“You think you do.”
“I do.”
“We’ll see, shall we? This way.”
He steered me through the flat, behind me, his hands on my shoulders, walking me out of the living room, across a hallway and through the door to his bedroom. It was exactly as I’d imagined it…plain, neat, immaculately clean, almost bare of personal traces, like a diagram of a space rather than its physical equivalent.
“It’s so long since I did this,” he muttered, almost to himself, putting his fingers up behind my neck and pushing them into the soft flesh so that I gasped. His touch was so firm, so sure, as if his fingertips had absorbed my predilections by contact with my skin.
“Are you sure?” I sighed. “You seem to be in pretty good practice to me.”
A thumb took possession of the hollow at the base of my skull, applying a less gentle pressure.
“Shall we lay down a ground rule, Lara?” he said, into my ear. “You speak when you’re spoken to. If you think you can manage that, say ‘Yes, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir,” I breathed, hardly able to stand now, leaning back against his chest, transported slap bang into the middle of a fantasy with no memory of how I got there.
“Good.” He let his lips linger on my jaw line, then drift down to my neck. “Unbutton your dress, please.”
Chapter Four
I was wearing a sand-coloured shirt dress with a plaited leather belt. My hands were clumsy and it took me a while, but I managed to free each button from its slit. Before I had time to start unbuckling the belt, Dexter took hold of the loosened halves of the dress and pulled them aside, over my breasts, then pushed the sleeves down until he was able to pull the garment out of the belt, leaving me in my shoes and underwear with the woven leather cinched uselessly around my waist.
“I think we can use this,” he said, unbuckling it, then bringing my wrists around to rest in the small of my back while he wrapped the soft leather around and around, eschewing the buckle and using a rough knot to finally secure them. “Yes,” he said approvingly, stepping away from my swaying body and circling it, his chin cradled in a contemplative hand. “That’s the effect I wanted. Lara, bound and half naked, ready for use. Are you quite happy there?”
“Yes, Sir.” I almost couldn’t answer—it seemed a humiliating admission to make, somehow. I felt as if I should be fighting him or resisting him in some way—but I just didn’t want to. I was trembling and my clitoris pulsed between my legs like a flashing alarm. I had never been so turned on in my life.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He stepped closer and I almost jumped back, but somehow I maintained my stance, chin up, shoulders back, breasts thrust out. It was my breasts to which his attention turned then; he put out both hands and used his thumbs to ease the lacy bra cups down over my stiff nipples.
“You could hardly have said, ‘no’—these give you away.”
He pinched each light brown bud, not hard, but enough to make me squeak, then seemed to apologise to them by brushing them, his thumbs circling the bases. It seemed to be an experiment in how hard he could get them, for he was relentless in the stimulation and I had no alternative but to endure the sensation, longing for it both to end and to continue, wanting the answering throb it provoked in my pussy to be attended to.
Moans and catches of breath were all I could use to communicate my desires, because he didn’t speak or invite my opinions, and I was determined to obey, my heart set on meeting the challenge he’d issued me. I tried instead to use my body as a tool for him to translate, so I pushed out my hips and swivelled them, trying to make contact with his pelvis. I half-shut my eyes and licked my lips. I squeezed my thighs together and tried a rocking motion, anything to get the tiniest bit of friction against my clit. He noticed and laughed softly, reaching around to unhook my bra so that I was filled with hope before he returned to his nipple-torment, such a refinement of torture, such cruel pleasure. The bra settled itself around my belted wrists, unable to fall any further, and I felt it dangling there, sometimes brushing against my bottom as I jerked and jolted and tried everything in my power to move Dexter lower.
“Mmmm.”
His lips vibrated against a nipple a
nd he took it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, bathing it in warmth and darkness, sucking and nipping until I felt sparks in my panties. Between the heat and the wetness I wondered if I was in for an electric shock.
And, oh glory, his hands moved down, tracing the lines of my waist and hips, then one rested at the waistband of my knickers while the other stroked the soft swell of my belly. Was he going to do it? Was he going to take the fruit I offered, squeeze it and mash it, smear its juices all over us? I was tempted to beg but I dared not. I didn’t want this spell to break.
He released my nipple, stood up straight, both hands now poised at the elastic, ready for action, and whispered, “How wet are you?”
“Very wet,” I groaned. “Very. Very wet.”
“Bad girl,” he said, suddenly sharp, and one hand smacked down on my stretch-satin bottom cheeks, causing me to jump and almost lose balance. But he had me pressed up against him so I found my feet and concentrated on the sting, enjoying it, wanting more.
“You missed out the magic word,” he reminded me, his voice a caress once more.
“Sir,” I added, smiling in embarrassment, unable to meet his eye.
“That’s better. Oh, look at me, Lara. You must look at me when you speak, you know.”
Tearing my eyes from the ground was the hardest thing I’d had to do so far, and I tilted my head so that my brows protected me from some of the impact—a sidelong glance, I suppose you would call it.