My heartbeat accelerates. My mouth is dry. Somehow, despite my trembling knees and racing pulse, I make it over to him.
He sighs. “God, I knew you’d be perfect. Why’d you have to be?” He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that.”
Perfect?
He’s thought of me before?
I can’t think because the next thing I know, he’s walking around me as if appraising me, tapping the crop against his leg. “You said that punishment arouses you.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “When you smacked my butt, it did. Not sure aboutthatthing.”
“Oh, these can be very erotic,” he says. As if to show me, he places it over my shoulders, tracing each one, before dragging the little square of leather over my tank. My nipples harden, tenting the thin material.
“Did I give you permission to be aroused?” he asks, right before he snaps the crop against my nipple. A sharp flare of heat spasms through me, and I gasp.
“As if I have control over being aroused?” I ask, panting.
“You do. You’ll do what I command.”
Another sharp sting of the crop on my other nipple this time. Soon, he’s flicking the leather over my shoulders and chest, over and over and over until my clit throbs with need. It’s better than anything I’ve ever felt before.How?
“If you were mine…” His voice trails off, and this time when he says it, I imagine he’s wondering what he would do to me sexually if I were his.
Ah, is that what he gets out of this, then?
I’m not yours.
Why does he keep bringing that up? Is it something he’s thought about, then? Does hewantme to be his?
“You would obey and know your place, and if I told you to do something, I’d expect it to be done.’
I nod. I think we’ve covered that.
“And if you didn’t,” he stands behind me, crop raised, “I would punish you.”
This time he brings it down so hard I hiss in a breath. The stinging bite of the crop is more than I’m ready for. While my arousal seems to be heightening with every second that passes, the shocking pain of it makes me gasp in surprise. I’m startled by the sensations of pleasure and pain.
“Being a slave means service and obedience,” he says. “But I wouldn’t ask that of you. And I like more give and take in a relationship. Unlike other masters, I like my submissives to have a will of their own.”
Unlike other masters…
His submissives? How many has he… been with?
I bite back a response because I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
When he reaches for my hand and lifts me to my feet, I look into his eyes. “But I’m not your master,” he whispers. “And you’re not my slave, or even my submissive.” The knuckles of his fist are wrapped so tightly around the crop, it looks as if it hurts. I wonder what’s going on inside him that he continually does this push and pull, like he wants to flirt with me then regrets it, every time.
I nod. “I’m not,” I whisper back. “But I’m willing to play a little.”
His eyelids flutter closed for a brief second as if he’s trying to regain his composure before he replies, “We’ll have to, won’t we?”
I lick my lips and nod. “I think so?”
He looks up at my hair, tangled since we took the wig off, and runs his fingers through it. I like when he touches me like that. Hell, I like any way he touches me.
“We have to cut your hair.”
Of all the things he’s said to me, this one stings the most. I swallow the lump in my throat. I love my hair.
