It drove me wild.
Earlier on I’d reflected that I’d never been handled this way. Now I realized I’d never been treated this way, forced to address my animal need for pleasure—and Armand was right. It did feel good, desperately good.
Armand was gentler with me. This time it was me who couldn’t hold back—it was me who worked him. He stroked my body, caressing my spine while I took what I needed, driving back on to his hard shaft. He reached around and fondled my dangling breasts, then tugged on my nipples.
All the while I chased the prize, riding the long slick erection that he offered, working myself with the restraints to use it well. I wriggled and squirmed, my hips moving back and forth against him, mewling loudly as my sensitive flesh milked him off in rhythmic clutches.
“Oh, yes, Jennie, it’s good, very good,” he said, his cock jerking.
I’d made him come, and I’d reached the point of sheer ecstasy. My sex clenched over and over. My body was free from decorum, unleashed, until finally it was a blur of sensation and nothing more.
I didn’t leave Armand’s apartment again that weekend. He told me I didn’t need to because the weekend was “ours.” He had food delivered, and he cooked for me. It was as if he was happy to keep me as his private plaything, and I was thrilled to be that. Paris could wait until another weekend.
He went to my apartment to collect my toiletries, refusing to let me fetch them myself. While he left me alone, he handcuffed me to the wrought-iron headboard of his bed. It should have felt wrong, but it didn’t. The way he cherished me overruled any possibility of that. When he returned he claimed me back by kissing me, everywhere.
The weekend passed in a glorious haze of sensory overload.
On Monday morning, at seven, reality forced its way back in. I had forty-five minutes until I had to be on my way to the embassy. With regret I kissed him and climbed out of his bed, running around in my shirt and panties, barefoot, trying to find my belongings. I needed to get back to my own apartment and prepare for the working day ahead.
When I darted into the lounge, however, I was once again frozen to the spot.
My shoulder bag dropped from my hand as I stared at the blank place on the wall where the image of the blonde bondage queen had been. It was no longer there. I glanced around, but couldn’t see it standing anywhere. Armand must have taken it down when I was asleep.
My heart fluttered. Why had he done that?
He followed me in a moment later, still heavy with sleep. He wore his nakedness with complete nonchalance, prowling over to me. He arrested me in a lazy but possessive embrace, covering my face with hungry kisses.
His large hands on my bottom pressed my hips to his, and I felt the bough of his erection against my belly.
“Armand, please. I must go and prepare for work.”
“You will come back to me tonight?”
“If you want me to.” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
He returned it then nodded his head back in the direction of the space on the wall where the photograph had been. “I need your help to select some new art.”
He had taken it down for me. It was a significant gesture.
I laced my fingers around his neck, brimming with happiness, suddenly willing to let another few moments slide away in order to give this the attention it deserved.
“I’d love to,” I responded, and then lifted my eyebrows, “or perhaps we could make some art of our own…?”
Armand growled as he ducked to kiss my jaw.
Over his shoulder, I looked at the blank space on the wall and my mind ran wild with ideas. My six months in Paris promised to be a voyage of discovery, and with Armand as my master, I was ready and willing for every moment of it.