawer slide open. His slicked fingers find me, and the first one slides in with an ease that makes him hum approvingly. "You've been good," he observes, working me open. "Kept yourself ready for me."
"Always," I breathe. He asked me to finger myself every day so he could use me whenever he wanted. How could I not oblige?
A second finger, and I arch my back, pressing into his hand. He curves them just right. He knows my body almost better than I do.
"Please," I whisper. "Please, Daddy, I need you."
He withdraws his fingers, and I hear the sound of his belt, the slide of his zipper, and then the thick pressure of him pressing against me.
He enters me slowly, one steady push that fills me completely.
His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine, and he holds there, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust.
"Breathe," he reminds me, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
I exhale in a shuddering rush, and he begins to move.
It's not gentle. It's not too rough either. His hand slides around to grip my cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is so overwhelming that tears prick the corners of my eyes. If he doesn’t let me cum, I don’t know what I’ll do.
"You've been so good for me lately," he says, and his voice is rougher now, the controlled edge fraying just slightly. That's how I know he's close. "Coming to me when you need it instead of destroying yourself."
"I'm trying," I gasp. "I'm trying to be good."
"I know you are." He leans forward, his chest pressing against my back, his beard scratching against my shoulder, and his lips brush my ear. "That's why I'm going to let you come."
The words hit me like an electric shock. "Really?"
"Really. You earned it, puppy."
A sob tears out of my throat. Gratitude, relief, something bigger and more terrifying that I don't have a name for, and his hand tightens on me, stroking faster, his hips snapping harder, and I'm right there at the edge, the edge I've been teetering on for two agonizing days.
"Come for me," he says, and it's not a suggestion. It's a command.
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me, violent and bright. I feel myself clenching around him, feel him groan against my neck, and then he follows me over, burying himself deep as he comes with a low, guttural sound.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us panting, both of us trembling. His hand is still wrapped loosely around my spent cock, and he gives it one last gentle squeeze that makes me whimper.
"Thank you, Daddy," I whisper, and my voice sounds like it's been dragged over gravel.
He presses a kiss to the back of my neck, lingering, tender. "You're welcome, baby."
Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and I hear him reach for the tissues he keeps in the second drawer. He cleans me up with attentiveness, wiping me down, smoothing his hand over my lower back in slow circles until my breathing evens out.
"Now," he says, and I can hear the smirk return to his voice, "get dressed. We're going to be late, and I still need to decide what you're wearing."
"Can we shower first?"
"No. I want you to wear my cum inside you."
"Fu…" I start, but I catch myself. "I mean. Fudge. Or something."
He laughs. "I told you you'd learn."
I turn around, leaning against the desk on wobbly legs, and grin at him. My whole body feels loose and warm. "You're picking my outfit?"
"I'm always picking your outfit when we go out. What part of being my toy for me to play dress-up with don't you understand?"
He's watching me from the closet now, pretending to be all business. I grin at him, loose-limbed and still catching my breath.
"Stay," he says, and I do, which is probably a record for me. The miracle of obedience.
I know he's been plotting this since I first mentioned BratWorld three days ago.
I could see the gears turning. He comes back with an armful of leather: pants, butter-soft and black, tailored to fit me; a harness with silver O-rings.
No shirt. He doesn't want anything getting in the way of his handiwork.
He adds the heavy black boots with the buckles. They're my favorite part. He brings everything to where I'm still leaning against the desk, and I watch him with eyes that can't decide if they're amused or turned on.
"Arms up," he tells me, and I raise them, because I know what's good for me. He fits the harness over my chest himself, adjusting each strap, tightening the buckles until they bite against my skin. His fingers follow the leather where it crosses my sternum.
"The pants," he says, handing them over, and I shimmy into them with a little extra wiggle that's entirely for his benefit.
They fit like I knew they would. Like he knew they would.
Like I've been painted in black, nothing left to the imagination. He steps back to look, assessing, and the way he's eyeing me is enough to make me squirm. Almost there but not quite. “I’m leaving you unlocked, as you haven’t showered yet, but no touching.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, rolling my eyes. He gives me this amused look.
"Wait here," he says again. This time he goes to the bathroom and comes back with a slim black pencil between his fingers.
"Is that…?"
"Eyeliner," he confirms, uncapping it. "Sit on the desk."
I'm up there. He looks at me like he's handing me some kind of treasure. So precious.
"You want me to wear eyeliner?" I ask.
"Yes. I want you to be devastating. More than usual," he says, stepping between my knees. He cups my jaw and tilts my face up. "Hold still. Look up."
I obey, and my lashes flutter as he brings the pencil to the waterline of my left eye. He's careful. I blink when he pulls away, and he tilts my chin to the other side.
"Oh my God," I whisper, barely moving my lips. "I love this. Being your little doll."
"I know you do." He traces the liner along my right eye, smudges it slightly at the corner with his thumb, giving it that lived-in, dangerous look. "I know exactly what you need."
When he's finished, he steps back to look and smiles.
"Go look at yourself," he says, and I'm off the desk and in the bathroom. The eyeliner transforms my face. My honey eyes look enormous, framed in black, vulnerable and vicious. Combined with the harness cutting across my bare chest, the leather pants, I look fucking hot.
He leans against the doorframe, watching me.
"Daddy," I say, staring at my reflection like I'm meeting someone new. "I look…"
"You look delicious and mine," he finishes for me. "Which is the point."
I spin around, and for a moment I want to launch myself at him, but I catch myself, remembering the rules about respect, and instead stand buzzing with restrained energy, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.
"Can I hug you?" I ask, and it makes me feel so small, so submissive, but in the best way.
"Come here," he says, and I crash into him like a wave, arms wrapping around his torso, face buried in his neck. He holds me there, one hand on the back of my head, the other splayed across the bare skin of my lower back.