TWELVE The Ladder
SADIE
“Put it on me,” I command Jerome, shutting my eyes.
“May I ask for permission to do something... unorthodox?”
I jerk my lids right back open, feeling my body’s natural lubricant oozing onto the crotch of my underwear.
I don’t know why the notion of him performing wickedly sinful actions on me is igniting my libido so much, but it is. Just like reading about the deviant behavior of all those characters in that erotic romance book I’ve been devouring. Within a single chapter, the story drew me in so completely that I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.
And now, the fiendish glint in Jerome’s eyes is promising similar such delights.
“How do you feel about being dominated, Sadie?”
“Don’t know...” For some reason, I’m out of breath. A jolt of apprehension permeates beyond my lust. “Never tried it before.”
“I’m not talking whips and canes. Just some blind play where you won’t know what I’ll be touching next. How does that sound?”
“Scrumptious,” I blurt out, my sexual appetite taking over again. Besides, what he just described sounds like it could be one of the most interesting interactions I’ve had yet.
My panties are now sopping. To the point that if it weren’t for the hem of my sweater reaching halfway to my knees, a spot along the crotch of my leggings would no doubt be visible. Hell, the second he uttered the word “unorthodox” I had to force myself not to rub my thighs together, even if going all BDSM is probably a bridge too far for me.
“Come here.” Jerome’s voice might be soft, but there’s iron in that tone. It’s an order, clear and simple. I obey, allowing him to lead me over to the rolling ladder installed when the library was originally constructed.
Handing me the same cashmere scarf he used to obscure my vision earlier, he reaches into his other back pocket and removes a series of transparent beige straps. They appear to be made of nylon, like pantyhose or tights. Then, I recall something similar that my mom used to wear. Knee highs. That must be what these are.
“Take off your clothes.” This next order is more demanding than the last one, but since this is all part of his game, I comply. Even though I have to avert my gaze to fulfill his request. Eye contact with him is out of the question.
A braver woman brimming with confidence might’ve performed some sort of striptease, but that’s not me. I barely get each article of my attire off without taking a header. It doesn’t help that my brain keeps shrieking at me that he could recoil from what he sees. Or laugh at me again, and not in a good way. But Jerome doesn’t laugh. In fact, if his scrutiny was any more in-depth, I might just burst into flames.
“Love that your blush isn’t limited to your face,” he murmurs, his middle knuckle grazing along my cheek and down to my chin. He skims that knuckle along my clavicle before encircling the roundness of my right breast. “I love that it cascades all the way to your chest.” He twirls me slowly. “And along your shoulder blades. Sexy. Now, climb up the ladder.”
I’ve only taken two of the rungs when he twists me around. With me still watching him, he removes one of his straps of nylon and latches my right wrist to the rail beneath it.
“Will it hurt you if I repeat this on your left side?” he asks, and I shake my head. I can’t feel anything but the tug on my arm as he restrains it.
My pulse trills when he attaches my ankles, one by one, to the outside of those railings, a move that makes me splay my knees wide and sit my nude ass on a wooden crosspiece. I tug at the nylons. They’re snug enough to restrict how far I can shift my limbs without letting me fall or cutting off my circulation.
That’s when that cashmere scarf reappears. I’m adjusting to my new position when he lifts that material in front of my face and utterly blocks my ability to see. Even with my eyes wide open like when he led me down to the basement, I can’t detect a thing.
My consciousness is telling me that this should be scary, even alarming. But it’s not. Rather, being stationary like this perks up my other senses. I can hear the faint steadiness of his breathing, inhale his spicy clove scent, and taste the memory of our kiss on my tongue. I can feel the heat of him as he moves closer then drifts away.
There’s something both freeing and unnerving about this.
It’s like a peculiar rendition of hide and seek.
“Be honest with me, Sadie. Are you feeling any pain or discomfort?”
“No.”
“If you do for any reason, I want you to speak up. Yes?”
“Yes.”
He starts to drag something—maybe the back of a fingernail—along the scarring of my left thigh and hip. A piece of scalding hot fuselage had been smashed up against that part of me, leaving third-degree burns that required skin grafts. That’s why the flesh there is bumpy but in a flatter pattern.
“How does that feel?”
It’s hard to describe, so I go with the easiest answer. “Not bad.”
“What about here?” He inquires this of me each time as he systematically does this with all the various areas of my burned skin, though whatever he’s touching me with feels softer now. No hard edges. He traces along my bunched-up wrist and hand. My shoulder. My breast. My cheek.
“It’s fine,” I tell him again and again as he asks if anything’s tender or sore.
I’m being nothing but candid. Yet this is enough like being poked and prodded in a doctor’s office that my thirst for Jerome is waning. I’m sure this isn’t his intention, but he has no clue just how long I spent under such care. Years, ultimately. And unlike the meal Dom brought for me yesterday, it was no picnic.
Suddenly, Jerome changes tack.
“Shhhh,” he rumbles out, as if to console me. “I just wanted to be certain none of my touches would ever hurt. I won’t be doing any more of that.”
I feel two thumbs kneading the flesh of my right arm from the elbow downward, and only then do I comprehend that I’ve been balling that hand into a fist, my nails—blunt and short as they are—nearly drawing blood. I make myself release those curled-up fingers one by one. Jerome transfers his massage to the palm of my hand, and I become much more relaxed.
So relaxed that when I hear the suggestive buzz of a zipper and the much quieter rustling of fabrics being discarded, I look forward to what’s coming. My pulse pounds through me, rekindling the embers of my craving for him.
What part of me will he caress or stroke next? Where will he go, and what will he do it with? Does he have more scarves or nylons? Or will he exploit something else? Will he resort to tormenting my scar tissue even though he swore that he wouldn’t?
Just when I’ve jumped to so many conclusions that it ratchets up my anxiety, Jerome engages a maneuver I never would’ve foreseen. He pushes something up against my clit, and I gasp. He nudges that bundle of nerves over and over, and initially, I seriously can’t determine what he’s using to make contact.
Some inanimate object?
A finger?
A thumb?
Then, awareness bubbles through me all at once. That velvety softness that’s warm yet definably rigid can only be one thing, even if I can’t reach out and grasp it to test my theory.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s his cock.
The nudging continues only twice more before I feel the length of his shaft burrowing itself deliciously along my folds before it circles my entrance.
The man’s got some dexterous hips, that’s for damn sure.
And that’s when he inserts himself into me without warning.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan, and it’s anything but a complaint. It’s odd to have him filling me when those specific regions of our pelvises are the only things touching, but I’ll never say I dislike it. If anything, I want more.
That’s when he lines his torso up against mine, grabs my ass through what I can only assume are the spaces between the crossbars, and grinds into me good and proper. The wood of the ladder creaks with each of his thrusts, and I believe I’m being jostled from side to side as the rollers engage. I open my mouth to inform him how to lock the ladder in place when he jams his tongue into my mouth, the pressure he uses delectably brutal.
Needless to say, I quit attempting to speak due to other priorities.
His tongue seeks out mine, sucking forcefully as he pinches each of my nipples, causing me to cry out.
“God, yes. Yes, unnghn...”
The pinches alter back and forth between crushing little tweaks and soothing strokes, and although I’m enjoying this to its fullest, my breasts heavy with arousal, I’m missing something. The ability to stroke him back.
Yet that yearning evaporates when Jerome alters his strategy once again, focusing his efforts on my clit and the pucker of my backside as his tongue licks my left nipple.
I’ve never had any man attempt anything with my ass previous to now. Having that hidden flesh played with is a strange sensation, but again, I don’t dislike it. He’s not inserting anything into that part of my anatomy; he’s merely rubbing tiny rings around the pucker with what I assume is one hand as the other caresses my clit.
All while fucking my pussy like his life depends on it.
It’s too much. The blindness. The not being capable of anticipating what’s next.
All this stimulation strikes just the right cord within me. And when the tip of his finger pushes into my backside for the first time, it sets off this chain reaction that has me roaring at the top of my lungs.
“Unnhgn, J-Jerome. Oh my God, yes...”
Maybe due to the unusualness of our setup, I’m taken aback by my climax, and my ecstasy comes out half-broken, sounding almost like a raspy sob. A throbbing that’s not my own rattles into my pelvis right as my own spasms fade, the hot spurting jets of Jerome’s seed filling me as he too reaches orgasm.
“Uhh,” he grunts next to my ear, and though I’ve adored conducting this unique experiment, I need to observe him. To see what kind of euphoria is washing across his face.
“T-take it off,” I stammer in a pant. “Take off the blindfold.”
The scarf vanishes, and my lover’s features swim into view, his expression switching promptly from satiated to concerned.
“Shit, are you all right?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
He wipes at the skin alongside my nose. “Because you’re crying.”
“No, I’m not.”
Yet even at my protest, the evidence of the saltwater leaking from my eyes is right there in evidence on the back of his hand.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I whip my head back and forth to emphasize what I’m saying, but a croaky quality has entered my voice, just like it did when my pleasure reached its zenith.
More steams of liquid careen down my face, and this time, I feel them, feel the twin raw paths they take before they drip off either side of my chin.
“I’m getting you out of this.” And with that, Jerome makes good on his declaration, unfastening the nylons from around each of my limbs.
As soon as I’m free, I scrub my palm under my eyes. “I’m not crying. These aren’t tears.”
“You are crying, but as long as you’re okay, we’re good. Are we good?”
“We are. We’re fucking fantastic, really.” I’m wrung out in the best manner possible, although I have no clue why things went down that way. I’m totally unharmed, yet there’s a catch in my chest and a lump in my throat.
“Come here,” he says, and I cling to him like a koala bear, burying my face in his beautiful bare chest.
I’m feeling... emotional.
He lifts me into his arms, something I wouldn’t normally allow, but right now I welcome his closeness. It’s like I’m shattering a little, and his care and tenderness is holding me together. Carrying me over to our sofa, he sits with me for a few minutes until the tears come to a halt, and I peer up at him.
“What was all that?”
I don’t have to say more. He knows what I mean.
“You were overwhelmed, that’s all. It happens. Some people call it a crygasm.” He doesn’t seem perturbed, but then, this is Jerome. Nothing seems to get to him. If anything, he’s acting the teeniest bit... arrogant isn’t quite the right term. But there’s definitely some self-satisfaction there. He’s borderline smug.
That’s it.
He’s proud of himself.
If I had a throw pillow close at hand, I might pummel him with it. But he’s cradling me to him so gently that even then I might rethink that. He gives me that easy smile of his, and I shake my head at him.
He’s a cheeky bastard is what he is, so I bop him on the arm until he releases me. “I need a drink of water.”
My sob session has left me dry as a desert.
We get dressed, his eyes gliding along me with enough attention to have him semi-erect all over again. Cad.
“Let’s go get you some,” he says, and if this was any other guy, he’d probably be waggling his eyebrows and laying it on heavy with the innuendo. Jerome doesn’t, though. He delivers this line with just enough subtlety to have me guessing if he means this as a tease or not.
I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow just in case, and his quick chuckle tells me everything I need to know. So, we leave the library sated and with the slightest of grins on our faces.