Master Me (41 page)

“Is everything all right here?” the older man asked.

“Fine. This is Lara. She’s a client. An ex-client, I should say.”

“We were told she was looking into your windows.”

“It’s okay. She just wanted to see if I was in. It’s a social call.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“You can go. Honestly.” Dexter assumed an ‘all-lads-together’ tone, winking at the officers, and said, “We just had some
business
to sort out…if you catch my drift.”

The officers chuckled complicitly. “Fine. Sorry to interrupt. Good evening.”

They left and I waited an age for some kind of explanation for the very odd atmosphere their visit had left. This wasn’t an ordinary follow-up of a possible crime report, not by any stretch. Dexter had seemed to know the men, for one thing, and they obviously knew him.

“I…should go,” I said eventually, when it seemed that no explanation was on offer. “I don’t know what all that was about, and I’m sorry…sorry for everything. Sorry I cared.”

My voice cracked and I stumbled blindly towards the door, putting an arm out in front of me in my haste to get away, but Dexter moved to block my exit.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” he said flatly. “Nothing at all.”

“You think I’m some kind of stalker.”

“You are some kind of stalker,” he pointed out, with the hint of a smile. “Thank you for stalking me. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t laugh at me!”

He put out a hand, cupped my cheek, stroked it with his thumb. I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide inside him, away from whatever outside-world stuff had skewed our chances of happiness together.

“Are you telling me what to do?” he whispered. “You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

“Are you going to let me go home?” I demanded, but he swallowed the last word with a sudden swoop of a kiss.

The hackles rose on the back of my neck and my skin crawled with fearful arousal. My legs buckled and he supported me with an arm behind my back, never breaking the kiss even as he swept around, switching our positions so that it was me pinned to the wall. He released my back and grabbed a wrist, lifting it over my head and holding it tightly against the cool plaster while his tongue pushed through my lips and I fell, down and deep, into a place from which there could be no return.

“Do you want this?” he asked, breaking off, keeping my neck tilted back and up, by the force of his forehead against mine.

“I want you.”

“I come with strings attached, Lara. And the strings will be attached to you.”

“You can tie me up. I want that.”

“You think you do.”

“I do.”

“We’ll see, shall we? This way.”

He steered me through the flat, behind me, his hands on my shoulders, walking me out of the living room, across a hallway and through the door to his bedroom. It was exactly as I’d imagined it…plain, neat, immaculately clean, almost bare of personal traces, like a diagram of a space rather than its physical equivalent.

“It’s so long since I did this,” he muttered, almost to himself, putting his fingers up behind my neck and pushing them into the soft flesh so that I gasped. His touch was so firm, so sure, as if his fingertips had absorbed my predilections by contact with my skin.

“Are you sure?” I sighed. “You seem to be in pretty good practice to me.”

A thumb took possession of the hollow at the base of my skull, applying a less gentle pressure.

“Shall we lay down a ground rule, Lara?” he said, into my ear. “You speak when you’re spoken to. If you think you can manage that, say ‘Yes, Sir.’”

“Yes, Sir,” I breathed, hardly able to stand now, leaning back against his chest, transported slap bang into the middle of a fantasy with no memory of how I got there.

“Good.” He let his lips linger on my jaw line, then drift down to my neck. “Unbutton your dress, please.”

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I was wearing a sand-coloured shirt dress with a plaited leather belt. My hands were clumsy and it took me a while, but I managed to free each button from its slit. Before I had time to start unbuckling the belt, Dexter took hold of the loosened halves of the dress and pulled them aside, over my breasts, then pushed the sleeves down until he was able to pull the garment out of the belt, leaving me in my shoes and underwear with the woven leather cinched uselessly around my waist.

“I think we can use this,” he said, unbuckling it, then bringing my wrists around to rest in the small of my back while he wrapped the soft leather around and around, eschewing the buckle and using a rough knot to finally secure them. “Yes,” he said approvingly, stepping away from my swaying body and circling it, his chin cradled in a contemplative hand. “That’s the effect I wanted. Lara, bound and half naked, ready for use. Are you quite happy there?”

“Yes, Sir.” I almost couldn’t answer—it seemed a humiliating admission to make, somehow. I felt as if I should be fighting him or resisting him in some way—but I just didn’t
want
to. I was trembling and my clitoris pulsed between my legs like a flashing alarm. I had never been so turned on in my life.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He stepped closer and I almost jumped back, but somehow I maintained my stance, chin up, shoulders back, breasts thrust out. It was my breasts to which his attention turned then; he put out both hands and used his thumbs to ease the lacy bra cups down over my stiff nipples.

“You could hardly have said, ‘no’—these give you away.”

He pinched each light brown bud, not hard, but enough to make me squeak, then seemed to apologise to them by brushing them, his thumbs circling the bases. It seemed to be an experiment in how hard he could get them, for he was relentless in the stimulation and I had no alternative but to endure the sensation, longing for it both to end and to continue, wanting the answering throb it provoked in my pussy to be attended to.

Moans and catches of breath were all I could use to communicate my desires, because he didn’t speak or invite my opinions, and I was determined to obey, my heart set on meeting the challenge he’d issued me. I tried instead to use my body as a tool for him to translate, so I pushed out my hips and swivelled them, trying to make contact with his pelvis. I half-shut my eyes and licked my lips. I squeezed my thighs together and tried a rocking motion, anything to get the tiniest bit of friction against my clit. He noticed and laughed softly, reaching around to unhook my bra so that I was filled with hope before he returned to his nipple-torment, such a refinement of torture, such cruel pleasure. The bra settled itself around my belted wrists, unable to fall any further, and I felt it dangling there, sometimes brushing against my bottom as I jerked and jolted and tried everything in my power to move Dexter lower.

“Mmmm.”

His lips vibrated against a nipple and he took it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, bathing it in warmth and darkness, sucking and nipping until I felt sparks in my panties. Between the heat and the wetness I wondered if I was in for an electric shock.

And, oh glory, his hands moved down, tracing the lines of my waist and hips, then one rested at the waistband of my knickers while the other stroked the soft swell of my belly. Was he going to do it? Was he going to take the fruit I offered, squeeze it and mash it, smear its juices all over us? I was tempted to beg but I dared not. I didn’t want this spell to break.

He released my nipple, stood up straight, both hands now poised at the elastic, ready for action, and whispered, “How wet are you?”

“Very wet,” I groaned. “Very. Very wet.”

“Bad girl,” he said, suddenly sharp, and one hand smacked down on my stretch-satin bottom cheeks, causing me to jump and almost lose balance. But he had me pressed up against him so I found my feet and concentrated on the sting, enjoying it, wanting more.

“You missed out the magic word,” he reminded me, his voice a caress once more.

“Sir,” I added, smiling in embarrassment, unable to meet his eye.

“That’s better. Oh, look at me, Lara. You must look at me when you speak, you know.”

Tearing my eyes from the ground was the hardest thing I’d had to do so far, and I tilted my head so that my brows protected me from some of the impact—a sidelong glance, I suppose you would call it.

“Now,” he said, placing the very tips of his fingers inside the waistband, letting them tickle my skin. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to take them down, Sir,” I gibbered. I found it so hard to say that, forgetful of the new rule, I screwed my eyes shut. Another loud spank shocked them open.

“You need intensive training,” he noted.

I stared up at him, aiming for the heartstring-tug appeal of a tragic puppy.

Intensive training.
I squirmed beneath his touch, imagining a series of different scenarios that opened up into each other like drawing rooms in a stately home. I wanted to be trained, I wanted his boot on my neck, I wanted his whip on my backside, I wanted to crawl on my belly at his feet. And he knew it.

“So then. Take them down. That’s what you want?”

I concentrated on keeping my eyelids still. “Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”

He took a deep breath and yanked them to my knees, letting the stained fabric drop the rest of the way.

“They’ll need a good wash,” he said, as if in reproof, but there was poorly masked glee in his voice too, and his hand flashed between my thighs, prising apart my lower lips and luxuriating in the plentiful evidence of my base desires.

I felt heavier and heavier, standing there on his busy fingers, trying to keep upright, having to bend my knees to prevent myself from falling. One hand held me across the buttocks while the other probed and glided, circled and rubbed, skating across my surface, then plunging inside, finding me easy to breach.

“You’re soaked,” he said triumphantly. “Would you like to be fucked now, Lara?”

“Yes, please, Sir.” I was dancing on my tiptoes, my naked nipples grazing up against his rough cotton shirt, my face lunging for his neck, needing the support. I managed to bite onto his collar seconds before the orgasm ripped through me, almost unannounced, and writhed against him like fury, spilling all over his fingers.

“Ohhhh, sweet girl,” he crooned, free hand in my hair, mussing it, kissing my forehead, his fingers still lodged inside me while the pad of his thumb owned my clit. “You didn’t wait long, did you? You must have needed that quite badly.”

“Yes, Sir, yes,” I muffled into his shirt, my eyes shut, watching glorious starbursts on the inner lids.

“Next time, love, you will remember to ask permission before you come. Do you understand?”

I shook my head and hinged it upward, struggling to focus on his face. “Seriously? Still?”

“If you’re serious.”

“That could be difficult!”

“I know.” His fingers withdrew from me with a luscious slick sound. “I didn’t say I was easily pleased, did I?”

How true that was. He was a hard taskmaster, and I’d always known it. I liked that phrase, and I let it roll through my head again, precipitating a pleasurable shudder.
Hard taskmaster
.

“Go and bend over the bed,” he directed, taking me by the shoulders and setting me off in the right direction, while he headed for a cupboard somewhere out of my eyesight. The carpet was made of that rough seagrass matting that is so ubiquitous in modern blocks of flats and I winced a little when it made contact with my bare knees. I rested my stomach on the low bed, listening to the steady clatter of Dexter’s rummagings, wondering what it was he was looking for. Did I dare to peek over my shoulder?

I risked it, and then my sharp intake of breath drew his attention to me, giving the game away. He looked up slowly and, seeing that I needed a sign to dispel my sudden fear that I was in way over my head, he smiled—an almost bashful smile. He coughed self-consciously before following my eyes down to the weapon in his hand.

“It looks worse than it is,” he assured me.

“It looks bad.”

“The tip doesn’t hurt so much. And besides, you have the power to stop me at any time. You can walk away whenever you like.”

The tension dissipated and I smiled back at him.

“Do you ride then?”

He chuckled. “Not as such. They know me quite well at the tack shop, though.”

“Haha. I’m sure.”

Dexter decided that it was time to quit the jocular small talk and ramp the pressure back up. He did this by slapping the leather flap at the tip of the riding crop down into his palm with cracking effect. My shoulders jumped and I pressed my face quickly back into the mattress, letting it muffle the pounding of my heart.

“I think you have to agree, Lara, that your behaviour today has left something to be desired.”

His footsteps, soft but unmistakable, approached me and then a cold presence alighted between my shoulder blades, moving up to the nape of my neck, then back down again, following every bump of my spine as the words spun around my head.

“Against my expressed wishes, you stalk me to my home and spy on me. You spark a panic amongst my neighbours, who have the police called out. And you yelled at me! I’d say all of that merits some fairly rigorous chastisement, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I mumbled, glad that he couldn’t see the hot flush of embarrassment warming the bedclothes beneath my face.

“I should think so.”

The crop had found my buttocks now and was circling them with menacing intent, then flapping about between each cheek, tickling the sensitive skin there. I squirmed and clenched my fists, waiting, waiting for that first stroke…

When it came, it seemed harder than it really was, its effects exaggerated by anticipation, so I howled dramatically, causing Dexter to tut and tap my thighs in reproof.

“I think you may be overstating your case there,” he warned. “That was a very light opening stroke. Did you really find it that painful?”

“No, not really, Sir,” I confessed. “Just caught me off guard, that’s all. I thought it was going to be harder.”

Suddenly I leapt halfway off the bed, stunned by a swift, hard slice to my rear end that really
did
catch me off guard. “Owwwww,” I sang, reaching bound fingers down to try to clutch at the line of fire on my bottom.