Chapter 4 #2
I reach behind, undo the clasp. I keep my arms low, let the straps slide slowly down my arms. The fabric slips free. I hold it in my hands for a second then lay it beside the shirt.
He doesn’t move. He looks. Takes his time about it. Then, “Good.”
One step forward. His hand lifts, not to my breast, but to the collar, fingertips brushing the edge where leather meets skin.
Then both hands come up.
He takes my breasts in his hands. No preamble. A man picking up something of his, thumbs dragging over my nipples. They’re already hard. He pinches, one sharp twist, and I gasp, hips jerking forward. The leash tightens behind me, holds me in place.
“Good,” he says again. “Jeans next. Down.”
I hook my thumbs into the waistband, push them down over my hips. The denim snags at my thighs. I shift from side to side, shimmying, aware of his eyes, the leash pulling just enough to make me conscious of every inch I lower.
They pool at my ankles. I step out, one foot, then the other. Leave them where they fall.
I’m in panties now, dark blue cotton, nothing special.
He looks at me like they matter. “Hold still.”
He steps around me slowly, the leash feeding through his hand as he moves. Behind me, his palm runs from the small of my back down over my ass, firm, then back up. Not lower. I notice exactly how not-lower. He stops at the collar again.
He leans in, breath warm on my neck. “You’re doing exactly what I want.”
I shiver.
He returns to the front, hands on my hips, then sliding up. Over my ribs. My skin jumps under his touch. He takes my breasts again, thumbs working my nipples in slow circles, then quick pinches.
I bite my lip. Don’t make a sound.
“Good,” he says.
It lands lower every time.
Then his hands drop. Hook into my underwear. He pauses. “Step out.”
I step out, one foot, then the other, leaving my underwear balled at my ankles. The air hits me, and I flinch, bare in front of him. My arms stay lashed behind my back, fingers clenched together like they have a say in this.
He doesn’t touch me between the legs, but he looks and smiles. He circles again, slow, the leash feeding through his fist like I’m a dog on trial and he’s scoring me. At first, I resent how my hips tilt toward him when he passes behind me, but having them make decisions for me feels good.
He stops in front. Hands on my waist. His thumbs press into the bones there, hard, like he’s testing fit. Then he drags them up my sides, slow, eyes locked on mine. I can’t close my legs. Can’t cover myself. Can’t look away.
“Good,” he says.
I moan, low in my throat, just from the word. Just from standing here, collared, bare, wet enough to feel it dripping down my inner thigh. I want his hand there so badly.
He sees. Nods. But doesn’t give it.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?”
I bite my lip. Nod.
“Good.”
His hands find my ass again, palms flat, fingers spreading, then squeezing hard enough to sting through my skin. I gasp, hips twitching forward, but he holds me still.
“Why’d you bring up spanking your dog?” he says.
I blink. The question jerks me out of the haze. “I, uh … I don’t know.”
He tilts his head, watching me. “I guess it was on your mind.”
Before I can answer, he sits back on the couch and gently pulls the leash to his left. I lower my head. He guides my waist down until I’m stretched across his lap, pelvis resting on his thigh, bare ass angled up. The position opens me completely. I’m so wet I can feel it starting to drip.
I tense. “I’m … uh, ”
“You’re okay,” he says.
I clamp my mouth shut. I’m worried about ruining his jeans, but he doesn’t seem like someone who’d put me here if that mattered.
His hands return to my ass, kneading, testing the weight of each cheek, spreading me just enough to feel air at my core. Then his palm cracks down.
The slap is sharp, startling, playful, but stronger than I expect. My body jolts. A giggle slips out, high and nervous.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he says. “Good girls get spanked. Bad girls just get ignored.”
“I want to be a good girl.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to claw them back. Swallow them whole. Bury them under the couch. But they’re out, hanging there in the quiet room, louder than anything else I’ve said all night.
He chuckles low, warm, not mocking.
His hand comes down again, solid, stinging. The heat blooms across my skin, deep and insistent. I whimper. Not from pain. From something else I’m not quite ready to articulate.
He rubs the spot he just spanked, slow circles, fingers drifting too close to where I’m slick and aching. Not there. Not yet.
“Good girl,” he says.
And the words land like a hand on my throat. Like a collar. Like the truth.
His left hand finds the hair at the back of my head, wraps tight just above my neck. Lifts. Not painful, firm.
I go still then relax into it, letting him hold my head where he thinks it belongs.
His right hand cracks down again.
I gasp. The sting spreads fast, deep, heat blooming across both cheeks. I shift against his leg, trying to settle, and the movement presses my clit against his leg. Just for a second. Just enough.
He does it again. Then again. Alternating sides, steady rhythm, open-palmed, not frantic, not punishing, just relentless. Each slap jolts me, sends a pulse straight down into my core. I whimper, low, and he answers with two quick taps in a row, stinging, sharp.
Then his hand slides down to stroke me. His palm glides over the heated skin, fingers dipping low, brushing right along my outer lips. So close. Not inside. Yet.
I hold my breath.
One finger, just one, pushes in, slow, past the entrance, deep enough to stretch. A second finger follows.
“Again,” he says. “Clench down on them.”
I do. Harder this time, squeeze from deep inside, and the bloom of heat is instant, radiating outward, sharp tingles flashing through my thighs, my back, my scalp. My toes curl.
He pulls his finger out.
I make a noise, a whine, a protest, I don’t know which, but I don’t move. Don’t lift my head. Stay folded across his lap, wrists still locked behind my back, even though I know now he hasn’t told me to.
A pause. I can’t see. Don’t know what he’s doing.
Then his voice, low, right above me. “You taste amazing.”
My face burns. He tasted me. He didn’t tell me just slid his finger out and brought it to his mouth. The idea of it, him checking, approving, something tightens in my stomach. Wetness drips down my thigh.
Before I can process it, his hand cracks down again.
And again.
Harder now. The spanks come faster, not random, not frantic, deliberate, building. Each one lands with purpose.
I squirm, but he shifts his thigh slightly, blocks me, keeps me open.
I’m panting. My hips twitch with every slap. My ass is on fire. My clit throbs, swollen, desperate.
And I don’t say a word. Don’t ask. Don’t beg. Because I know now that he’ll give it when he decides. Not when I want. When he wants.
I squeeze my eyes shut. His fingers move in and out, slow at first, then faster, pressing deep each time, finding the place inside that makes my toes curl. He strokes me with the heel of his hand every few thrusts, light circles over my clit, just enough to make me gasp, not enough to let me go.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just keeps the rhythm steady, relentless, like he’s testing how long I can hold the edge.
My breath comes in short, sharp pulls. I’m wet, so wet, every stroke slick and loud. The collar seems to tighten slightly with each inhale.
“Ask me before you come,” he says.
I nod. My throat clicks when I swallow. It’s all I can do.
“That’s what good girls do,” he says, and his fingers push deeper, curling just right.
I whimper, hips lifting off his leg, but he presses down with his thigh, holding me still.
“Oh god, can I come?” I say it fast, desperate, too fast, like I’m blurting it out the second the thought forms.
He laughs. Low. Surprised. “Yes, you can. Do it for me.”
His fingers pump harder, faster, pressing that spot, rubbing my clit in tight circles, and it only takes two more thrusts.
I come hard, shuddering against his hand, legs trembling, toes curling into the carpet. My back arches, but he holds me down, one hand on my hip, the other buried inside me, riding it out with me.
I’m shaking. My breath won’t catch. He leaves his fingers where they are, still moving, soft pulses, letting me feel every ripple fade. I can’t speak. Can’t move. My arms are still locked behind me, fingers clenched like I’ve forgotten how to let go.
He strokes my hip with his thumb. “Good girl.”
He pulls his fingers out slowly, gently. I feel the drag, the emptiness. Then he brings his hand up, lets me see his fingers, glistening in the low light. He sniffs them, nods like he’s confirming something. Then he wipes them on the side of his jeans without looking.
“You’re still on my lap,” he says. “That means you’re not done.”
I lift my head slightly. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He taps my hip. “Stay put.”
I lower back down. My cheek rests on his thigh. The collar is warm now, pressed into my skin. I can smell leather, sweat, and the faint trace of my own arousal.
He leans back, watching me. Waiting. Like he knows exactly what comes next.
His fingers spread me, cool air hitting places no one’s touched like this. I squeeze my thighs but he holds me open. His thumb drags across my asshole, just once, slow, testing. I gasp.
“Do you want me to play with this?” he asks.
The question lands low. I’m still trembling from coming, nerves raw, body loose, but that spot, tight, private, clenches at the thought.
“Yes,” I say.