Still, he couldn’t resist laying his palm soft against the lower curve of her blistered backside, smiling as she flinched.
“Very sore?”
Her eyes tight shut, Imogen whispered her answer, “Yes, Sir. Very. Thank you.”
“The pleasure was entirely mine…”
“Not entirely.” Her rueful response was murmured softly.
He caught it, laughed. “So, not managed to beat your sense of humour out of you quite yet then. That’s good. I like a sub who makes me laugh.” He leaned over her, his hands positioned on each side of her shoulders to take his weight. “You doing okay, Imogen? Still with me?” His tone was more serious now.
“Yes, Sir. I’m fine. That was—quite incredible. Thank you.” Her voice was soft, quiet. But sure.
“Shall we move on? I have something really nice in mind for you now.”
“Thank you, Sir. Will it involve my nipples?”
Again he laughed. “Do you never give up?”
“No, Sir. Is that going to be a problem?”
“I shouldn’t think so. In the long run. And no, your nipples can stay unmolested for a while longer.”
Imogen mumbled ‘shame’ under her breath. He might have heard, but gave no indication of it.
“Open your legs, Imogen. Wide. You can just put your feet on the table top, and let your knees fall to the sides.”
He watched as she complied, privately appreciating her now total lack of inhibition. Christ, she was so responsive, a perfect submissive. What a waste it would have been if she’d never re-awakened. His eyes dropped to caress her exposed clit and pussy, cherry red in her arousal, glistening with her juices. Ready for him. Waiting. Eager.
“You’re looking at me. I can feel it.”
He couldn’t help thinking she didn’t sound unduly concerned.
“Yes, I am. And I’m thinking you are exquisite. Absolutely beautiful. Everywhere. But especially here.” He lowered his head, dropped a sweet and delicate kiss on her lower lips, lingering just long enough to trail the tip of his tongue around her quivering entrance. She lifted her hips, offering him more. Begging for more. He gave, felt she’d earned it. He traced the edges of her labia with his tongue, up one side, back down the other. She sighed, shifted her hips, so he did it again. Then once more. Then he used his thumbs to carefully ease her labia apart, making room to slip his tongue between them and dip it inside her moist channel. He tasted her, swirling his tongue around and across her sensitive folds, loving the way her breathy little cries escaped her throat, her panting became more frantic.
He was aware that she was about to come again, that she was there on the brink, hovering, reaching, and he teased her mercilessly. He wouldn’t deny her another orgasm for long—their relationship was too new, too tenuous for that. If indeed it was a relationship at all. She needed to fly and soon. She’d waited a long time for this. But still, a little anticipation would be good. It would enhance the experience.
Skilfully he teased and tantalised, tickling and tasting, a slight scrape of his teeth, the brush of his lips across her clit. She writhed, stretched, moaned, lifted her body to present her throbbing, needy, empty pussy to him, silently begging. He was attuned to every nuance of her response. Carefully he pushed her towards the edge, the very edge, than just as she was set to soar, he drew her back, just a little, but just enough. Her growl of frustration amused him, he drew her right up there again. And again. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her gasps became whimpers and he recognised that it was time.
Settling his mouth around her clit he sucked on it. Hard. And Imogen went into orbit. Her back arched, her feet and shoulders planted firmly on the table top as her hips jerked upwards. He used his palms under her bottom to hold her in place as he increased the suction on her desperate, responsive clit, continuing the pressure as her orgasm punched its way through her. Merciless, he dragged her response from her, allowing nothing to remain, demanding it all. She gave it, released it, let it pour from her in wave after sensual, thrilling wave of glorious tingling brilliance. She saw stars, touched Heaven and tumbled back down to Earth. Back into her own skin, supremely comfortable in a way she hadn’t been for years. Maybe ever.
No sooner had the last vibrating throes of orgasm faded than he was there, between her thighs, his sheathed cock pressing at her entrance. She hadn’t seen him unzip his jeans, had no recollection of hearing the snap of a condom foil, but here he was. Ready. And so was she. So very ready.
Imogen smiled, her face a mask of contentment as he sank his cock balls-deep within her. Her body was receptive, so thoroughly prepared. It had been a long time, and his shaft was thick, long and solid. It was a tight fit. But a fit nonetheless. Imogen’s pussy stretched, shifted, accommodated, and she couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever felt this good. Involuntarily she squeezed, gripping his shaft, clasping him inside herself. She was full, pleasantly so. Complete. At last.
Zack waited a few moments after he first sank his cock into her, allowed time for Imogen’s body to accept him. Her eyes flickered open, he caught that brief sliver of emerald green before her lids dropped again and her neck arched in contentment. Then he moved. Hard and fast and deep, he plunged into her. Imogen purred her approval, matching his thrusts. Zack normally preferred his subs to be less—participatory—but found he enjoyed Imogen’s unrestrained response. He liked that she loved this, glorying in what was happening to her, in what he was doing for her. His strokes became more demanding, and he looped his elbow behind her knee to lift her hips up, opening and angling her for his deeper penetration. He had to be hurting her, must be…
Apparently not. He gentled, but her frantic, “Don’t stop. More, please…” soon spurred him on again.
He picked up his punishing rhythm once more. Her sighs grew more breathy, her demands more insistent. His balls contracted in readiness, and he knew he was close. She was too, and he couldn’t leave her behind. He sank his hand between their joined bodies and he placed his thumb firmly on her clit, flicked it, rubbed. She convulsed around him, and in the next moment he was there, too. And they were spinning, weightless, flying together.
* * * *
“I suppose the lamb’s ruined…” Zack’s rueful query broke the comfortable silence.
“No. Slow cooker.” Imogen shifted in his lap, nestled against his chest, the top of her head tucked under his chin as he settled more comfortably in the carver chair.
“Ah. Good.”
“I’ll finish cooking. Need a shower first though. If that’s all right…?” She shifted, started to get up.
He tightened his arms around her. “No rush. I’ll finish the spuds while you have a shower. Later. Stay here. Relax.”
Imogen didn’t need telling twice. She snuggled back in, and a couple of minutes later her regular breathing told him she was asleep.
* * * *
She woke to find herself tucked up in her best guest room. Still naked. And alone. Throwing back the duvet, she sniffed the air. What was that?
Ah, yes, her lamb. The delicate aroma was wafting upstairs. And there was sound, the muffled clink of—what? Kitchen noise? Someone in her kitchen? Who…?
Him. Zack. Her new baby Dom. Though not such a baby after all, it would seem, if her current crop of aches and pains were any indication. Her bottom was still throbbing slightly, and the backs of her thighs were distinctly sore. Her pussy felt stretched and well-used, and her limbs were still a little stiff from the restraints. Christ, what a scene. He’d certainly managed to leave a lasting impression. And now, apparently, he was up to something in her kitchen.
And Imogen couldn’t care less. She was relaxed, at ease, content in her own skin, and at that precise moment interested only in finding a shower and maybe some clothes. Then again, maybe she could pass on the clothes. She eased herself out of bed, took her time over standing up to make sure her legs were entirely steady. Then she headed for the en suite.
Thirty minutes later, wearing only her ankle-length silk kimono wrap, a gift from Sean in a previous life, she stood in the doorway to her kitchen, surveying the scene. Zack was leaning over her worktop, his back to her, idly flicking through last month’s copy of
The Dalesman.
He was still dressed in black, and looked positively scorching. How had she not noticed from the off how bloody sexy he was? Christ, she’d lusted after his car more than she had him when he’d first arrived. What had she been thinking?
She knew she was probably drooling—and not just at the prospect of her lamb casserole—but couldn’t seem to help it. Somehow, he’d opened her floodgates, quite literally probably, and she couldn’t get enough. She was silent, she was sure of that, but he turned his head, some sixth sense alerting him to her presence.
He turned, one hip casually resting on her granite worktop. He regarded her silently, as though assessing. Wondering. Then, “Well, Imogen?”
She shifted uneasily under his gaze. “Well what?”
“To start with, are
you
well?”
She was surprised. “Yes, of course. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You must be sore.”
“Well, yes. A little. But not much, not really.”
He inclined his head to look at her from under his eyebrows. “Right. Any regrets?”
Imogen held his gaze steadily. “None.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s good. Because while you’ve been asleep, and then wallowing in the shower, I’ve been giving some careful thought to your nipples.”
She stepped back, instinctively raising her arms in front of her as if to protect herself. He grinned, shook his head wryly before turning towards the cooker where several pans sat on the top, steam wafting up from their surfaces. “Not this evening though, probably. Don’t want to wear you out. And now, we need food. Bed, breakfast
and
evening meal, remember? I want my forty-five quid’s worth. I’ve finished the vegetables. Everything’s ready.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “I thought we’d eat in here. We can find other uses for your lovely dining room. Which reminds me, Imogen—where do you keep your clothes pegs?”
* * * *
The following afternoon, Saturday, Imogen found herself once more in the dining room, perched on her solid mahogany table. Her feet were dangling a foot from the floor, and this time her wrists were tied in the small of her back. Zack stood in front of her, trailing his hand through her silky curls.
They’d spent a companionable, if somewhat emotionally charged, evening together. After their meal they settled down together in her comfortable sitting room, turned on the television and had caught a late evening run of
Quantum of Solace.
Eventually they ambled off to their separate bedrooms. Imogen would not have refused if he’d suggested sleeping together, whether in her room or his, but he’d seemed content to leave their encounter where it was. For now.
Imogen had not expected to sleep well. In fact, she’d got a solid eight hours, and had only eventually woken when once again the jolly clattering of pans rattled up her stairs. This time, when she’d emerged into her kitchen fully dressed, it was to find her paying guest helping himself to her marmalade, and evidence of recently consumed bacon, eggs and mushrooms in the sink. He’d smiled at her from the kitchen table, and got up to pour her a cup of coffee. Imogen hadn’t been able to help observing how very much at home he’d made himself, both with her house and with her body. And she rather liked it.
“I’m doing breakfast, because it’s part of my deal. Already had the bed and evening meal. Plus added services. I thought we might try some more extra-curricular stuff later. And I wonder, could I talk you into throwing in lunch?” His open, friendly expression had been engaging, but Imogen knew that behind that superficially merely pleasant exterior lurked something rather fascinating.
She sat down, smiled her thanks for the coffee. “Yes, I daresay. Lunch might even be on the house.”
“Might?”
“Might. We’ll see.”
“Okay. Now, can I interest you in my morning speciality of bacon, lightly grilled, eggs, runny or hard, and maybe some mushrooms. Couldn’t find any baked beans…”
“Just toast for me. Unless you can do scrambled eggs? Beans are in my main larder, in the utility room. Shall I get some?” Imogen had made to get up from her seat, but a firm hand on her shoulder had convinced her otherwise.
“No, tomorrow maybe. Scrambled it is. You sit there and drink your coffee.”
And so it had been that Imogen Jakes, guest house proprietor and one-time submissive, recently re-awakened, had found herself seated at her own kitchen table while she’d watched the most delectable man she could recall having seen in some considerable time making himself busy preparing her breakfast. The eggs had been just right, the toast perfect and he’d outshone the lot.
After she’d eaten, as he’d shifted the empty plates to dump them in the dishwasher Zack had suggested a walk. Imogen had been expecting a rather more intimate proposal for their morning’s entertainment. Zack had obviously seen her surprised expression, understood it perfectly.
“I do have plans for you. Interesting, challenging plans. But you’ll keep. And you’ll enjoy what I have in mind all the more if you have to wait to experience it. Anticipation’s half the fun. So let’s do our anticipating up on your rather glorious dale.”
Imogen had murmured in agreement, and had gone to find her walking shoes.
Four hours later, after a relaxing three mile hike followed by a thrown-together lunch of chunky bread, Wensleydale cheese and local pickle, Zack had casually instructed Imogen to go upstairs, take all the time she needed to prepare, shower and generally do whatever she felt necessary before presenting herself back in the dining room ready for him to use as he liked.
And now, here she was, once again wearing nothing but her ankle-length kimono. And she suspected she’d not be wearing that for much longer. Her gaze was clear and untroubled as she tipped up her face to meet his eyes, which were soft and tender now as he ran his fingers through her hair.
“I like your hair, Imogen. Especially when it’s loose like this. Are you ready?”