Chapter 7
7
I nara
Like the last time I was here, my scene starts with me blindfolded and facing the cross. But unlike before, I’m not handcuffed and secured there by a club employee. I shift my weight from foot to foot, folding my arms in front of me and then dropping them to hang awkwardly at my sides.
In the darkness, I have nothing to hold onto. The room has its own heating and cooling system, but it’s not fully warmed up. The thermostat read sixty-nine degrees when I came in, and my nipples are hard points in my bra. My heart booms in my chest.
This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have come back so soon. I should go?—
I’m about to claw the blindfold from my eyes and run for it when the door behind me swings open, sending a breeze across my back. The scent of expensive cologne washes over me, and my panic drains away.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
Anticipation seizes me by the neck and sends a whole body shiver down my spine.
It’s him . He’s back. He saw my request and answered it. Again. He returned to me.
Deep down, I knew he would.
“What’s unexpected?”
“You. Here. Tonight. Like this.”
I can feel him studying me. His voice tells me he likes what he sees.
I stripped down as soon as I got into the room. The little black dress I threw on is flung over the couch on the right, and I’m not wearing a satin nightie. No, tonight I’m only wearing a bra and slim-cut boyshorts. The fabric covers everything, but they’re flesh-toned, so at first glance, I look like I’m not wearing anything.
It’s not showing much more skin than if I wore the skimpy nightie, but it’s the most naked I’ve been in front of someone in years.
“I thought I’d be brave.”
“You are. Brave.” His voice strokes right between my legs. My inner muscles flutter.
I want to tell him I usually request a different partner each time I come here. That I’ve never been with the same top twice. But then, he’d guess that I want to scene with him again. Offering that information would expose me too much.
That reminds me. . .
“You knew my name.”
“Forgive me,” he says with the confidence of a man used to acting without permission. “I make a point of thoroughly vetting any of my scene partners. For safety purposes. My position requires it.”
His position. In the club? Or in the outside world? Club Empire is the biggest kink club in New Rome and, therefore, one of the biggest and most famous in the world. Rumor has it that politicians and celebrities flock to it, although the strict security keeps their identity a secret.
My mystery dom must be one of them.
Like last time, I hear a clink like ice in a glass. Once again, he’s breaking the rules of the club. More proof he’s a celebrity guest and has special benefits.
I gather up these crumbs of information and savor them, greedy for more.
I’m still facing the cross, close enough that I could take a step forward and lean my forehead against the cool leather. The dom approaches me, stopping a few paces away.
“No handcuffs tonight?”
“No.” I put my arms behind my back so my wrists cross over my spine. “You said you would tie me up.” The words are burned into my brain.
“So I did.” He’s closer to me now, and I get a sense of the breadth of him. Just like I’ve imagined. He’s so big he could swallow me up in his massive frame. He’s not just tall but broad in the shoulders and chest—exactly how I’ve sketched him over and over again.
And I’ve just revealed that I’ve obsessed over what he told me in the first scene. If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you. And now that I think of it, he sounded sure that there would be a next time.
How did he know? Have I revealed too much? My throat tightens.
“Breathe, little bird.”
There it is. His endearment for me. My exhale makes me lean against the cross as if my held breath were the only thing holding me up.
“That’s it. You’re okay. Keep breathing for me.”
Now, it’s a command. And that makes it easier.
He waits, breathing with me, standing so close I could swoon into him, and he’d catch me. “You didn’t have much more in your request for the scene this time. Just that you remain blindfolded and that there be impact play.”
I nod. I’d left it open-ended for a reason.
Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to let go?
Who am I kidding? He read me from the first, taking stock of the little information I gave and using it to dig into my psyche. Not unlike my work. He’s as deep in my head as I get into the heads of criminals when I’m hunting them. Profiling me as I profile them.
“You didn’t specifically mention no touch this time,” he says.
He’s going to touch me . I tremble against the cross. Little sparks of lighting fly over my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“It’s okay, Inara.” His use of my name brings me back. He can tell I’m panicking. “I’m not going to. At least, not skin to skin.”
He’s backed away, giving me space to freak out.
“I must admit, I took the liberty of thinking things through even before I saw your second scene request. I have a possible solution. If I may?”
Something brushes my fingers. Strong and buttery smooth—leather?
“Gloves,” he says, and it’s so beautiful, so simple, this solution he’s come up with, that I smile. I rub the soft leather between my fingers, imagining it covering his hand.
“If I wear them, may I touch you?”
“Yes.” Desire thickens my voice. “Yes.”
“Good.” He pulls the gloves away. “Raise your arms and place them against the cross.”
He’s across the room now, at the wall of toys. There’s a thunk as he sets down his drink and more sounds of him shuffling through implements.
I bring my arms up against the cross and press my wrists to the leather.
He comes to stand behind me. Something brushes the back of my hand.
“Rope,” he says. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
The rope loops over my right wrist, once, twice, then again, and again—too many times for me to count. When he’s done, I’m bound wrist to elbow. I relax my shoulders, and my whole right arm stays secured to the cross.
“This is my favorite type of tie,” he tells me. “Strong. Secure. Safe. Wriggle your fingers for me?”
I do. The rope is tight, not so tight it will cut off circulation, but tight enough that I can’t possibly move my arm away.
“Good girl.”
He ties my left arm, moving more slowly. His breath stirs my hair. I flex my forearms, enjoying the grip. If I’m lucky, they’ll leave a ladder of faint marks.
He steps away and has me wiggle my fingers again.
I take the opportunity to rock backward, testing the limits of the bind. He’s right; it’s perfectly secure. Maybe it’s overkill to loop the rope from wrist to elbow, but it feels lovely. And there’s no mistaking the message: you can’t get away.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Elyria.”
“Elyria.” His inflection turns the word into a song. Instead of wrenching my gut, it soothes me. Or maybe I’m already drifting into subspace, relaxed by the security of the ropes.
“You look beautiful like this, little bird. Tied so tight you can’t fly away. Not unless I allow it. Do you like it?”
“Yes, Sir.” I let the ‘sir’ slip before I can catch it, but he doesn’t make a big deal about it. Maybe he agrees that it fits the moment.
Then his exhale rushes out of him, and I sense the ‘sir’ affected him more than I first thought.
He pauses a long moment, his breath stirring my hair.
“You still have marks from the last time.”
“Yes, Sir. I like them.” I need them.
“Do you?”
“I like being able to feel them.”
Something smooth and flat strokes down my back. It feels like the flap of a crop. He circles a particularly sore spot and presses on it. “Is this tender?”
I bite back a whimper. “Yes.”
“And now?” More pressure in that one fiery spot, hard and unrelenting.
“It hurts,” I gasp. So good.
“And you like the hurt.”
“I need it.”
“Well then, little bird. Let me give you what you need.” He steps back. “We’ll start with the crop this time.” There’s a snap, and the implement strikes my side, right on the tender swell of my hip. He hits it again. And again. The same spot, over and over, until I’m gasping and sweating, wrenching at the ropes. But with the way I’m tied, I can’t go far. I try to pull my arms out of their bonds, but there’s no escape.
“There you go.” He probes the red-hot patch of skin. “Nice and red now. Shall I make it bruise? It will be tender tomorrow. You’ll feel it when you walk. And if you need it. . .” He leans in close enough the fine hairs on my back rise. “You can press on it. And think of me.”
I’m crying now, tears mixing with snot as I sob into the cross.
“My poor little bird. So small and fragile and at my mercy.”
Snap! The crop bites that one aching spot again. Pain erupts and flows like lava through me, stealing the air out of my lungs.
“Let me set you free. Make you fly.”
I try to twist away from him, hide my hip, yet he still finds a way to tap the crop against that one stinging spot. My writhing rubs my nipples against the cross, stimulating them unbearably.
In the end, I dance from foot to foot, trying to disperse the pain. He hasn’t tied my feet. With my arms thoroughly bound, he doesn’t need to.
“Present your foot to me.”
Oh no. Is he serious?
I raise my foot and point the toe, giving him the perfect target. The crop prods the tender skin of my arch. Swiping up and down, almost tickling me. Then it snaps against my sole, and I cry out. But I keep my foot pointed for him to snap that one spot again and again. The pain splinters through me, blazing through my bones, the nerves of my foot lighting up the rest of my body.
My foot is throbbing so hard it takes a moment to realize he stopped cropping my foot some time ago.
“Good girl. Now, the other.”
I’m shaking, wincing as I shift my weight to my poor, beaten foot. When I finally press it into the floor, the pain takes my breath away. I whimper and collapse against the cross.
He hovers behind me, waiting. Patient. Inexorable. He doesn’t have to speak to assert his will over me.
I sniffle as I raise my left foot and point the toe. I don’t even try to hold myself upright, instead letting the cross and the ropes around my arms bear my weight. Each blow of the crop wracks my body.
“There,” he says in that beautifully deep voice, so gentle and cruel. “Whenever you take a step, you’ll think of me.”
The thought makes me so happy I sob harder. Sweat rolls down my back, and I’m panting like I’ve run up seven flights of stairs.
He’s hit me in only three places, and I’m already undone.
“Shhhh,” he says. Something stirs my hair, and I freeze. My hair tie must have given up the fight because my bun is half undone. My hair tumbles down my back, and he’s lifting it. Not with the crop. With his fingers, he sifts through the thick strands. Touching me. It feels so good, and I can lean into it, protected from him as I am by his gloves. “Good girl. My good, beautiful girl.”
He drops a hand and presses into the fiery spot on my hip. I shriek and rise to tiptoe, but he follows me, pushing his gloved fingers into my bruised flesh.
Endorphins bloom through me, lifting me up. I can’t tell when he steps away. I still feel the imprint of his fingers on my side.
“You’ve done so well.” He tucks my hair over my shoulder, out of the way and wipes my face with a soft cloth that bears a trace of his cologne. He holds a water bottle to my lips, and I drink greedily until I’m full.
It still takes me a moment to clear my throat to ask, “Are we done?”
“Do you want this to be over?”
“No.” Not by a long shot. But I’m not sure if I can take any more.
“Then no, Inara.” He sets his hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. Over my bra strap I can feel how large his hand is. I was right. He is a giant.
This is the first time he’s touched my skin. The gloves mask some of the heat of his body. It’s like nothing else—the strength of his fingers stroking down my back from shoulder to hip. He’s gentle over my marks, but I find myself twisting when he gets close to the single mark he left on my love handle.
He avoids it now, soothing me. “Shhh. No more pain. Just feel.” He glides his hand carefully over the curve of my ass and all the way down my legs. His touch awakens a deep ache inside me.
The pain seems to pulse from point to point, from hip to foot to foot. A red-hot trinity painted on the canvas of other sore places from our last night. But there’s also arousal surging in my core. Each pass of his hands melts the tension from my limbs while also stoking the smoldering sparks between my legs.
I flex my fingers, straining against the rope, but I’m relieved I can’t get away.
Because if I could, I would run. Fast and far. I’d regret it later when I was lying in my bed, but right now, I’m reminded of why I usually request no touching. It’s dangerous.
It’s not that I don’t feel, can’t feel. It’s that I feel too much. And I don’t know how to filter, how to stop it. So, I shut everything out.
Even in the gloves, his hands on me feel so good I want to cry. Cry with happiness and cry knowing how much I’ll miss them when they’re gone.
He braces behind me, his body covering mine with mere inches between us. I revel in how big he is—tall enough to plant his hands high on the cross so his arms blanket mine. His shirt sleeves brush the rope bracelets ringing my forearms. I can’t feel it, but I hear the soft fabric sound.
“I want you to come for me.”
My breath shudders out of me. A half sob.
“Would that be okay?”
I’m too limp to speak. I nod against the cross.
“I don’t have to use my fingers if you don’t want me to.”
I make a non-committal noise. His hand slides along my midriff, covering my belly in such a way that his fingers brush the soft swell of fat under my belly button.
“I could just stroke you here.” His voice is a deep rumble, barely audible. The sound, combined with the reverent touch above my mons, is fine whiskey in my veins. Intoxicating. I could close my eyes under the blindfold and drift away.
His fingers press a little closer to my sex, sinking deeper to rub my pelvic bone. The movement makes my insides quiver. “Do you like that, little bird? Is it working?”
My sex is a ripe fruit, bruised and aching, cracking open, dripping nectar. His touch is so good.
It’s not enough.
I push into his hand.
“Ah, ah.” His hand retreats. “You’re not in control.”
I bite back a curse.
“You want to come for me?” Now his hand is at my lower back, fingers trailing across my ass. Making me unbearably wet. “You want me to touch your sweet little pussy, make you squirt?”
I don’t move or speak, too focused on the sensations his touch awakens. He blows on my ear, and I moan.
“You’re beautiful like this, little bird. And you’re getting closer. I can tell. The way you quiver. The little furrow in your brow. You don’t have to work for it. It’s right here for you.”
I tip my head back, seeking contact with his chest. It feels so good to be bound like this, safe and secure between his body and the cross. It feels like being held.
Something tickles my sex. Not his fingers—something else. I scrunch my nose and squirm.
“You don’t like that?”
What the fuck is it? I screw up my face and shake my head, rubbing it against his shirt.
“No feathers. Got it.”
The tickling tendrils disappear.
“What about this?”
Something soft and silky brushes against my belly. Fur.
What, did he stuff his pockets with a bunch of sensory implements before using the crop on me?
I like the fur sensation better than the feather, but when he rubs it lower, he avoids my pussy and strokes the tops of my thighs instead.
I grumble deep in my throat.
“Too soft?” His chuckle makes me want to purr and scream. “All right. My little bird likes it rough.” The fur disappears, and his gloved fingers are back, ghosting over my labia.
Finally!
“If you were my sub, I’d give you my fingers or maybe my knee. Make you grind yourself on me to get relief.”
I hum. That sounds awesome.
“But that’s something I like to negotiate beforehand.” He sets something smooth and hard against my inner thigh. “How do you feel about vibrators?” The toy buzzes to life.
I nod my head vigorously.
“All right.” Another dark chuckle. “Let’s see how wet I can make you.”
He runs the vibrator over my inner thighs, my mons, and my lower belly before finally bringing the toy’s head between my legs. Even then, it dances across my labia. I try to angle my hips to bring my clit closer, but he tsks and takes the toy away.
I have to hold perfectly still, and even then, he moves the vibrator back and forth, coming closer to my clit before retreating. Driving me up to tiptoe. Driving me mad.
By the time he rests the vibrator’s round head against my clit, my panties are soaked. He circles my sensitive nub, finding just the right angle to stimulate it. He holds it there for long moments and draws it away at just the right time, edging me so perfectly, he must be omnipotent or reading my mind.
The best part is the way he’s still caressing my bottom, awakening the nerve endings under the sore spots. It’s a sweet counterpoint to the intensity of the vibrator. A few times, his fingers drift lower, and I wonder if he’ll delve between my cheeks to stroke my rear hole. I’ve never experimented with ass-play, but it intrigues me. My stomach is flipping, making me want to squirm with humiliation, even as the gentle touches stoke my raging arousal.
Instead of fingering my ass, he starts clapping his gloved hand on one cheek, then the other. A very light spanking, considering everything else he’s done, but it reminds me how raw my ass is after the last flogging. He spanks me hard enough to rock me forward against the vibrator. The buzzing is almost painful on my clit. But I can’t escape.
Then, he pulls the vibrator away completely. My impending orgasm flares and dies.
“If I don’t want you to orgasm, then you won’t.” His gloved fingers brush my backside, tracing the marks he left on me. He’s so gentle and cruel; my sex throbs. “But if I do. . . you will. You have no say. Your body is mine to command.” The vibrator surges to life, and he presses it to the right spot. Lights flash behind my eyes.
“Come for me,” he commands, and I do, cheek pressed against the cross. Little whimpers escape my open mouth. He’s behind me and above me and all around, surrounding me in a cocoon of his heat and scent. I imagine myself hidden in his shadow. Safe.
The leather under my head is slick with my sweat. I slump, panting. He’s taken the vibrator away but still rubs slow circles over my bottom.
“I could make you come again. And again. As many times as I wish, until you beg me to stop. And then I’d keep forcing them on you until your throat is raw from screaming.”
That sounds horrifying. I want it.
“But not tonight. This is enough, for now.”
No, I want to protest. But he’s right. I’m barely able to keep myself upright. I’m floaty and free, flying above the clouds. The sting on my soles is the only proof that my feet are still on the ground.
He pats my face with a cool cloth and gives me more water, then pats my face again. Taking care of me. It’s as much a part of the scene as the impact play, and it’s perfect. This whole scene was perfect.
I’m high on neurochemicals, but I bet I feel the same way tomorrow.
I took a bet on a dom, and it paid off in spades.
“I’m going to untie you now. And, if it’s okay, I’m going to help you to the couch.”
I nod. I’ve always avoided aftercare. The release of oxytocin is too much to risk. But I’m deliriously grateful when he undoes the rope, holding me upright when I start to crumple to the floor. He catches me in a move so seamless it feels choreographed, scooping me up and carrying me like a groom carries a bride over the threshold. The trip across the room is all too short, and I’m sad when he stops because he’s reached the couch.
But then he sits with me still in his arms. He lets my legs down but keeps me close. I settle my head against his shoulder.
I still have the blindfold on. Surely, I can handle a few minutes of cuddling.
“Cold?” he asks and drapes a blanket over me as soon as I nod. Now I’m warm and snuggled against him. His shirt is impossibly soft against my cheek. And underneath the expensive cotton is an expanse of firm muscles. I feel them flex as he shifts under me, and it helps me form more of an image of him—a broad chest and powerful biceps to match his height and huge hands.
I still don’t take off the blindfold. It’s my last lingering attempt at preserving anonymity. He might know my name, but it’s better I know nothing of him. Nothing more than his voice and scent. That way, I can imagine he sprung fully formed from my fantasies. The perfect dom.
I’m warmer now, my limbs lazy post adrenaline. I lean into him more, and that’s when I realize what that long ridge under my butt is.
His dick. He’s hard. And big.
“You didn’t come,” I blurt. Post-scene, I apparently have no filter. Another reason I never wanted a top to stick around.
“That’s okay. Tonight’s about you, little bird.” And he makes no move to do anything but hold me.
And it’s perfect.