Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Erica
“Good girl.”
The words are a branding iron against my ear. My body trembles, a confusing mix of shame and a thrill I hate myself for feeling.
I’m a good girl. I’ve always been a good girl. I do what I’m told. I go to work, I pay my bills, I try not to cause trouble.
Look where that got me.
He shifts above me, the hard heat of him pressing against my most sensitive place. My hips lift off the bed, a silent, traitorous plea for more.
My body is a stranger to me, a thing of slick heat and desperate need that has no connection to the fear churning in my stomach.
"That was your only warning. Disobey me again, and you'll earn yourself a punishment," he says.
Punishment. The word is a cold shock, but my body doesn't seem to care. A fresh wave of slickness coats my folds, a shameful, undeniable proof of my own degradation.
He feels it.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "Even the idea turns you on, doesn't it?"
I don't answer. I can't. My throat is tight, my lips pressed together to keep the whimpers inside.
His hips press down on mine, pinning me to the bed and stilling my movements. "I asked you a question, Erica."
My breath catches. The silence stretches, a taut wire of tension. I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and demanding.
"Yes, sir," I whisper, the word a confession that hangs in the air between us.
His smile is sharp, predatory. He’s not going to just get it over with the way I'd hoped. He’s going to make me feel it. He’s going to make me want it. He’s going to make me beg for it.
God help me, I already am. I just won't give him the satisfaction of hearing it.
He shifts again, and the thick head of him slides down, nudging against my entrance.
I tense, my entire body bracing for the inevitable.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place. "Relax," he commands, his voice a low growl.
Easy for him to say.
His grip tightens, a clear warning. I force myself to take a deep breath, to consciously unclench my muscles. To yield.
I expect him to push forward, enter me, but he surprises me by shifting his weight, pulling back. His lips continue their wandering path over my skin, moving over my throat with open-mouthed kisses.
My pulse is a frantic, fluttering thing against his tongue.
His hands continue their slow exploration. He traces the curve of my breasts, the sensitive skin of my stomach, the hollow of my hips. His touch is possessive, a silent claim.
"Look at you," he murmurs against my skin. "All flushed and ready for me."
My cheeks burn hotter. I want to cover my face, to hide from his knowing gaze, but I keep my hands on the headboard, my knuckles white.
His lips continue their exploration of me, moving lower still.
"How much of a virgin are you?" he asks against my skin.
"I—" I gasp. "I don't—"
"Have you ever had a man's mouth here?" he asks, his tongue tracing a path to my navel.
My hips lift off the bed. A choked sound escapes my throat.
"Answer me."
"No, sir," I whisper, the word a strangled confession.
His lips curve into a smile against my skin. "Good," he murmurs.
Then he's moving lower still, his lips and tongue tracing a path over my stomach, then over my most sensitive skin.
"How about here?" he asks, his breath warm against my aching pussy.
My entire body goes rigid. A strangled gasp escapes my throat.
"No, sir," I whisper, the words are an embarrassing confession of my inexperience.
"Good," he purrs. "I'll be your first for that, too."
And then his tongue is on me.
I cry out, my body arching off the bed, a bowstring pulled taut with pleasure. The sensation is overwhelming, a hot, wet heat that threatens to consume me.
His tongue is clever, skilled. He explores me, tasting me, learning me. He circles my clit, then flicks against it, sending jolts of pleasure through me. He laps at my folds, then delves inside, fucking me with his tongue.
My hips buck, my body moving instinctively, seeking more of the pleasure he's giving me.
My hands fly from the headboard, tangling in his hair, holding him to me.
He chuckles, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through me. "Eager, aren't we?"
My cheeks burn. I try to pull my hands back, but he stops me, covering my hands with his own, pressing them into the mattress at my sides.
"No," he commands. "Keep them here, at your sides."
Suddenly, his weight is off my legs. The cool air rushes in over my skin, over the wetness of my exposed pussy. The sudden change has me too confused to be self-conscious.
He's reaching for the floor and picks up... his trousers? No. His belt.
The black leather dangles from his fist, a dark, menacing promise of his earlier words. The buckle gleams in the soft light of the room.
My breath catches in my throat. Fear, cold and sharp, cuts through the haze of pleasure.
He moves back onto the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He kneels between my legs, the belt still in his hand.
I scramble backward, a desperate, instinctual movement, but he’s faster. He grabs my ankle, pulling me back down the bed, positioning me as he wants me.
“I told you not to move your hands,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I told you to keep them on the headboard. You didn’t listen.”
My mind is a frantic scramble of fear and confusion. I want to scream, to fight, to run, but my body is pinned, my limbs heavy with a strange mix of fear and a lingering, shameful arousal.
He leans over me, his face close to mine. The belt is in my line of sight, a dark, threatening shape.
“You’re going to learn to obey me, Erica,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dark purr. “And you’re going to learn it now.”
He straightens up, his gaze sweeping over me. He’s assessing me, calculating his next move. The silence stretches, a taut wire of tension.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slides the belt under me and pulls it out from the other side. The leather is cool against my flushed skin.
"Put your arms down at your sides," he orders, holding both ends of the belt while waiting for me to comply. Never questioning whether I will or not.
I swallow my nerves, the action painful.
I place my arms down at my sides, inside the loop of the belt.
He’s not going to hit me.
He’s tying me up.
The realization is a jolt, a fresh wave of embarrassment, and a strange, terrifying thrill.
He tightens the belt, binding my arms to my sides. The belt buckle sits cold against my stomach. It’s not painful, not really. It’s a firm, unyielding pressure that holds me in place, a constant reminder of my submission, of my vulnerability.
He tests the bindings, making sure they’re secure. Satisfied, he leans back, his gaze sweeping over me.
"Much better," he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
He moves back between my legs, his hands on my knees, pushing them open, exposing me completely to his gaze.
I’m trembling, a constant, fine tremor that runs through my entire body. I’m naked, bound, and at the mercy of a man I barely know, a man who paid for the right to do this to me.
And a part of me, a very dark part of me, is more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
He lowers his head, and this time, when his tongue touches me, I’m not surprised. But the intensity of my reaction is. A strangled gasp escapes my throat, my back arching off the bed, my body moving instinctively, seeking more.
He chuckles, a dark, triumphant sound. "That's it, Erica. Let me hear you."
He’s relentless. His tongue is a weapon of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and he knows exactly how to use it. He licks and sucks, flicks and circles, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
My hips buck, my body writhing on the bed, but the bindings around me hold me captive, a constant reminder of my helplessness.
"Please," I whimper, the word a broken, desperate plea.
"Please what?" he murmurs against my skin, his breath warm and teasing.
"Please... let me come," I whisper, the words a surrender I never thought I’d make.
"You come when I say you come," he says, his tongue delving inside me, fucking me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that has me sobbing with frustration and need.
He’s pushing me, testing my limits, seeing how far he can take me, how much I can handle. He’s a master of control, and my body is his instrument, and he’s playing me with a skill that is both terrifying and exhilarating.
He builds me up, higher and higher, my body a taut bowstring of pleasure, poised on the edge of release, only to pull back at the last second, leaving me gasping and frustrated, my body aching with unfulfilled need.
"Please, sir," I beg, the words torn from my throat. "Please."
He looks up at me, his eyes dark and possessive. He likes me like this. Begging. Desperate.
He slides two fingers inside me, and his tongue returns to my clit, flicking against the sensitive nub with a relentless rhythm.
It's too much. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume me.
But just before I can fall over the edge, just before the pleasure can crest and break, he pulls back. Again.
A sob of pure frustration escapes my lips. My body is a trembling, aching mess, my skin flushed and damp with sweat. I'm so close I can taste it, but he won't let me have it.
He kneels between my legs, his gaze sweeping over me. He’s enjoying this, enjoying my desperation, my helplessness. My surrender.
"Tell me who you belong to," he says, his voice a low, dark purr.
My mind is a haze of pleasure and frustration. I can't think straight, can't form a coherent thought, let alone a coherent sentence.
"You," I whisper.
"Louder," he commands.
"You, sir," I say, my voice a little stronger, a little more certain.
"Do you want me to fuck you?" The crude words in his silky voice make me flinch.
My cheeks burn hotter. I've never talked like this, never had anyone talk to me like this. It’s degrading. Humiliating.
And it turns me on more than anything I’ve ever experienced.