Kink
by
Nikki Sex
Copyright 2014 by Nikki Sex
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Chapter 22.
Chapter 23.
Chapter 24.
Chapter 25.
Chapter 26.
Chapter 27.
Chapter 28.
Chapter 29.
Chapter 30.
Chapter 31.
Chapter 32.
Chapter 33.
Chapter 34.
Chapter 35.
Chapter 36.
Chapter 37.
Chapter 38.
Chapter 39.
Chapter 40.
Chapter 41.
Chapter 42.
Chapter 43.
Chapter 44.
Chapter 45.
Chapter 46.
Chapter 47.
Chapter 48.
Chapter 49.
Epilogue
Prologue
I can’t move. I’m dying.
For an instant, I imagine someone finding my body. Will birds gather to peck at me? Is that how I’ll be discovered? By someone attracted by unusual animal activity?
For a moment I consider who might find me. Will it be someone I know? I can almost hear them yell, “Holy shit, that’s Paul Jarman!”
An excruciating spasm assaults me. My lungs seize. My body convulses. Internally, every part of me screams. My mouth falls open – but instead of shrieking, only a soft hiss issues from my throat, heralding my agony and despair.
The sound is pathetic. Is that tiny utterance the last noise I’m capable of making before I die?
There’s no one nearby to hear me, even if I’d been able to scream.
I’ve never been so alone.
I’ve also never felt such unbearable pain. Time stops. There’s only this one eternal moment, the agony of now.
I’m twenty-six years old. I’m too young to die. I’ve been an idiot most of my life. I’ve been an asshole… but just recently, I’ve learned so much. Everything has been coming together. If I live, I really think that I can make something of myself.
But I’m not going to live.
Inexorable pressure, like the invisible hand of some cruel giant, pushes down hard on my chest. No air! Each breath I take becomes more and more difficult. Wow. Is this what it feels like to be starved for oxygen? As a Dom I like breath play. It’s kind of karmic to be on the other side.
But I sure as fuck don’t get an erotic thrill from this.
I’m dizzy. My vision tunnels. The physical pain fades, but sadness stabs at me. This agony of heart and soul is intense. It’s worse than any bodily torment.
I have so many regrets.
My biggest sorrow comes from the thought of losing Emily. Not only losing her, but leaving her. Not being there for her. My one pure and perfect joy has come from Emily. I’m so grateful that I’ve had her in my life. She’s taught me so much.
If only we had more time together.
My sweet girl will be distraught. I can’t imagine how she will deal with my death. With all that I’m enduring, the thought of her pain is more than I can take. I forcefully shove the reflection away. I wish I could protect her from this.
Blood continues to pump from me. I feel its warmth flowing onto my chest. I’m floating in a mental haze. As I near death, I enter a strangely comfortable state of philosophical delirium.
Is it better to kill…or to be killed?
What if you took another person’s life by accident… say perhaps, through a moment of incompetent or distracted driving? That would create a burden of guilt that you’d have to live with for the rest of your life. It might even drive a person to suicide.
Premeditated murder assumes that one’s conscience is reconciled to committing such a sin. Once reaching that point, guilt and regret wouldn’t be an issue.
What about an impulsive murder of passion? Can one honestly justify killing another by pleading temporary insanity? Would a temporary loss of control lessen the burden of guilt afterwards? Even if someone still died by your hands?
But I’m not crazy. My actions didn’t result from temporary insanity. For me, it was pure animal instinct.
I killed on purpose.
As my life drains away, I smile because I know that if I had the chance, I’d do it again. Committing murder is one thing that I don’t regret.
Chapter 1.
“Seduction involves elements of grace, class and elegance. It is an art and a gift, for both seducer and the seduced.”
– André Chevalier
~~~
Six months earlier…..
Emily Malone snuck into my life, slipped under my skin and right into my heart. Little did I know that danger and death tagged along with her, following in her innocent wake.
Too bad that I didn’t have a crystal ball. Does anyone ever have a clue about the next round of surprises that life brings?
My bedroom is set for seduction. Lights off, twenty beeswax pillar candles burn throughout the room, flickering softly. I had considered background music, but decided against it. I don’t want to miss a single one of Emily’s beautiful sounds of arousal and pleasure. She’s so responsive. Her feminine gasps, breathless little pants, whimpers and muted groans inspire me more than any melody.
And that sexy little change in her breathing, just before she climaxes? Well. That song is sweeter and more moving than any symphony.
Emily is mine.
A powerful need to possess her fills me, emptying my mind of anything else. Of all the women I’ve dominated or simply enjoyed sexually, there’s never been anyone that comes close to Emily.
Me, Paul Jarman, the man who fucks, but never even dates, wants a ‘re-lat-tion-ship.’
My brain stutters just thinking of that word.
The only more frightening combination of letters in the English language are ‘commitment,’ or ‘love.’ It’s too bad for me. I’ve got to face these lifelong phobias, because I’m totally committed and in love.
At the foot of the bed, I kneel naked between her legs. Emily’s also naked, except for a pair of red, four inch stilettos. Her thighs are spread wide, her feet on the floor. She’s on her back with her arms over her head, open and ready for me. Her musky feminine scent mixes with the honey-smell of burning candles. My mouth waters, my nostrils flare. Chest rising sharply – I breathe her in, longing to let myself go and ravage her.
Not yet, I remind myself. I want to play with her first.
Em’s short, dark brown hair fans across my pillow in contrast to my white sheets. Her light blue eyes are dark with love, trust and lust. I adore the luscious, womanly curves of her breasts, hips and ass.
My beautiful girl lays across my bed like a sacrifice. Unbound, she placed herself there, without direction. I warm with pleasure because she’s already beginning to learn what I lik
e. Even better, she longs to please me.
My chest tightens as powerful raw emotions run through me. My mind rebels at the thought of losing her. I worry that when I introduce her to my darker sexual needs she’ll run.
I’ve never given a shit before her. Now I must be careful.
Emily’s facial features are pleasant, yet unremarkable. Her naturally friendly composure gives her an air of graceful reserve. You have to know her to fully appreciate her beauty. Physically she’s lovely – not that she would consider herself attractive.
I know better.
Sometimes I think that I’m the only one in the world that can truly see just how amazing Emily is. Every thought Em has, everything she says or does is direct and honest. She glows from within with goodness, strength and so much more.
I’m madly in love with her, so maybe I’m bias. Emily is the most perfect and wonderful woman in the entire world.
And she wants me. How did I get so lucky?
I adore Em like this, when she’s sexually excited. She blushes so beautifully, all over her face and breasts. It shows her innocence and passion.
I want to arouse that passion and defile that innocence.
I’m a bad, bad man.
Emily is the younger sister of my childhood best friend, Reese. Until recently, even though she’s only three years younger, I’ve never been able to see her as a woman. To me she’s always been a good friend, but also the innocent, shy kid that I’ve known most of my life. Like Wendy in Peter Pan, Emily was a child who never grew up, in my misguided eyes.
Now I realize that I’ve always loved her – it just took me a while to figure that out.
“God, these heels look so hot on you,” I say, my voice deep with passion and admiration. I slide one sexy stiletto off and languidly caress and massage her foot. Moving to the other foot, I repeat my ministrations. My fingers press into her muscles and tendons. I kiss and stroke her arches, her ankles and toes.
“Mmmm,” she murmurs, enjoying my attentions.
“I’m going to bite and lick and kiss every inch of your body,” I say. “Then I’m going to go back and do it all over again.”
“Oh my God.” She chokes out a peculiar noise that’s something between a gasp and a giggle. I just have to snicker. How does she do it? No matter what’s happening, the irreverent little goofball can always make me laugh.
I firmly squeeze her ankle, returning her to the sensations at hand – or in this case, at foot. Emily trembles from my every touch. I bite her arch and her breath catches, a sweet sound of need. My heart and cock pound in reaction to her every response.
I’m a self-assured Dom, certain of my authority, my skills and my appeal. I worked for over a year in a fetish club, giving countless women the pleasure or pain that they needed. It became an addiction for me: dominating women. Using them to meet my own cravings, because that’s what I needed, too.
When it comes to the opposite sex, I’ve always been confident and in control – but not with her. With Em I feel as if I’m walking in the dark on unfamiliar terrain. My uncertainty stems from the fact that she’s far too important to me.
This thing with Emily? It must be love. The delicious irony of it kills me.
She’s such an innocent. I must be tender and careful, as I teach her. She knows little of the BDSM lifestyle and has had limited sexual experience. I have no doubt that she’s submissive and particularly submissive to me. But I must take it slowly. Gradually, step-by-step, I’ll teach her to enjoy my kinks. She’ll learn to like exactly what I like.
What I need.
A myriad of visions of her clutter my brain in a sudden explosion. Naked in only a collar, kneeling at my feet. The smell of leather and my hand, tight around her neck. Or her arms and legs bound across a spanking bench. The rush of power that races through me as I flog her smoking hot ass. Each strike is a physical mark and a spiritual branding – proof of my ownership.
In time and with careful training, Emily will give everything to me. She’ll receive a world of pleasure from her submission. I’ll make sure of that. I know she’ll want to please me, she’ll need to please me. Ultimately, if I do this right, she’ll surrender completely – and deny me nothing.
A rush of primal pleasure flows through every nerve in my body with this thought.
I skim my hands from her ankles, up her calves, to the back of her knees. She whimpers and shifts restlessly on the bed. Her hairless sex glistens and drips, the skin smooth and soft. For a moment, I wonder if she’s been lasered, waxed, or does she shave? In any case, the result is fantastic.
Sliding my calloused palms up her soft pale thighs is a delightful sensation. One hand on each leg, I spread her wider, exposing her sensitive flesh. Using my thumbs, I pull her slick outer lips apart, deliciously revealing her feminine secrets.
Jesus, she’s gorgeous.
I remain utterly still, staring at her for a long moment. Restless or perhaps embarrassed by my intimate scrutiny, she shifts. Too bad. I’m in no hurry and I won’t allow her to hide from me. I savor every moment of the sight, feel and scent of her, lying so open and exposed.
"God, you're stunning," I say in a throaty rasp. My mouth waters. I long to taste her. Leaning forward, my tongue gently slips between her inner folds.
Emily inhales in a rush and her back arches instinctively. I move just as instinctively, gripping her thighs and hips, holding her down. Keeping her still. I didn’t tell her that she was allowed to move.
She understands almost nothing about being a submissive, but she’ll learn.
I’ve known Emily as far back as I can remember. She was a reserved and rather serious kid. I saved her from drowning once when she was a child. The trauma from that experience made her more somber, cautious and even quieter than she’d been before.
That’s where ‘rabbit,’ my nickname for her came from. Always with her nose in a book, or in the dark rabbit-hole of her bedroom, Emily became afraid of pretty much everything for months after that near death experience.
Ever since I saved her life, she has looked up to me. She told me that I’ve always been her hero. Mentally I scoff at this notion; it really cracks me up. A hero is someone to admire for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.
I’m no hero. I’m a selfish bastard who’s barely in control of the Beast within. My sweet rabbit is way too good for me.
For the last few days we’ve talked more than I’ve ever talked to anyone – even to my good friend, Jai. I’ve courted Emily, following André Chevalier’s advice. We spent last week flirting and teasing each other, while never going past second base. Tonight I intend to make love to her.
An avalanche of nameless faces cascades through my brain. I try to recall, I’ve dominated so many women. Have I ever made love?
I generously lave the lips of her cunt, pull them apart with my fingers and hold them open. Even though my cock aches and my heart pounds in my throat, I gently lick her tender, quivering flesh at an even, measured pace.
At the first touch, she moans and gushes. Using my fingers, mouth, tongue and teeth, I make every effort to give her pleasure. Emily writhes beneath me. Something low in my gut twists, stirring with need.
“Hot damn,” I growl. “I love the look, the smell and taste of you. Fuck, you make me so hard. I want to put my cock right here.” I push two fingers deep into her empty hole.
Emily quivers and rewards me with a delicious, desperate groan. “Do it! Fuck me.”
“Soon,” I chuckle.
I ache to bury myself inside of her, but now is not the time. Not yet. I want this to last. Patience. Patience. I remind myself.
My hard-on strains and my balls are heavy. Working her heated, sensitive sex, I drink her essence, lapping her slick flesh in a seductive, greedy rhythm. From time to time, I thrust my tongue right inside of her.
Squirming, she calls out and pants with need. Strain builds in her body, her muscles coil – I feel her tension with my hands and mou
th. I avoid her clit, if I lick there she’ll come. Everything I do is designed to bring her and keep her, right on the edge.
She doesn’t have permission to come yet.
Sadly, I won’t allow myself to climax either. This is exquisite torture for both of us.
“Do you like my mouth on your tasty little cunt?” I ask.
She moans a yes, but her body’s jerk of response speaks more clearly than simple language. She likes naughty words and she most certainly likes my mouth. Flushing, sweating and writhing with lust, I can make her explode with one well-placed touch.
But I’m going to make her wait.
Again and again, I feel Emily’s tight channel clench on my fingers in a pre-orgasmic pulse. I notice her every reaction and I pull back at the exact moment. I tease, I torment and prevent any possibility of climax.
In a primitive sensual fog, she bucks into me and calls out my name. Her response creates a strange, almost painful ache in my chest.
Clients in the fetish club always addressed me as ‘Sir.’ My numerous one-night stands hardly knew me and they certainly never called my name in moments of passion. No one ever called me Paul. I love the sound of my name on her lips. It’s so incredibly familiar and intimate.
“Please, Paul, please,” she sobs shamelessly, frantic for release.
The sound of her mindless abject begging placates my darker, sadistic desires. Seeing her willing and wanton gives me a powerful dominant high. All semblance of pride has left her. Humanity’s masks have been stripped aside. In this moment, Emily’s a bundle of nerve endings, sensation and all-encompassing need.
This is good. Perfect, in fact. Hmmm. Let me see. To let her come? Or to make her wait? The decision is mine – just like she is. Shall I make her beg? I love moments like these. It’s like high octane for me. Having complete control of a submissive woman is my drug of choice.
Trust is the key. I’ll train Emily to comply with my every demand. In time it’ll be automatic, like a reflex. During sex I want her to be all instinct and raw, primitive desire.
“Not yet,” I say. “Soon. You’re doing very well,” I coax and soothe her.
A male sound of satisfaction rumbles deep in my throat. Is anything better than keeping her on the razor’s edge of climax? Or hearing her beg for mercy? She’s helpless, completely vulnerable to my desires. It’s my wish to torment her, to take her right to the edge of madness, before I allow her release.