“Silence, sub!” With his mouth to her ear, he said, “Being back here is like coming home. There’s so much I want to show you, so much I never had the opportunity to teach you.”
A zip of wantonness shot through her body, leaving her quivering against him. She gasped as his fingers walked back and forth, sliding right below the lining of her bra.
“Maybe I should take you back to the island and do the sort of things I should’ve done the first night we spent together.”
“Like what?” she asked, her arousal heightened, her desire kicking her blasted ass.
“Don’t speak until I ask you to reply.” Brock slapped her bottom with a firm hand.
“Ouch!” She jerked and tried to turn.
He held her still tighter, steadfast in his grip. Drawing her bra over her breasts, he dragged his thumb across an extended nipple, painfully slow in the movements he exerted.
“God, baby, I remember everything about our first night.” Brock nuzzled her cheek. “How much I wanted to teach you, how much I longed to show you who and what I was, who and what I wanted to be with you.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, still incredibly hurt to know he had withheld a side of himself, locked away a part of himself that she’d never seen before.
He pinched her nipple. She yelped. He pinched again.
“Shh, sub,” he rasped, rolling the point between his finger and thumb. “I have the floor, Trixie. Listen to my voice. Let me tell you a little story.”
She was motionless. Was this why her fathers were able to keep her mother in line? Was this why Vicky McKay acted as if she would die without Patrick, Joshua, and Aspen? Was she submissive because of the advantages found in the rewards? If so, did she crave the punishments, too?
At that particular moment, Trixie yearned to push Brock. She wanted him to punish her.
“Tell me, Brock,” she taunted him. “Tell me what I need to know.”
A guttural growl fell from his lips. Before she could contemplate what would happen next, he grabbed her arm, took a seat on the ground, and pulled her over his lap. At the same time, he yanked down her panties, and set her ass on fire with a multitude of strikes against her flesh.
“Brock!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “It hurts!”
“Want me to stop, lover?”
“No, Sir,” she whispered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to continue.
Another smack landed against her ass. The effects shot straight through her backside to her front. Her pussy wept. Her bottom throbbed.
A cool morning breeze left her shivering. Brock delivered another spanking. This time it was brutal and erotic, forceful and addictive. And she wanted more. She was afraid of what she’d miss if she asked for less.
He continued the repetitive slaps. Her skin heated. Her pussy pulsed. A lustful burn set her inner walls afire. “Have you had enough?”
“Yes!”
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and dark. “You know what your safe word is. Use it.”
“Pudding,” she whispered, recalling the safe word she’d chosen years ago. “Pudding. Pudding. Pudding.”
Because of the way Brock had taken his seat on the ground, her fingers were trapped under her body. At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do more than finger herself, but unless he shifted his weight, she wouldn’t be able to tuck her fingers inside her cunt and pleasure herself in the way she desired.
Brock ran his large hand across her bottom, stroking her skin, caressing her ass with attentive fingers. “I will always honor you, Trixie.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she rubbed her cheek against his denim-clad leg, wishing he would let her have him, let her see him stretching for her, reaching for her. He shifted his weight and patted her bottom.
A soothing sensation washed across her. The moisture gathered around her intimate folds and she reached for her clit, spreading her legs at the same time.
“Not so fast, vixen.” Brock immediately stood with her. Slowly, he released her. He held her steady and pulled up her panties. “Go back to the dock and put on your pajama pants.”
“You can’t be serious.” Trixie moistened her lips and stared at the bulge between his thighs. “You expect me to believe you don’t want me after all that?”
“After all what?” Brock asked, a coolness to his voice. “I wanted to tell you a story. You didn’t want to hear it. When you’re ready to behave like a good submissive, I’ll finish, ask for your feelings about what I share with you, and then reward you promptly. Until then, you can think about what you missed.”
Trixie stormed off, marching down the hill as mad as a wet hen. And she was wet all right. Wetter than she’d been in at least a year or more.
With Rory and Brock around to take care of her every intimate need, she rarely stayed in yearning mode for longer than a minute. Children sort of dampened one’s ability for spontaneous sex, and when they had time to stay in bed, loving away the afternoon, they typically acted like every other married couple with children.
They talked about how they would spend their day romping across the house with unadulterated pleasure guiding them. They’d fuck for hours. They’d screw on the dining room table, down by the stables, and finally end up in the shower where they’d fuck against the tile wall before collapsing in bed for another marathon round.
Reality was mighty different than fiction.
Most of the time, these loving afternoons were spent catching up on sleep. Sometimes, she wondered if the best part of her sex life was behind her.
Grabbing her pajama pants, she stuffed one leg in the material and then the other. She jumped once and secured the tie around her waist. When she turned again, she found a totally mesmerized man. He watched her with such brooding lust, that dark desire she hadn’t seen in ages.
Stopping short of reaching him, her breath caught in her chest. His gaze raked over her, starting at her chin and slowly easing down the length of her neck, sliding over her chest and breasts, down to her stomach, and holding at her waist before continuing lower.
“I want you to finger yourself, sub.”
She nodded obediently, slipped her finger inside her pajama pants and pressed her middle and forefinger through her folds, spreading her legs for balance.
Brock approached her. He grabbed her by the elbow and jerked her arm away from her pajama pants.
Lifting her fingers to his mouth, he twirled his tongue around her fingers, sucking them between his lips and moaning in satisfaction. “You still taste like pure honey.”
Her mouth dried as she watched his lips close around her fingers, but observing wasn’t the only element driving her lust. The way his soft tongue twirled around the digits made her long for more of an intimate commitment.
She longed to strip off those pajama pants and lie down before him. She wanted him sprawled out between her legs, licking her into an unforgettable orgasm. And she didn’t care who saw them. She didn’t give a damn if the whole world watched.
“Please take me, Brock,” she whispered, her gaze pinned to his mouth.
“I will,” he promised. “Sometime before we leave here, I’ll fuck you until you cry for mercy, but I’ll still leave you begging for more.”
She followed behind him. He’d told her to keep at least five feet between them and if he were a betting man, he’d bet on that much and a few more. Between the heavy footsteps and the groaning every few seconds, he could only imagine what was going through her mind.
A smile tugged at his lips as they rounded the bend and ducked under the low-sweeping willow tree branches. On the other side of the willow, the camp lodge appeared like a painted portrait and a piece of history all rolled up into one.
Brock remembered a time he’d shown Trixie a glimpse of the life he’d wanted to give her. He and Mitch had taken her to bed and given her a taste of the worlds from which they’d come. Rory had pitched a fit. He probably wouldn’t now, but back then, he’d adamantly opposed introducing Trixie to Domination and submission.
The argument prior to her abduction had been based on her upbringing as much as her innocence. He’d been insistent. Her fathers and mother wouldn’t approve. At the time, Rory had voiced strong opposition.
After her abduction, Brock had decided Rory had a choice in the matter as much as he and Mitch had held fast to their opposition. In the end, after Mitch left the relationship, Brock had determined it was best for all of them if they kept their intimate relations as vanilla as possible.
“Here they are now,” Mitch called out, turning to them as they walked up the winding path.
Trixie caught up to him then. “Who is that?”
“Sub, wait,” Brock said, flattening his palm against her hip and pushing her behind him.
He didn’t like surprises. Mitch had already mentioned his buddy from prison and the fact that he’d seen them there when they hadn’t known he was watching them. In Brock’s mind, the man already had a couple of strikes against him.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine. Brock Sheldon, this is Cash Whitehead. He’s already met Rory.”
The men shook hands.
“And who is the lovely lady behind you?” Cash asked, a little too much jiggle in his shoulders, far too much play in his strut.
Mitch shot her a wink. “You shouldn’t have to ask. You’ve heard all about her.”
“I’m Trixie,” she said, placing her hand in his.
He immediately brushed her fingers with a gentleman’s kiss. Brock went rigid, completely aware of the way the man’s eyes dipped lower as he studied the low cut of her pajama top.
He ground his back teeth and swapped a glance with Rory, who wasn’t in much better shape. His fists were balled, hanging at his sides.
Rory and bunched undies didn’t mix well. He was easygoing until his temper flared, which generally only sparked when Trixie was at the center of the flame.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cartwell.”
“It’s Mrs. and it’s Sheldon,” Brock quickly corrected him.
Cash flashed a smile and said, “Names aren’t all that important. Are they, sweetheart? It’s the woman behind the name that makes all the difference.”
Rory snatched Trixie’s hand and led her away. Calling out over his shoulder, he said, “Man has a point. The woman behind the name makes all the difference in the world and this woman of mine needs a little TLC. You boys entertain Mr. Whitehead. Show him around the place. Take him down to the rifle range and let him enjoy some target practice with Brock.”
Before Rory entered the lodge, he extended his forefinger and raised his thumb, cocking his finger as if he were firing a gun. “Brock, I’m sure you’ll find a way to pass the time.”
“Trixie?” Brock called out. “Wait for me, sugar.”
“I don’t know what it is about this place, but whenever we’re here, you’re possessive as hell all over again.” Rory laughed aloud and entered the lodge.
Brock ignored Rory’s accusation. “You heard me, sub.”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “I did and I might.”
“You will or you will face the consequences, sub.”
Rory immediately stuck his head outside again. “What did you just say?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Brock dismissed the notion of explaining himself in front of Cash, or Mitch, for that matter.
Rory and Trixie disappeared, and Brock studied Cash, deciding at once he didn’t like the guy. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something off with him. And it went way beyond Cash’s deliberate pass at his wife.
In recent years, he’d become very guarded. Plus, Mitch had proven himself an unreliable judge of character. He’d been the one to hire Stephen Pratchert. He’d been the first to form a relationship with Jordie Anne. Now, he’d invited an ex-con to Cow Camp.
Brock couldn’t help but think of three strikes. Trouble traveled in threes.
“So you’re the one who caught the little woman?”
“Caught her?” Brock asked.
Cash chuckled. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the next. They exchanged a challenging glare.
Brock felt his left eye twitch. This guy rubbed him the wrong way.
“Ease up, dude,” Cash said. “I’m just joshing with you.”
“Trixie isn’t a laughing matter,” Brock said.
“I’ll say,” Cash agreed, changing his stance again.
That swagger of his might end up getting him decked.
Then, to make matters worse—and Brock couldn’t believe his eyes—the sorry son of a bitch grabbed his package in the front and said, “Yeah, if I had a woman like Miss Cartwell, I’d keep her smiling but I wouldn’t want her giggling too much. Ya know what I mean? A man doesn’t want a woman laughing it up when he’s in between her legs. Know what I mean?”
Brock snarled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Mitch leapt in front of him with his palms forward. He stopped Brock just in time. He was seconds away from pouncing on the freak.
“He’s just rattling your chain,” Mitch said.
Brock bared his teeth, realizing when he showed his anger that his outward display of fury had seemingly amused Cash.