The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

“All the things you wished to deprive me of.”

She turns away from me, back to the window.

I have the impulse to turn and leave. But it’s my room, and I chose to put her in here with me for a reason.

I need to tear her walls down… not strengthen them. Even when I want to build my own.

I go to her. Touching her before was electric. She’d been so responsive. More responsive than Valentine’s night. It was like her body was primed for me, waiting for my touch.

She may have not thought me fit to be a father, but I now know with total certainty how much she loved my mastery at Black Light.

I slide one hand under her camisole to cup her breast, the other across her belly, stroking lower. “There’s still your punishment to deal with,” I say against the shell of her ear.

I’m satisfied to feel the shiver run through her. She doesn’t answer, but I sense her body listening. Waiting. Like before at her apartment, she wants this. Or at least her body does.

I love seeing the transformation her body’s made with the pregnancy. Back in February, she was on the too-thin side. Like she held her body to a rigid standard for weight. Now she has curves—not just her belly and larger breasts, but all of her has a beautiful softness. I knead her breast gently.

“These are much bigger than before. Are they tender?”

“Yes.” She stirs against me—little twitches and jerks, like pockets of resistance absorbed into my hands.

I pinch her nipple, tug it into a stiff, beaded peak. She shifts on her legs, her breath quickening. I slide my other hand into her tiny pajama shorts, curling my fingers to mold them over her mons.

She swallows and gives me more of her weight, leaning back against my body. “Doesn’t punishment counteract the massage? Weren’t you trying to keep me from stress?”

“All the stress I inflict will be relieved by the time I’m through. Unless you disobey.”

I sense a trembling in her—excitement, I assume, not fear. If she was afraid, she’d pull away.

She hasn’t.

I rub my fingers over her sex. She almost instantly gets wet, like her pussy was waiting for me to stroke it. I pull the tiny camisole over her head and toss it on the floor.

“Come.” I turn her toward the bed. “I want you on your knees for me.” She hesitates a little, but then allows me to direct her. “Up,” I command.

For a moment, she goes rigid, like she’s just decided she shouldn’t give in to me.

“Be good, or I won’t give you the satisfaction I know your body craves.”

She glances over her shoulder, searching my face. Her lawyer mask is in place, and it’s hard to read her. I interrupt whatever internal debate she’s having with a sharp smack on her ass, and the slow drag of her booty shorts down her legs.

“On your knees.” I cup her elbow and lift to show her I want her on her knees on the bed. I spent all afternoon researching pregnancy. What’s safe for her, what’s not. Which positions are best. Which are contraindicated. How to make her comfortable. How to punish her.

I plop a bolster and the large body pillow I had Nikolai buy for her today in the center of the bed. “Ass up.” I slap the pale globe of her ass to punctuate the order.

She kneels in front of the bolster. I arrange the body pillow under her torso. “Chest down, kitten. Get comfortable.”

She stands on her hands and knees instead. I let her have her small defiance. The real punishment is my keeping her here. This, in actuality, is the pleasure of the situation.

For both of us.

She looks over her shoulder again, her brown eyes clouded with misgiving. I stroke my palm over her ass.

“Relax, kotyonok. I know what you need.”

I pick up a leather flogger—another afternoon purchase—and trail the soft tendrils across her skin. “The last time I flogged you, you had my dick in your mouth,” I recall.

“And you didn’t let me come,” she says immediately, like the scene is as fresh in her mind as it is in mine.

I chuckle. “No, I made you wait for it. But you saw the benefit of delaying the orgasm.”

She turns her head back to look down at the pillow. I position myself behind her and begin to twirl the flogger in a figure eight motion, swirling it so just the tips graze her skin.

She lets out a surprised little “Mm.” I keep it up, drawing closer, so more of the strands come in contact. I can tell it’s getting stingier by the way her ass clenches, and her breath draws in. She doesn’t move from the position, though. She certainly wants this.

I draw my arm back and let the flogger tassels swing, whipping her soundly once.