I nod because I am a desperate slut, leaking everywhere right now.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, and when I do, he hums in satisfaction at the sight of my panties. “I’m going to take these out for just a minute so you can answer me verbally.” Once he does, he holds up a butt plug with a red rose on the tip. “Turn around and put your ass in the air.”
I’m mortified, but I do it. He glides his hand down my spine, like he’s willing me to relax before he pulls my cheeks apart, examining my most private space and spreading my dripping arousal on my virgin hole. An unbidden shiver washes over me. His touch is always the most decadent fusion of gentle and imperious attentiveness. And the graze of his fingertips against my abused pussy has me unabashedly moaning.
“Desperate slut is generous, I see. You’d do just about anything to get rid of that uncomfortable throbbing, wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” I whisper, wiggling for more.
Axel chuckles and warns me that he’s going to use lube. Cool gel drips over me before he massages and slowly pushes the plug in. It’s most painful at the beginning—hard and unforgiving—but I grit my teeth, and once he pushes past the rim, it’s not so bad. He plays for a minute, pulling it in and out and helping me adjust, and the entire scene is so filthy that I am undone. In a foggy haze of feral desire.
“I’ve never seen anything so magnificent,” he avows, and I find that to be unlikely since it’s a rose adorning my ass that he’s fawning over.
Reading my inner thoughts, he issues a swift, searing spank that has my core clenching, and he instructs me to turn around for him. When I do, he presents matching nipple clamps.
“Okay?” he asks.
These are all things I agreed to on the form he had me fill out, but I appreciate that he verifies with me. Up to this point, it’s been mostly testing roles. This is delightfully dirty.
“Okay,” I assure him.
He guides his mouth to my nipple, swirling the peaked bud before fastening the clamp and repeating on the other side. I hiss through the initial sting. But when he’s done, the pressure is divine, and I have a cute rosebud decorating each breast. With the same attention to detail he devotes to everything, he diligently ensures they aren’t too tight.
“Did you cry yourself to sleep last night?” he asks with a trace of the anguish I heard in his conversation with Ryker. When I glance away, not wanting this moment lost to the black hole of my life spinning out of control, he clasps my chin and forces my gaze back to him. “You never came to me. It’s the one thing I’d requested.” So much disappointment colors his statement that it’s a javelin to the ribs. “I thought about making you suffer until you finally talked to me, but we’re going to do something else. Do you want to come?”
I don’t apologize. I simply answer, “Please.”
He exhales with my response. It’s evident this dynamic brings him peace. “And you’re willing to obey me to do it?”
It’s as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist when we’re together. This is so beyond anything I’ve shared with anyone else, so much more intimate. Even the way he checks on me throughout the day or reads with me at night is more intimate.But this? He truly is my Atlas, holding the heavens so I can savor the sunshine.
“I am,” I confirm.
“Get under my desk and ride my shoe.” He stares me down, sensing the objections I might pose before I even dare to utter them.
We remain locked on to one another for a good minute, which is mostly because I’m determined to grasp at the fraying threads of my pride and he’s intent on breaking me—in the sense of forcing me to be wholly dependent on him while using me, like I admitted to wanting. And that’s the conundrum. This is acutely demeaning, but the visual of grinding against one of his four-thousand-dollar Stefano Ricci shoes is also oddly exhilarating.
Noting that with a smirk, he continues, “I’ll grip your hair. If I switch to palming your head, you can slow down. Otherwise, you trust my judgment and keep moving, or I’ll leave you needy for days. If you have to stop, you tap my thigh three times. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, if only because I covet the heady glaze in his eyes whenever I say it.
He smooths my hair away from my face with affection that seems misaligned with his directive and yet perfectly placed at once. “I’ll be working. There will be interruptions. You are not to stop until you explode. Show me what a good whore you can be for me.”
My core tightens at his use ofwhoreand the anticipation of being shoved under his desk to get what I need.Why? Why do I like this?
As if he were waiting for my internal monologue to catch up, his palms meet the sides of my face, his forehead inches from mine. “Who owns your shame, your pain, your fears, your burdens, Zara?”
He’s been whispering those sentiments to me every night as I drifted off to sleep, that there is nothing he can’t shoulder for me. But here, in this scene of kink or pretend or whatever we’re doing, it finally pierces into me like a burr, intent on remaining.
I swallow, happy that I can answer truthfully. “You do.”
“That’s right. I do. We like what we like. We are who we are. You are perfect. Lovely. Strong. Good.” His lips press into my hair and linger there. “I’m so grateful you’re mine.”
The last sentence slices through me like a surgical scalpel—butchering in its salvation.
It’s almost too much. My eyes prick with the heartbreak I want him to hold and the insight that we’re likely temporary.
So, I flash a coquettish grin, dropping my focus to the erection tenting his pants and back to his handsome face. “Let’s get to it then. That crocodile leather is the most enticing thing I’ve seen to mount all day.”
