Authors: Lacey Alexander
And this was kind of like that. Except heavier. More in your face. He was actually
tying a woman up and letting it excite him. At this point, his cock felt like it could
burst through his zipper any second, like it had taken on a life of its own.
He shifted his gaze to her face, her body now turned sideways, away from him, on the
sofa. The truth was that she looked afraid. But he knew better—or he at least knew
that any fear she experienced was secondary to the heat coursing through her veins—and
it struck him then how very much fear and passion could look alike and how strange
that was.
April could scarcely believe any of this. That she’d come here. That she’d responded
to him with such wild abandon before it hit her how erratically she was behaving.
Or that now he’d actually tied her hands behind her back. Her mind was in a whirl
of confusion—she’d been all over the place mentally ever since she’d left her condo,
but certainly even more so since arriving here. Yes. No. Up. Down. In. Out. She couldn’t
blame the man for being frustrated with her since what she wanted seemed to change
every minute—radically.
Only . . . is it really changing? Deep down inside you? Or is it all just different
shades of gray, different shades of what your body wants?
You have to admit that even the fighting feels strangely and bizarrely good.
Those few moments she’d relaxed here on the couch had been oddly good as well. With
him hovering over her, holding her arms above her head. Fighting it felt like . . .
the thing she was supposed to do, even if in a way it was almost like fighting with
herself as much as fighting with him. And the moments of surrender were like . . .
peace, rest. It felt good to give it all up, let him take over, give him all the control.
But then she crushed her eyes shut.
Have you lost your mind?
Behind her, he still twisted and tied the strip of fabric she’d never dreamed would
be used this way when she’d put it through her belt loops this morning.
You aren’t a woman who gives up her control. In fact, you’re the opposite. You’re
take-charge and powerful. You run the ship. You watch over your clients. You keep
things and people in line at the office. You take care of Gram. You take care of Amber
and Allison, too.
She didn’t, in reality, know the first thing about letting go of control, handing
over the reins of anything to someone else, let alone sex.
Then why does it feel so good in the moments you let it happen?
Why are you lying here now, docile as a child, letting a man take away your power?
Why, even as it frightens you a little to give that up to him, to be so vulnerable,
does the vulnerability in some other way feel like . . . relief? A relief that’s exciting
and wild. A relief you secretly want to explore. When you’re not busy fighting it.
And that’s when she remembered. To fight it. That’s when she remembered that to lie
here content to let a man she barely knew do something like this to her was . . .
unthinkable. And humiliating. And even if she knew it would do no good, she had to
at least express that by struggling against him. More than she had been these last
few minutes.
And as she began to tug and pull and jostle about beneath him, that felt good, too.
Just because it was how she was supposed to feel, what you were supposed to do if
someone held you down and tied you up. Maybe she wanted to get free, maybe she didn’t—she
honestly didn’t know in that moment; she only knew that a self-respecting woman with
as much responsibility as she harbored in life could not just lie here on this couch
and let this happen.
God, I shouldn’t have come here. What was I thinking? Why am I drawn to this he-man
brute? He
is
the big bad wolf incarnate.
And if nothing else, fighting just made her feel better inside right now—because
she was enraged, at herself, at him, at this whole situation, and struggling against
the bonds that now held her at least allowed her to release some frustration.
“Whoa—whoa there, Ginger. Calm down,” he said—and she realized maybe she was struggling
more than she had in a while.
And that—oh Lord—even as she did it, her breasts rubbed and bulged against the lace
of her bra in a way she felt between her legs. And maybe she should just accept it,
face it—they were going to have sex again, it was beyond stopping now—yet it remained
difficult.
“You are a Neanderthal,” she spat without planning, still facing inward on the couch
and feeling trussed like a pig about to be roasted.
And it probably shouldn’t have surprised her when he responded by laughing—but it
did. “Yeah, well, if that’s so, you’re right there in the cave
with
me, honey,” he said, and the words stung.
Because it was getting harder and harder to deny. Harder and harder to convince herself
she didn’t want this, hadn’t actually
created
it. A horrific thought, but there it was.
And now she struggled not because she was in denial, but because she was just so angry
at herself, so aghast.
This doesn’t make any sense.
Pictures she’d seen of sexually submissive women bound and gagged flashed in her
head.
This isn’t who you are.
“For God’s sake, Ginger,” he said—and she decided to be mad all over again because
he was back to calling her Ginger, equating her to some plastic, glittery starlet
on a long-ago TV show, some objectified woman who didn’t even exist, and it just made
her struggle all the more. “Can’t you just be a good little girl and be still?”
Ha—as if that was the right thing to say to calm her down right now! She simply glared
over her shoulder at him and pulled at the ties all the more desperately. “Let me
loose,” she demanded through gritted teeth. Up to now, she’d stayed mostly quiet—another
thing she could scarcely explain to herself—but this had gone too far. “Untie me right
now!”
In response, he only sighed, as if she were annoying to him! She couldn’t help yanking
violently at that point, trying to get her hands free, thinking if she pulled hard
enough maybe she could rip it. “You have no right,” she began spouting—hardly planning
as she spoke; they were just angry words spilling from her. “You have no right at
all to—”
“I guess you can’t,” he said more loudly, over her complaints. “And do you know what
happens to
bad
little girls, Ginger?”
That quieted her. Made her shiver.
And she didn’t reply, but she did finally go still and lift her eyes to his.
“Bad little girls,” he told her then, “have to be punished.”
Chapter 9
A
thin ribbon of fear threaded its way up April’s spine. She didn’t know this man. At
moments he’d seemed decent, and yes, he was a cop, which should count for something—but
the reality was that she really didn’t know much more than that about him.
And what did he mean by
punish
? What if he really intended to hurt her in some way? Or defile her in some fashion
she’d find repulsive? Another image of bound-and-gagged women flashed in her brain.
Somehow she’d truly given up her power to him. She lay on his couch with her arms
literally tied behind her back, after all. And for a second she could barely breathe,
imagining the worst.
“Wh-what are you going to do to me?” God, she hated how meek she sounded. She hated
that she’d even asked at all, let her worry show. Like everything else about this
situation, that wasn’t who she was, how she saw herself.
That’s when she caught the twinkle in his eye as he said in a deep voice, “I think
you need a good, hard spanking, little girl.”
The words set off so many responses in her brain that she could barely process them
all.
Okay, false alarm—he’s not going to hurt me.
But if he dares to think he’s going to actually spank me, he’s sorely mistaken.
And . . . how would that feel? Why is it supposed to be fun?
Of course, the last thought was dreadful, so she immediately pushed it aside and went
back to the others. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, proud that she’d sounded
at least a little more authoritative and in control than she had since her arrival
here.
“Afraid not,” he replied, all confidence and sureness as usual. “I’m pretty sure it’s
exactly what you need, Ginger.” And with that, he reached down and around to begin
undoing the button and zipper on her capri pants.
It was shocking to feel so helpless, to not have use of her hands to try to push his
away, and her natural inclination was to writhe back and forth as best she could.
But her efforts were both exhausting and useless given how she remained pinned down
by him.
Next, he began maneuvering them both into new positions. He finally lifted himself
off of her to sit upright on the couch—but immediately hauled her over his knees,
facedown, at the same time yanking her pants down over her bottom from behind, forcefully
enough that they ended up around her knees. She struggled every bit of the way, but
the pants now had the same effect as the sash around her wrists—they kept her from
being able to kick her way free, of them or of him. The whole time she heard herself
protesting, though so much was going on that she barely knew what she was saying—things
like “Stop it!” and “Get off me!” And she was pretty sure she called him a son of
a bitch.
But then his hand, big and warm, came to rest on her bare ass, and she felt the touch
between her legs and the strangeness of knowing, deep down, that the fear she experienced
right now was only of the unknown and that at the same time, that sort of excited
her.
And the real truth was—she could fight and argue all night long, but she’d been excited
since he’d answered the door. Even before that. She hated it. She hated not understanding
it. She hated the feeling of giving up her strength when it went against everything
she knew about herself. But nothing had ever excited her in the way Rogan Wolfe did.
Nothing had ever excited her the way surrendering her power to him did.
And so she went still. Trying to wrap her head around that. Trying to find her bearings,
her mind trapped between the excitement and the repulsion.
And then he began to spank her. First one slap to her ass, then another, and another.
She cried out at each—because each was jolting, freshly surprising in a way, and every
one stung.
And at moments, she continued to flail about a little—a natural response, the urge
to get free, get some modicum of control back, especially with her arms still secured
behind her in her very own belt—but soon she realized the uselessness of it and so
she settled down, simply absorbing what was happening.
Every time the flat of his hand delivered that shocking sting, it echoed a little
farther through her body. And—oh Lord—each blow seemed to echo through her pussy as
well. She hadn’t quite realized that at first, but now it was impossible not to recognize
the heat, the heaviness, now residing between her legs as each slap to her ass vibrated
outward.
How was it possible that this felt . . .
good
even as it hurt? And it did hurt. The area he spanked—the slapping sound it made
seeming to fill the room—became more and more sore. But the region around it—oh hell,
maybe even her whole body—resounded with a strange pleasure she couldn’t understand
any more than she understood
any
of this.
And when she cried out now at each strike he delivered, she recognized it as a noise
of passion that eventually became interspersed with hot, jagged moans she couldn’t
contain.
She shut her eyes, began to accept where she was, accept the inexplicable pleasure.
She sensed the man above her enjoying it just as much. Or maybe it was her new, growing
acquiescence he was enjoying—or maybe all of it. It didn’t matter. In fact, at the
moment, fewer and fewer of her concerns seemed to matter. She was thinking less, feeling
more. Her bottom stung badly, and in one way she wanted him to stop—but in another
way, she was willing now, more than ever before with him, to just cease thinking altogether
and let it be what it was, whatever Rogan made it into. Because no matter how much
it stung, it never stopped outweighing the hot sensations that reverberated through
her entire being now. What had been on the border of deniable before no longer was.
Plain and simple, being spanked brought her deep, irrefutable pleasure.
As it continued and she gave in more and more to the naughty, kinky joy of it, a shift
of her body made her aware of—oh,
mmm
—Rogan’s erection, pressed hard as a stone against her hip. And her pussy pulsed even
harder then, hungry for it, wild for it. She bit her lip as the hot ache spread through
her like wildfire.
The time came when Rogan’s hand went still on her ass—same as it had started out there,
and again, simply the quiet yet potent touch, after everything else that had just
taken place, made her tingle. Vague questions floated through her mind much more calmly
than a mere few minutes ago.
What must my bottom look like by now? And what’s coming next?
It felt beyond bizarre to suddenly realize how strangely exposed she was before him—and
yet to be okay with that now.
That’s when he began to slowly spread his legs, the hand on her ass now guiding her
body so that as he parted them, she slid slowly, gently down in between. She ended
up on her knees on the floor, her cheek coming to rest on his inner thigh. She made
no effort to move it. Instead she only looked up at him, met his gaze. God, he had
pretty eyes. How had she never noticed that before? She’d seen everything so rough
and commanding about him, but only now did she realize there was a certain masculine
softness, too.
She felt what was happening here. Slowly. But surely.
I’m giving in. I’m really giving in.
And it was hard to accept, but suddenly
harder
not to just . . . let go. It felt the way she imagined drowning did. She’d always
heard that once you gave in to the inevitable fact of drowning that it became peaceful,
that it was, in fact, one of the most peaceful ways to die. That it was just letting
go. Accepting. Resting your resistance. Allowing it to take you. And that same sort
of illogical sense of allowing came over her now. She wanted this. She wanted to let
this man control her. She wanted to give up all her power to him. She wanted to let
go and simply trust him to bring her pleasure.
She didn’t even panic when he reached down to open his pants. She just watched, taking
in details. The way his fingers worked the button, then the zipper. The vague sound
of music from some other apartment. The black fabric of his underwear coming into
view. The prominent column behind it. She’d felt that. Against her hip. Her body ached
to feel it again.
And then he was reaching inside that black fabric—he used one hand to pull the underwear
down, the other to extract his . . . cock.
That’s what guys—and lots of women, too—call it; you don’t have to be afraid of the
word.
It was just as big and hard and majestic as she remembered from last time—only this
was the first moment she’d gotten a really good look at it. It stood before her right
at eye level, only inches away. She bit her lower lip as a fresh, stark desire grew
within her.
She’d thought maybe he would say something now, but she was glad when he didn’t. Silence
was easier; silence helped her stay in the moment and just roll with it. And so when
he kept his erection in one hand and placed the other on the back of her head to draw
her closer, that’s what she did—rolled with it. Let it happen. She watched almost
serenely as he held his stiffened cock down toward her lips. And she parted them without
decision—it happened instinctively. On her knees, with her hands bound behind her,
she tamely allowed him to feed his erection into her mouth.
April had never indulged in oral sex this way before. Never on her knees, below a
man. Never without use of her hands. Never in a way that required so much courage
and trust. And yet as the rigid column of flesh slid slowly between her lips, she
accepted it willingly. Wantingly. As her mouth opened wider to accommodate him, it
felt deliciously filled; she felt deliciously used. Not in a bad way. But used for . . .
what a woman was given her sexuality for. Used in a way she now
wanted
to be used.
She was supremely docile now. Captive and strangely content by it. And when one last
inkling of dismay entered her head, she told herself she really had no choice. He’d
made her do this, after all. He’d tied her up; he’d held her down. And right now she
was technically trapped between his legs, hands bound, both of
his
hands now behind her head as he eased his large shaft in and out, in and out, his
low groans filling the air. She was being quietly forced to suck his cock.
But that was when more truth shone through and she realized she didn’t really
want
a choice. She was happy not to be deciding, happy to have choice taken away. She
actually
liked
having his hands on her head, in her hair, pulling her onto his erection again, again.
She thought, in fact, that she’d never really quite enjoyed giving a man a blowjob
more. Deep down inside her, in that hidden place she was only just now daring to peek
into, she liked the sense of being
almost
overwhelmed by the size of him between her lips; she liked not being able to be tentative,
not being able to back off and get comfortable with what she was doing. She felt it
more this way. Thrillingly more. Her lips felt stretched, and his eyes on her made
her feel a little obscene. And her heart beat like crazy in her chest with all the
utter
sensation
that created within her, all through her.
“Look at me,” he said.
She hadn’t since this part had started. She’d kept her eyes straight ahead, working
to anticipate the movement of his cock, which had started out slow but then escalated
to a slightly faster, pistonlike drive toward her throat. Now, though, she didn’t
hesitate to lift her gaze to his. She didn’t even consider not doing it or worry that
it might feel too personal or awkward. She became that miraculously compliant.
Eyes that had struck her as soft just a few minutes earlier now burned into her like
hot coals, making her pussy flare with desire. His hands remained in her hair, slightly
massaging her scalp now as he told her, “Damn, babe, you look so fucking hot sucking
my dick. And so fucking . . . sweet. I didn’t even know you could look so sweet, honey.
You’re being such a good girl now. Such a good girl for me.”
And despite the change in her, it still surprised her completely when his words, his
praise, made her surge anew with fresh moisture between her legs. Dirty talk had never
really been her thing. On the rare occasion a man she dated had used it, it had struck
her as forced and immature. But this—this was different. Maybe it was his raspy delivery.
Maybe it was the fact that she’d completely surrendered to him now. But whatever the
case, the shocking truth was that at this moment she wanted to
be
his good little girl with all her heart.
Their eyes stayed locked as he continued sliding his cock in, out, in, out, in a rhythm
she found pleasing.
“Do you like me fucking your mouth this way, baby?” he asked her.
She gave a slight, numb nod. No thought, no decision. She did. And she wanted him
to know it. That simple.
In response, he increased the tempo slightly, pulling her more deeply onto him, and
even as she began to wonder if she could handle it without gagging, she wanted to.
And she did. Obediently. That part—the obedience—had gotten shockingly easy.
At some point, his eyes fell shut, his head dropping back, as he continued the steady
thrusts between her lips. And her eyes closed, too, just soaking in the pleasure she
took from bringing
him
pleasure. It suddenly seemed like . . . a gift. Getting to pleasure such a hot, sexy,
virile man. It somehow made her feel special, lucky, to get to experience this, and
skilled that her ministrations—even if forced—were good enough to make him relax into
it like this. And in one way, having her mouth filled with his cock made her pussy
ache for attention—but in another, this was enough. Just giving him this. Just being
what he wanted her to be right now. Even if she didn’t know him that well. It still
felt right, like her surrender had somehow brought them closer than they’d been before.