Bound to Accept (9 page)

“
It isn't that gross lube,
is it?”

“
I'm sadistic,” he says,
“not evil.”

I flick out my tongue and lick his finger.
“Nutella?”

“
Mm-hmm.” He licks my
lips, startling me. Then his mouth seals against mine, and as he
kisses me, the taste of hazelnuts and chocolate floods my
mouth.

We kiss long after the flavor fades, and one
of his hands tangles in my hair. His fingers are warm against the
roots of my hair, and when his grip tightens he sends sharp tingles
of almost-pain rippling down my spine.

“
One more thing,” he says,
huskily.

“
Yes?”

“
There's one last
sensation I want you to feel.”

This is gonna be good.

I wait, hardly daring to breathe for fear of
missing a single thing—

And curse as a cup full of ice tumbles down
my shirt. It's freezing, and some of them get inside my bra. My
skin tightens painfully, and my nipples contract to hard
points.

“
Cold!” I shriek. “Too
cold! You bastard! You
dick
!”

“
I'm
so
sorry,” he says, in a way that
says he is so
not
. “Let me get that out for you.”

And without any sort of hesitation, he
plunges his hand down my top. I inhale sharply, as his shirtsleeve
rubs against my sensitized skin. He scoops the ice cubes out,
handful by handful, and on the third pass his wrist brushes against
my nipple. I suck in a breath as his touch elicits a twinge in my
belly, but if he knows that he has just touched me in such an
intimate way, he gives no indication of it.

“
How do you
feel?”

“
Cold!”

“
Was that too cruel of me?
Let me warm you up.” He sits back down on the bed and rubs his
hands up and down my arms. “How do you feel about being tied up
now?”

I think about it. The porn he showed me
really took me off-guard, but perhaps that was because the Master
in that video was so cruel. “I guess…” I speak slowly, trying to
give voice to the nebulous thoughts inside my head. “I guess it's
not so bad if it's being done by you.”

He transfers his hands to my shoulders and
massages my collarbone with his thumbs. “And if we did sexual
things while you were tied up?”

In that moment, I'm sure he knew exactly
what he was doing when he reached down my shirt.

“
Well.” I suck on my lower
lip and taste lingering traces of both Tristan and Nutella. “It
couldn't hurt to try.”

He texts me a few days later.

Come over. Waiting for you.

I look at the clock. It's
almost 6 P.M., which seems a little early for a booty call. If
that's even what this is.
Is
this a booty call? And, if so, am I really ready
to have sex?

What do I wear? Jeans? That doesn't seem
dressy enough. It is evening, after all. You're supposed to look
dressier during evenings. But a dress seems too formal for the
occasion—unless he's taking me out to dinner, but I'm pretty sure
he'd offer to pick me up if he was.

There's another text.

Don't wear underwear.

I swallow. Hard.

That clears things up a bit. Whatever he's
planning is almost sure to be sexual, even if he doesn't actually
take my virginity. But I'm pretty sure he'd warn me if we were
about to have sex—at least implicitly, if not outright
explicitly.

My jeans chafe too much between my very bare
legs, so I end up deciding on a denim skirt and a flannel shirt.
The skirt's a little on the short side but not too risque—at least,
not if I don't bend over—and I figure the busy plaid pattern will
hide the fact that I'm not wearing a bra.

It does nothing to conceal the jiggling,
though, and on the bus ride to Tristan's, my breasts and my ass
wobble and bounce with every pothole. A creepy businessman-type
leers at me. Fucking creep.

I stare at a Planned
Parenthood poster on the wall of the bus and wonder if it's as
painfully obvious to everyone else as it is to me that I'm not
wearing panties. The rasp of denim against my bottom, and the way
the flannel rubs against my erect nipples is a very odd sensation.
I feel naked beneath my clothing, which seems like it'd be stating
the obvious—we're all naked without clothing—but this is somehow
different. I feel as if I have been stripped of all protection,
laid bare, cracked open.
Vulnerable
.

But then, considering what goes on in BDSM,
maybe that's the point. Maybe he wants to disassemble me, dismantle
me, to learn what makes me tick, all just so he can wind me back
up.

I stand in his entryway
for a moment, hugging myself. I stare at his doorbell.
Do I dare disturb the universe?

I do. I do dare.

Tristan answers the door on the first ring.
This time, he is wearing leather pants and an unbuttoned white
shirt, and leather boots that could easily be called
“shit-kickers.”

He stretches out in the doorway, resting his
hand high on the molding. I watch his eyes flick over me, starting
at my Converse and then climbing back up to my face. I can almost
feel the drag of his gaze over my body, like an intimate caress.
“You look like a schoolgirl.”

“
You look like an
incubus,” I retort, which makes his smile widen into a grin. A grin
that I can't help but notice looks…feral, and a little
dangerous.

“
Maybe I am,” he says, and
lunges at me. I scream, and he quickly covers my mouth, swinging me
around so that I'm over the threshold, and shuts the door by
leaning against it. He reaches down to lock it with a
click.

I can feel the heat radiating from his bare
chest as he runs the hand he locked the door with up and down my
torso, testing the material and the fastenings. This flannel shirt
has snaps instead of buttons, and when he realizes that, he gives
my shirt a yank, ripping it halfway open.

I gasp against his palm as his other hand
slips inside my open shirt. What is he going to do? Is he going
to—?

“
No!” I scream, as he
begins tickling me. It comes out muffled because of his hand. “You
jerk!”

I start swinging my body back and forth, and
he lets his legs give out, and then we are rolling down the hall
and into his living room. He ends up on top of me, and pins my
wrists over my head with a muted slam. He is panting lightly,
grinning down at me, and his open shirt drapes over my body like a
curtain.

“
This is an interesting
position.”

“
What the hell was that
for?” I demand hoarsely.

“
You said I couldn't put
anything up your sweet, sweet ass.” His hand slides up my skirt and
squeezes one butt cheek. “You never said anything about
tickling.”

“
Asshole.”

“
That's no way to speak to
your Master.” He squeezes me again and kisses me, letting his
fingers slide down between my legs as his tongue delves into my
mouth.

I tense, but Tristan pulls his hand back and
demurely straightens out my skirt.

“
I shouldn't have let you
banter with me in those earlier sessions. You've developed some bad
habits that I'm going to have to rid you of.” He glances down at
me. Then he chucks me under the chin. “Don't look so scared. You
called me an incubus. That implies you think I seem capable of
taking care of you.”

I blink. What? “How?”

“
Because incubi are very
good at seducing and fucking.”

He should not be allowed to say such things
in that voice. I'm starting to melt just listening to him.

Tristan follows the curve of my behind to my
hips, and then examines the hem of my shirt. “I like this color on
you. I'm kind of disappointed that you didn't wear one of those
pony shirts, though.”

“
Why?” I ask
suspiciously.

“
Aside from being some of
your tighter shirts, they're made pretty cheaply, and the fabric is
pretty thin. I was looking forward to seeing if I could tear it
right off you.”

“
No!” I say, even as a
secret thrill ripples through me. “You are not allowed to do that!
Those shirts are expensive! I had to buy them specially at Fanime
Con—”

He presses his finger against my lips.

“
I'm teasing you. And even
if I weren't, I would have been happy to buy you a new one. Hell,
when this is over, I'll take you to the next Fanime Con
myself.”

“
Why do you get to tease
me but I can't tease you?”

“
Because I'm the Dom,
sweet pony girl.”

That makes my face heat up. “No. Don't call
me that.”

“
I can call you whatever I
want,” he says. “And you have to answer to it.” Cool air rushes
over my breasts and belly as Tristan parts the fabric of my shirt.
He tweaks one of my nipples. “But I think you like it.”

“
No, I don't—”

“
And even if you don't,”
he cuts me off, “you'll still answer to it. Because I am your
Master. And if you don't stop looking at me like that—” I'm glaring
“—I am going to punish you. Tonight things get serious. I'm going
to treat you the way I would an actual submissive. You will address
me as 'Master' or 'Sir'—whichever feels more natural. I will
address you however I please, and you will answer to it. You will
also ask permission before speaking, and if I ask you a question,
you will answer me immediately and truthfully. Understand,
moonshine
sparkle
?”

Moonshine Sparkle? I giggle. Is he
serious?

I stop giggling when he leans over me
threateningly. “Did I say you could laugh?”

He's serious. I swallow. “No, um—” damn it,
what did he say to call him, again? “ No, Ma—ah, Sir.”

“
And did you understand
what I said before?”

“
Y-yes…Sir.” This is going
to be hard to remember.

“
Good. Since you're a
virgin, and new to the scene, you will probably have a lot of
questions, either about BDSM or sex in general, so I'm giving you
permission to question me freely. I can revoke that permission at
any time,” he adds. “If I tell you to do something, you will do it
to the best of your ability. Obey, and you will be rewarded.
Disobey, and you will be punished.”

He pauses, letting that sink in.

“
Our safeword is going to
be 'Twilight.' Use it only if you want me to halt what I'm doing.
Saying 'no' or 'stop' will not cause me to stop. Is that
clear?”

“
Yes.” He continues
staring at me. “Yes, Sir?”

Tristan nods, and shrugs off his shirt,
giving me a view of his broad, muscular shoulders. He casts it off
on his armchair and starts slipping off his watch.

“
Get up and follow
me.”

The leather creaks as he gets up. I don't
even bother trying not to stare at his ass. I'm pretty sure he's
not wearing anything beneath them. They look way too tight.

His bedroom has undergone a bit of a
transformation since last time. There are candles burning, giving
off a smoky, herbal smell. The TV is gone, probably in the closet,
and sitting in its place is a serving tray. There's a bottle of
white wine—a Moscato, my favorite—two glasses, a length of scarlet
cord, an unopened package of vibrators, and what looks like a giant
glass penis.

Just like the one in the
porn
.

I stare at him in horror, but he's putting
his watch on his desk and flexing his hand as he massages his
wrist.

“
On the bed.”

I climb onto the mattress, though trying to
do so in a skirt without being indecent is a task in and of itself.
I'm not quite sure how to arrange my legs, and start to angle them
sideways in a semi-demure position.

“
No,” Tristan barks.
“Finish unbuttoning your shirt. Then lie down with your arms over
your head and your legs spread.”

“
Are you going to tie me
up?” I barely remember to add “Sir.”

“
Yes.”

“
What are you going to do
to me?”

“
Whatever I want,” he
says, with a gentle smile.

I wring the hem of my shirt in my hands,
which are starting to sweat. Part of me wants this, and another
part of me is beginning to quail in terror. I'm past the point of
no return, a hairsbreadth from tilting in either direction, and
have no idea which side will prevail.

“
Is it going to
hurt?”

“
That depends,” he says.
“What do you consider pain?”

“
What happened on the
video…I didn't like that.”

“
What, specifically,
didn't you like? I know you don't like the idea of the clamps. Was
there something else?”

“
I…I'm not
sure.”

“
The rope
bondage?”

“
Not so much
anymore.”

“
Good. The
whip?”

I bite my lip. “Yes.”

“
I'm not going to whip
you.” He nods at my idle hands. “Finish with your shirt—and
remember to refer to me as 'Master' or 'Sir.'”

I undo the last snap and then lie down.
Tristan affixes my left wrist to the left bed post and my right
wrist to the right post. He does the same to my legs, knotting the
cord to these leather loops that are on the side of his mattress. I
tug and pull experimentally. My wrists are pretty much stuck, but I
have about six inches of movement with my legs.