“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” she murmurs, before turning around to follow my instructions.
Minutes later, her dark brown hair is pulled safely back in a braid and she’s kneeling in front of me, her eyes fixed on my bare feet. I’m doing my best to push all other thoughts out of my head and to focus only on the scene in front of me. On this beautiful woman, who, for whatever reason, finds her pleasure in pleasuring me.
Even though Jessica and I have been friends with benefits for a few years, we didn’t incorporate the BDSM aspect into our sex life until about eight or nine months ago, after she read some books about it and became curious. Since we had already established a solid foundation of trust, and there was no question about what our relationship was and would always be, she asked if I’d be interested in exploring it with her. As a man who feeds off control and power in my everyday life, most likely a direct result of the bullying I endured as a kid, I was more than interested to see what it was all about. And like Jessica, I was comfortable enough with her to not worry about embarrassing myself as we tried new things.
I continue to engage in regular, vanilla-type sex with Mandy on Mondays and Ashley on Wednesdays, and up until last night, I still find enjoyment in that too. I mean, what’s not to like about a beautiful woman who wants to suck and fuck my cock from sundown to sunup once a week, and then doesn’t give you shit about a lack of a relationship the other six days?
Absolutely nothing, that’s what.
But since we began this, what I share with Jessica has morphed into something… different. It’s still not about love or wanting to spend time with her outside this condo, but our connection is more complex. The trust and understanding between us is implicit. We feed off each other’s carnal needs on a level I don’t with the other two.
“Show me how much you appreciate what I do for you, pet,” I order, peering down at the top of her head, my hands itching to touch her.
Her eager fingers rush to undo the button and drag the zipper of my jeans down, tugging the denim down just far enough over my hips that my semi-erect cock springs out, almost hitting her in the face. She wastes not a second wrapping her hand around the base of my shaft and swirling her tongue around the crown, lapping up any pre-cum that may seep out.
My head lolls back as she begins to suck me just the way I like, alternating between hard and fast and soft and slow, taking me to the back of her throat with each stroke. I can’t deny that it feels good; it always feels good when her lips are suctioned around my cock. But something is off.
“That’s enough,” I grunt, gently pushing her away from me.
She huffs her displeasure about me making her stop, which any other time would make me chuckle, and then I’d let her suck me a few minutes longer — cause I’m such a nice guy like that — but today it grates on my already aggravated nerves.
“Do you have a problem, pet?” I roar, roughly grasping her chin in my hand and forcing her to look up at me. “Are you wanting to be punished tonight?”
She shakes her head, a mixture of shock and excitement flashing in her eyes. “No problem, Sir. And I want whatever it is you want. Always.”
Her proper answer peeves me even more, even though I don’t know why. “Crawl to the bench and wait for me there. I think you want to learn a lesson the hard way.”
Mumbling her, “Yes, Sir,” she crawls on her hands and knees over to the bench covered in soft brown leather against the far wall. I watch the sway of her hips as she moves across the floor like a prowling lioness, and I find myself wondering what Finley’s ass would look like crawling on all fours for me. What it would feel like to smack my hand against her skin. How wet her little pussy would get for me.
An exasperated growl rumbles deep in my chest as I retrieve the scarf and hemp rope from the top drawer of my dresser. Why can I not get this girl out of my head? Now is not the time to be fantasizing about some college kid who has probably already spent all of the money that should’ve been mine on ridiculous shit like exotic sports cars, new wardrobes, a house next door to the Kardashians, and trips to… I don’t know, Disneyworld or some other stupid ass place. Money that could’ve — should’ve — been put to good use to pay off my settlement to Apex and save my family’s farm. The farm I’ve worked my ass off to make one of the largest and most successful in the country.
I just can’t let it go. Can’t stop thinking about it. And her.
“Stand up and lean over the bench. Ass in the air, hands behind your back, ankles together,” I bark out orders, as I stalk over to where Jessica patiently waits.
Scrambling to her feet, she assumes the position and I get to work securely tying her wrists together behind her back and her ankles together with her feet still on the floor. It takes me several attempts to master the French bowline knot as my hands shake with frustration. Damn you, Finley Farewell, this is your fault. I can’t even tie a simple knot with a rope.
I eventually get it tied correctly, and I step back to admire my handiwork. Not bad, but could use some practice… just not right now. I need to get her ass nice and warm and pink before I bury my cock inside her, which I’m praying will finally clear my mind of all this bullshit and let me relax.
Remembering my responsibilities as a Dom, I ask, “How do you feel, pet?”
She tugs against the restraints to test their resilience, and at the first little bit of pressure, the rope cinches tight, visibly pinching the skin on her wrist. “Owww, fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, peering back over her shoulder to see what the problem is.
“Shit, sorry!” I apologize, dropping down to my knees behind her to loosen the knot as fast as I can.
Only the more I try to unravel it, the tighter the knot gets. And before I know it, Jessica is howling with pain, her naked ass wiggling and writhing on the bench. And not in the good way.
“Oh, my God! What did you do, Teague? Why couldn’t you just use handcuffs like normal?” Worry paints her face as the pain clearly intensifies with each passing second, seeing as her pinky fingers are now turning purple and her ring fingers are a deep shade of red.
“I don’t know!” I insist, my hands working frantically, but failing epically. “I’ve been practicing this knot for weeks. I thought it would be more comfortable for you.”
“Well, you thought wrong!” she snarls, flapping her arms behind her like a bird with a broken wing.
My dick now resembles a wet noodle dangling over my open fly, as any and all sexiness has been zapped from the room. And if that’s not bad enough, the rope burns my fingertips as they feverishly work the coarse fibers. Yet, I still can’t free her.
“Stop moving so I can study it for a second,” I grunt, taking a quick break for a breath and to reset. “We’re working against each other here.”
She finally stills, allowing me to examine the tangled mess and figure out how to fix this disaster. After what seems like forever, but was probably only a few minutes, Jessica’s hands are freed from the twined hemp, and I then move my focus to the rope bound around her ankles, which I apparently did correctly, because I’m able to release them within seconds.
Shaking out her wrists, she levels me with her brown eyes and presses her lips together. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Teague, but something’s not right,” she accuses. “Your message on Saturday to get together had my interest piqued, so when you called again tonight, I knew something was up. You never stray from your schedule, and I’m worried about you. Thought maybe a session would help you work through whatever’s going on in that head of yours, but you’re clearly not in the right mindset for this. So you’ve got two options: I can get dressed and leave and we can try again on Friday, or you can actually open up for once and tell me what’s going on. I might actually be able to shed some light on the problem.”
I blow out a long sigh as I drag my sore fingers through my hair. I never talk about my life with anyone, the good or the bad. Mainly, I don’t trust people to not use that information against me
at a convenient time for them. But maybe Jessica’s right. I mean, she trusts me enough to blindfold, restrain, and use her body in pretty much any way possible. Perhaps I should trust her enough to tell her what’s going on.
Sticking my cock back inside my jeans, I nod and offer an apologetic smile. “All right, I’ll grab our drinks and meet you in the living room. Let’s talk.”
And just like that, my Dom credibility went down the toilet, as I submitted to her wishes instead. Which somehow seemed strangely fitting since I’d been tied in knots for days.
Finley
“I STILL CAN’T believe I let you talk me into this. My stomach is telling me this is a terrible idea,” I groan, peering up at Farrah as she curls my hair with a hot styling wand.
“Stop moving or I’m gonna burn you… and it may not be an accident.” Rolling her eyes, she repositions my head to look forward and huffs. “And what the hell does your stomach know? You need to be listening to your hoo-ha-dilly that’s probably about to die from loneliness. Poor thing hasn’t seen any action in what, at least a year?”
I open my mouth to tell her that any actions — or lack thereof — involving my vagina are none of her damn business, but I’m cut off by another voice, a sweet, tiny one in a British accent, before I can get the first sound out.
“Your hoo-ha-dilly talks, Aunt Finley?” Fiona asks, a look of pure bewilderment on her precious, round face, as her eyes bounce back and forth between my gaze and my crotch, which is thankfully covered by a thick terrycloth robe. How is it she always knows the absolute worst time to walk in on a conversation? Usually, it’s right after I’ve dropped an F-bomb. “Does it have, like, super powers or something?”
“Yeah, to regrow a hymen,” Farrah mumbles under her breath, as I shoot daggers at her through the mirror.
I turn my attention to Fiona and offer a rueful smile. “No, squirt, my hoo-ha-dilly doesn’t talk. Your mom’s just being silly. You know how she gets confused about everything.” I pause as I reach out and ruffle her hair. “Why don’t you go back out in the living room and draw me a picture while we finish up in here?”
She hesitates a second, as if she’s deciding whether or not I’m telling the truth, then nods. “Okey dokey. I’ve already laid out the clothes I want you to wear on your bed, along with your fancy new bra and knickers. I can’t wait for you to meet the guys Mummy and I narrowed it down to! I don’t know how you’ll ever be able to pick just one!”
I keep the smile pasted on my face until she disappears through the doorway then turn and glower at my sister again, who seems unfazed, hilarity sparkling in her brown eyes. “I’m gonna punch you in your hoo-ha-dilly and say the hell with this whole charade if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face.”
Furrowing her brow in a half-ass attempt to appear unamused, she goes back to work on my hair without replying to my idle threat. She knows I won’t back out of this speed-dating session she and Fiona have gone through the trouble of setting up. No matter how much I’ve protested and bitched about it over the last few days while they’ve been in planning mode, I won’t let Fiona down. And since this was originally her idea, I can’t back out now.
It’s been two weeks exactly — or a fortnight, as Fiona informed me this morning — since I woke up a millionaire for the first time, and I’m continually adjusting to our new life. We decided to stay in the two-bedroom suite here at the St. Regis Hotel, which I’m quite certain is actually larger than our townhouse, at least for a month or so. Until the winnings fund, all of the tax documents are signed, and financial obligations are met, I don’t want to make any major purchases like buying a house, or even a car. I’m scared to death of becoming one of those lottery winners filing for bankruptcy within ten years of winning because they made a bunch of terrible decisions. Though, how I could possibly spend a hundred million dollars in my lifetime is still beyond me.
This whole speed-dating scheme came to fruition last weekend when I was rambling on about Mr. Sexy Eyes — yes, again — wondering aloud about who he is and why he left the ticket. I have no information about him other than knowing the ticket was purchased at a gas station outside of an airport in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, but whether he even lives there or not isn’t certain.
Since the story of the “Best Tipper Ever” ran worldwide, no less than a couple hundred men have come forward and contacted my attorney, claiming to be my mysterious benefactor, but not one has produced a picture that matches the face I see every night in my dreams. And although I keep holding out hope he’ll emerge, Fiona has apparently grown tired of hearing me talk about him. So, along with Farrah, the two of them devised a plan for me to meet an assortment of eligible bachelors who are just ‘dying’ to get to know me in a speed-dating type of set up today. They guarantee at least one of these guys will make me forget all about my dimpled, dessert-eating dream man. I’m skeptical at best, but seeing how happy and excited Fiona has been while organizing it, from running the online ads and sorting through the hundreds of headshots and questionnaires she created, I can’t crush her spirit. Especially not after uprooting her from the only home she’s ever known and taking her away from her school and her friends.
“So where are we doing this? In the hotel bar, right?” I ask, hoping I won’t have to go far for this waste of time. If it’s as ‘speedy’ as I plan on making it, I’ll be back up here in our suite and in my pajamas before Saturday Night Live starts.
Farrah chews on her bottom lip nervously, refusing to meet my stare while she pretends to be very interested in the strand of hair she’s working on. “Kind of. It’s here in the hotel.”
I crinkle my forehead and curse under my breath. “Dammit, Farrah. I told you the only way I’d agree to this is if you kept it low-key. There better not be a news crew or photographers here documenting this entire shenanigan. I swear to you, I will march my happy ass right back up he—”
“Would you just calm your nips and take a chilly pilly?” She sets the wand down and grabs a can of hairspray, not bothering to tell me to close my eyes before spraying it all over my head. I snap them shut just before she blinds me for life. “Instead of worrying about everything all the time, why don’t you try to be thankful for what Fiona and I have done for you? Your Mr. Sexy Eyes obviously doesn’t want you to know who he is, or he would’ve come forward by now. And I really think it would do you some good to forget about all this lawyer crap and banker mumbly jumbly for a while, and remember you’re a twenty-one-year-old college kid. Flirt, have fun,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, and adds, “get laid. Do something irresponsible for once.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding her the result of that line of thinking is currently sitting in the living room, probably drawing pictures of Big Ben and Parliament while meal planning our breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the next week. Even though Fiona wasn’t planned and Farrah has no idea who her baby daddy is, I never associate my niece with something negative. She may be the product of poor decision making, but she’s the most positive thing in both of our lives. I will never throw her in my sister’s face.
“I can have fun without being irresponsible,” I retort, as I stand up off the stool and inspect my reflection in the mirror. She may be a nagging shrew, but Farrah really is a miracle worker with hair and makeup. I almost feel bad she had to quit her job doing something I know she loves. Until she opens her mouth again.
“You’re right, you can.” Grinning mischievously, she grabs a pink lip-gloss from her unlimited assortment of cosmetics strewn out over the marble counter and hands it to me. “I already put condoms and lube in your purse.”
My mouth gapes open as I stare at her in horror. “Lube?” I hiss. “What exactly have you planned? A bukkake gangbang?”
“I have no idea what that is, but once you see these guys, you’re gonna wish that’s what was happening. Believe you me, I would want all kinds of bazooka gonging and banging with these fine specimens.” She giggles and flips her jet black hair over her shoulde
r, then adds, “Oh, and just in case things do go well, there’s a key to another room here in the hotel in your purse too. The number is written on the outside of it, should you need to use it.”
“You’re insane,” I mutter, applying the shiny coat of gloss over the matte lipstick she’s already painted on my lips. “And don’t expect me to be using any of those things. Even if I actually happen to like one of the freaks y’all got to agree to this ridiculousness, I’m not sleeping with anyone after talking to them for just five minutes, Farrah. I do have some self-respect.”
Tsking and shaking her head, she starts to clean up the mess of products she got out to beautify me. “Your loss, sister. You can tell them to stick around when you head back up, and you and your self-respect can stay here with Fiona while I go enjoy the buffet of grade-A man-meat. It’s been a few days since I had an orgasm with a real person, and my fingers are getting achy.”
I open my mouth to ask who in the hell she’s had sex with recently, since we’ve all been together almost the entire last two weeks, but I close it just as fast, quickly deciding I don’t really want to know. However, Farrah, being my sister, can read my mind, and answers my unspoken question.
“That Dax really knows how to work his gun,” her lips curl up in a wicked grin at the thought of whatever she did with her assigned security team member, “among other things.”
“Ugh, are you serious, Farrah?” I scold, my hands fisted on my hips. “When did that happen? And are you still…?”
She giggles and offers an unapologetic shrug. “That day we went to Union Square, when you and Fiona went to Box Lunch and I was still trying on clothes at Armani, I had a zipper get stuck on a dress. He was very… helpful. And continues to be anytime I need him.”
“What would be helpful is if you could not sleep with people who work for us,” I grumble, a scowl marring my made-up face.