"Just the outfit?" Those brown eyes got darker when he demanded more control, his lips firm in a way that made every part of her shudder.
She'd set herself up for that one, she knew. Even anticipated it. "Maybe not just the outfit."
He nodded. Removing and unzipping a small canvas case from the tote, she saw surgical scissors and a scalpel.
"In case of emergency, this is so I can quickly cut someone out of ropes, fabric, whatever might be restricting them. But they come in handy for other things. Like watching a pretty girl's eyes get wide as saucers when she sees the surgical tools."
"Sadist."
"Part of the job description, more or less." Logan winked. "The same way most subs have more or less of a masochist in them."
"Are you more . . . or less?"
"Depends on what the submissive needs. Whatever you need, Madison, I'll make it happen."
That brought her attention away from the shiny objects, back to his face. "That's pretty ambitious. That could be a million things."
"No. The underlying needs are usually a few simple things. Which you can fulfill in a multitude of marvelous ways." He touched her face again, though this time he stroked her temple, her cheek, slid his hand under her hair to run a fingertip along the point of bone on the back of her skull. He stroked the valley beneath that ran between her neck bones. The entire caress sent a charge through her that made her toes curl as if he'd already turned on the electrodes.
"What . . ."
"Occipital bone. That, and the area all around it, are extremely erogenous. Focusing only on a woman's nipples and pussy is like visiting two cities and ignoring the rest of the country." He dropped his touch back between her legs, ran a finger along the crotch panel once more, the friction making her hips twitch up toward him, pulling against the belt around her waist. "This area is a whole country in itself, not merely a clit and an orifice for a man to shove his dick into."
She blinked as he picked up the scissors. He snipped the straps of the thong over her hip bones, pulled them loose so the air touched the folds between her legs. "Lift your hips as much as you can."
She did, and he leaned forward, bringing his heat and scent close as he slid his hand down her back to pluck the back thong strap free from the crevice between her buttocks. As a result, it didn't chafe when he pulled it free from the front and untangled it from the garters.
He brought the thong to his nose, inhaled her, touched his lips to the moisture. "Did you get the wettest when I was suckling your breast?"
She nodded, unable to speak at the sight of him doing something so intimate. Setting the garment aside, he trailed that magical finger down her belly, teasing her navel, then traversing the plaid skirt until he was beneath the pleats, tracing her smooth mound to her clit. He routed around that, moving down. She bit her lip as he found her moist folds, stroked.
"As I was saying," he continued in a conversational manner, "Most men focus only on the clit, but the labia have so many nerves, as does the perineum, the anal rim. A woman's cunt is endlessly responsive, the way she answers to mouth, cock, hand, vibrator . . . My ultimate fantasy is to find a submissive I can give pleasure, over and over and over, until she's my slave in every way."
"You selfish bastard," she said faintly.
She startled a laugh out of him, one that was full of dark, delicious intent. He retrieved the blindfold and slid it over her head, securing it so the world became his voice and touch. She parted her lips to protest, but he anticipated her worry.
"I'm right here, Madison. Even if I'm not touching you, or talking, I won't leave you alone. Not even for a moment. While you're dependent on me like this, nothing in this world has a higher priority to me than your care. Do you understand?"
Understanding and believing were two different things. She was helpless, the blindfold underscoring it. No man had ever been so trustworthy that she'd completely rely on him for her care. But she called on what he'd said would help reassure her. "Yes, Master."
"Good girl." He teased her lips with his thumb, stroked it down her throat. "Say it again."
"Master."
She wasn't sure why it was so calming to say it, but he was right; it was. Maybe the word was a trigger, reminding her of the things she'd filed in her subconscious about him. She'd watched him with Troy, seen Troy's absolute faith when submitting to him. She'd probably been able to come as far as the blindfold without freaking out specifically because of seeing that, proof that he knew what he was doing.
Then there was Alice's letter. Trust Logan. She trusted Alice's love for her.
"All right. I'm attaching clips to your labia." He made sure they clamped over the inner and outer area. To do that, he had to grip her securely, and having her legs held open while he handled her with such possessive familiarity resulted in a fluid response he stopped to collect on his fingers.
"You taste like the best kind of sin, Madison."
She went hot all over, thinking of him putting his fingers in his mouth. The wires attached to the clips were light lines of pressure on her thighs. The clips held her firmly, but not in an uncomfortable way. Her fingers curled in her bonds, her palms beginning to moisten again. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?"
"I've done it to myself. On some of my most sensitive parts." His voice held humor. "To be sure. The initial static startles you, but it's because you're anticipating shock. Another day I'll use a violet wand on you. You'll enjoy the way the color plays over your skin."
Her tongue was dry from repeated swallowing. She rubbed her lips together, found no moisture there. A moment later, when he put a wet, folded paper towel to them, a hard twist happened below her breastbone. He'd said he'd pay attention, that her care was the most important thing to her. But those were words. This wasn't.
"Part your lips," he ordered, and when she did, he dripped some cool water onto her tongue, ran the towel over her lips, dampening them. "There you go."
He returned to what he was doing and she listened to him shift, felt him make adjustments to the clips, doing other things she could only imagine.
"When you were talking about your ultimate fantasy . . ." she ventured, "what is it you really want? From . . . a submissive. The one you want to keep. The only one you'll let in your bed."
She shouldn't have put it that way, because it suggested that she was paying way too much attention to everything he said and did. He didn't respond right away, though. She waited, wondering if he would. She also wondered at how she waited on him, what her docility said about her, her acceptance of his total control over her, even this conversation. Before she walked into Logan's store, she'd rejected giving up control of anything. Even now, she was uncomfortably aware that if anyone other than Logan were trying this with her, she'd zap them with one of those wands he mentioned on full voltage. Just sitting here, she'd run this scenario through her mind with every one of her past relationships, even a few fantasy men, acquaintances she'd seen at a distance, as well as some popular actors. Nope, none of them worked.
It was him. Only him. She was smart enough to know that was the scariest thing about all of this, no matter her body's reaction to electrodes or being hung by her heels from the ceiling light. She had no confidence in her judgment. Just because he was living up to everything she wanted from a man, things she hadn't even known she wanted--or yes, maybe she had, deep down, she'd admit that--didn't mean that was what Logan was.
"I'm not going to tell you what I want from a submissive, Madison. All you need to know is that I'm doing exactly what I want to do to you. Your only concern is what I order you to do. You have no other expectations, nothing you need to anticipate. Only the here and now and what I tell you. Understand?"
It could be taken in an offensive way, kind of a shut up bitch and do what I tell you response, except everything he'd done so far tonight had brought her pleasure. But she still wanted to know what she could do for him that no other sub could do. Or did she? What if she couldn't do it? Or worse, if she fo
und out any sub compliant enough could fulfill what he wanted?
One minute she was shying away from the idea of this being more than a training session; the next she was wishing she had concrete proof it was. Maybe she needed to say it to herself. Shut up bitch and let it be what it is. But her mind didn't obey her the way it did Logan.
"I'm turning on the electrodes now," he interrupted her thoughts. "While I watch the movie, I'm going to enjoy looking at you, all tied up, every part accessible for me to touch, however, whenever I want. You're helpless and all mine right now. Anything I want to do, I can. Your only job is to let me know if anything hurts the wrong kind of way. All right?"
She bobbed her head, a quick jerk. She didn't have the bravery to call him Master this time, her mind fragmented over her internal worries. She was also kind of stressing about what that electric current was going to be like. Maybe he had a much higher tolerance for pain than she did. Yes, he'd stop if she said it was hurting, but that might be after a hell of a shock.
She heard him go put in his movie choice; then he settled with a creak into the chair facing hers. His calves pressed against her ankles as he stretched out his legs on either side of her chair. The movie company theme music started, the vibration of the volume coming through the thin stockings over the soles of her feet.
She jumped at the first jolt of the electrical current, but he was right; her reaction was caused by anticipation, not discomfort. The low-level sensation sort of stung, but as the pattern built, it also sent tiny squiggles of sensation up the inside of her cunt and into the base of her clit.
"Ohh . . ." She flexed against her bonds, and her movement enhanced the crosscurrent. It was a flowing sensation, across the network of nerves in all those slick tissues.
"Yeah, we'll keep it on this program. It goes through a whole routine of patterns. I want to see the ones that get you worked up the most."
Her legs were spread wide enough they brushed his jeans on either side. He shifted, and she lost that contact, but she didn't have time to be unhappy about it. He bent forward, put gentle, moist lips over her right nipple, the barrier of cloth heated by his breath. As he turned his head to rub his jaw over her other breast, his hair brushed the generously exposed cleavage.
"I like not having that damn hair getting in my way. Yours, though, I like long. Gives me something to wrap my hands around when I fuck you."
The electrical current changed, became more of a stroking, back and forth, skittering among all those nerve endings like a continuous ping-pong game.
She was moaning as he suckled her, so very tenderly, through the thin cloth of the shirt. He moved to the cleavage, running his tongue in the channel between her compressed breasts and playing there, making it impossible not to imagine him doing the same lower down. Then he shifted to the other nipple, got it aching for more, before he sat back, leaving her panting and squirming.
"A little higher intensity, I think."
She let out a cry as the current strengthened. In the first moment it stung, but then she adjusted to it. Her hips jerked with the stimulation, fingers clamping around the slats of the chair.
Yes, in a clinical way, the sheer physical manipulation could arouse her, no different from the solo use of her vibrator, but there were far more elements to this scenario, stoking her to higher levels than she'd experienced with something battery-operated. And it wasn't just the electrodes doing it.
She was wearing an outfit he'd ordered her to wear, was bound to a chair so he could watch her, indulge his own pleasure. The detachment he was demonstrating by watching the movie intensified her reaction, though she couldn't explain why. All of it ostensibly about him, yet in an amazing, confusing way one of the most erotic things she'd ever encountered. He'd been right; it wouldn't have mattered if he'd brought her favorite movie of all time. She wouldn't have heard a word of it.
Her hips couldn't stop twitching, because that electrical current had a gradual, building effect. Her upper body got involved, a sinuous roll. She dropped her head back and brought it back down, all of her as restless as if a tongue was stroking her between her legs, a hugely intense response blooming in her lower body and spreading out.
He'd been eating his popcorn; she could hear him crunching. Then he set the bowl on the side table. His palms molded around her breasts, his thumbs teasing over her nipples. She cried out, a near scream at that light touch.
"Ssshh. You'll interrupt the movie, baby. Be quiet, or I'll gag you."
She bit back on the moans, the whimpers, but it was so hard. The effort made things even more intense, which she was sure was his plan.
Behind her she heard dialogue, gunfire, seventies theme music . . . it all rolled into one blur of white noise. Her mind became like a video camera mounted in the corner of her living room, imagining what this looked like, a man sprawled out watching a movie, drinking beer--she smelled the faint flavor of hops from where he'd had his mouth on her breast--while she sat there, tied up, vulnerable, so turned on she couldn't stop herself from making these tiny cries and moans, whimpers that sounded a lot like pleas.
"Can't help being a bad girl, can you?"
Though she tried to protest, pull her head away, he coaxed open her mouth with unrelenting fingers, pushing a rubber phallic-shaped object into it. The thick and short gag held down her tongue and stretched her jaw. He buckled it around her head, caressing her jaw with his strong hands, soothing her. Imagining it like his cock in her mouth had her tonguing it, suckling it, her throat working before she was even cognizant of doing such a shameless thing.
"Christ, you can kill a man." His voice was a near growl, yet his hands left her. The gag muffled her wail of protest. He moved out of the chair and she heard him sink down on the nearby couch. Start eating the popcorn again. "There now. Don't want you interrupting the movie at a good part."
She would have called him a bastard, except for the gag and the undisguised rough lust in his voice.
It went on for what seemed like half the movie, well over an hour. She came so close to climax, so many times, but he was always aware of where she was at, that crazy combination of intense attention and seeming disinterest. The electric pulses died down or changed each time she was almost there. She wriggled, squirmed. At a certain point, the pleasurable stress brought forth tears.
When she was whimpering against the gag like a baby, unable to stop her continuous pleading, he turned down the volume, to the point she could hear her ceiling fan rotating. He came back to his chair, his legs against her again. That simple contact was enough to make her shudder. Unbuckling the gag, he slid it free, wiping the saliva around her lips, her chin, with a cloth. He gave her a few sips of water, then rose. She heard his chair scrape the wood floor as he moved it behind her. Her chair adjusted beneath her, and she guessed he'd hooked a foot in the slats beneath to bring her closer. He was sitting right behind her now.
"You asked me about my fantasies, Madison, but what I want to know are yours. Tell me. In your shop all day, surrounded by all those possibilities, what one fantasy belongs to you?" His voice was a mesmerizing purr. "When you're in your bed alone, touching yourself, wanting to give yourself an orgasm, what do you imagine the most often? Pretend you're there now, and my voice is your own mind. There's no wrong answer, no judgment."
Her mind was going in a hundred different directions. She could barely think. As his fingers slid along her nape, teasing that bone, she trembled, hard. Before that touch, her mind gave way, following the track he set for it, no resistance.
"I imagine . . . when I spread my legs, it's someone else spreading them, holding them down while he does . . . oral sex."
He pressed against her back, inner thighs brushing her hips. Sliding an arm around her, he put his knuckle against her pussy again. It interrupted the current with a startling quick shock, a light burn. She was so slick, it was easy to imagine his finger was a tongue. She jerked against the intimate caress, the play of that clever digit.
"
Are you in your bedroom or somewhere else?"
"I'm in . . . his bedroom. He . . . bought me." She blurted it out, whispered the rest. "Like at an auction."
"What kind of auction? Present day, or a long time ago? Here, or in a desert somewhere?"
She'd never told anyone about this fantasy. It was shameful, far beyond political correctness, the dictates of feminism . . . It was a deep dark secret, yet she found herself speaking out in the dark, as if telling the devil himself what her greatest temptations were.
"It's . . . here, now. One of those auctions where sheikhs buy virgins, like the Taken movie. Only we weren't kidnapped. We were raised, groomed to become someone's sex slave. Like Story of O." She gave a desperate half laugh. "It's like a dream, a mish-mash of things."
"That's fine. It's your fantasy. You can make it fit your own desires. What are you wearing at the auction?"
"Just a thong and a collar, attached by thin chains to nipple clamps, a clamp . . . down there."
"On your clitoris, or labia?"
"Clitoris. The chains are caught in the back . . . with a padlock. Before the auction, men come by, lift you to your knees by the chains, examine you."
"Rough men, men who frighten you, make you worry they'll be the one who buys you."
She nodded.
"So is it a sheikh who buys you?"
She shook her head, then couldn't stop, kept shaking it. She made an inarticulate plea and he had his hand under her hair, digging into a handful of it, holding her fast. "Ssshh," he said firmly. "Be still. Focus. Madison, I'm ordering you to be still. Contain it, hold in the arousal, let it get more intense that way."
It was as difficult as being told she had to do fifty more ab crunches at a fitness class, but she did it, because he'd commanded it.
"You haven't answered my question. Is it a sheikh?"
"It's a soldier. He doesn't fit in. The others look at him, aren't sure why he's there. He's high-ranked, like special ops. I don't know much about the military."
"Again, doesn't matter. Your fantasy. What's he wearing?"
"A dress uniform, very intimidating. He wants his own personal slave. The way he looks at me, I know I'm the one he wants."
"Are you frightened of him?"