But I do it. I let him unzip my dress and no man has ever done that before.
I’ve had sex, and lots of it, but always on my terms. Lights off. Under the covers. You don’t see me, and you can do whatever you want, but you don’t undress me. I’m too… fluffy. Curvy. And men don’t like curvy girls like me.
But I love sex, and that’s a fucking enigma, so I’ve learned how to do it.
Dress up the curves. Bring them back to my flat. Shut off the lights and kiss under the covers. Send them home the next day, no strings attached, because after we’ve had our orgasms it’s better to move along.
No commitment. No rejection. No heartbreak.
I blink at Carson, who’s now crossed the line and taken me to where no man has before.
I’m the one in charge. I’m the one who leads the way. But since this morning, he’s stepped into that role, and I… think I like it.
“Now put yourself over my knee for your spanking.”
I’ve wanted this. I’ve fantasized about just this.
To be dominated and punished, at the hands of a man who’ll take control. By a man who won’t cave to my demands just to get into my knickers. To feel the heat of a man’s palm on my body.
The other girls have told me about this, how they love the loss of control. How deliberate pain can heighten awareness, stimulate desire, intensify orgasms. And I didn’t need them to tell me. I’m no stranger to a well-used vibrator, and my thoughts go to kinky, dark places with ease.
But no fantasy matches reality.
No one tells you how hard it is. When someone gives you exactly what you’ve craved, exactly what you need, how scary it is when it comes to the actual submission. I told him I needed another drink, but I lied. I didn’t need another drink. I think I might need a lobotomy or something.
So when he orders me, I don’t move. I can’t. I physically cannot bring myself to wriggle my plump body over his lap. If I do, I’ll… jiggle.
And what if he sees me jiggle?
He cannot see me jiggle.
So I don’t tell him no. I don’t fight him or talk back. I don’t do anything but stare at him in stupid fucking silence. I’m so turned on, a good gust of air will make me come, and yet there I am, on his lap with an unzipped dress.
A beat passes, then two, and I stare into the depths of his gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes. There’s darkness in those depths, like the facets of obsidian. They glitter, making me shiver. Finally, he’s had enough.
With a scowl that makes my tummy flip, he bends and grabs my hair in his fist. A tug sends an erotic tremor of pain down my scalp.
“Do I need to make you?”
The hardness of his voice makes my pulse race.
Yes.
Oh holy fuck, yes I need him to make me.
I manage to snap out of my frozen trance with a sort of nod, though I’m sure it isn’t at all graceful and elegant but looks like the bobbing head of a turkey or something. Still, he gets the message.
He reaches for my zipper and yanks the rest of it down. My dress falls off my shoulders. I look down at the top of my chest, and so far, it isn’t that bad. So far all you can see is my best feature, my full breasts spilling out of my ivory satin bra. He pauses in disrobing me, bends his head to my chest, and kisses first one breast, then the next, before he sinks his teeth into my flesh.
My head falls back and erotic pulses of heat flash between my legs.
“Bad little girls get punished, Megan,” he says, shaking his head.
I don’t respond, because my tongue is literally frozen.
We’ve come to the part that terrifies me. I need him to do more, to… bite me again or something, anything to distract me from the awful fear that grips me at the thought of being naked in front of him. To my shock and awe, he takes the satin edge of my dress with his teeth and drags it down my body.
My mind comes to a stuttering, terrified halt.
He can see my belly, easily my worst feature, all dimples and valleys and curves. I reach my hands out to stop him involuntarily. I can’t speak, I’m that frozen and terrified, but I can stop him from undressing me.
At least I think I can. When my hand reaches his wrist, he freezes, his jaw clenches, and he gives me another stern look that makes my sex pulse.
“Are you trying to stop me?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow up at me like a stern professor.
“My belly,” I breathe stupidly. His frown deepens, and to my surprise, he reaches for his necktie. In one fluid motion, he unfastens the knot, tugs it, and whips it off. In the next moment, my wrists are secured in front of me with his knotted tie.