Amélie turned fully into him and replied, “We do when you do.”
Olivier looked down at her.
“Does that disturb you?” she asked.
“You gonna want that from me?” he asked in return.
Since she finished training, she’d eschewed the strap-on. There was something that just wasn’t aesthetically pleasing about it. She’d considered having one specially made that might alleviate this aversion but found other toys offered her what she needed so she’d never bothered.
She didn’t share this with her steed.
“There are many ways I’ll be taking you, Olivier. And all those ways you’ll give to me.”
His expression darkened in a manner she couldn’t quite read but since she wasn’t going to fuck him (that way) tonight, they didn’t need to continue this conversation (for now).
“Come, mon chou, you’re delaying our play,” she ordered, curling their arms from her back and tugging on his hand to follow her.
He moved and they strode to the room at the very back.
This one was twice as large as the general playrooms and the dim light shone through a mostly opaque screen that was down. It was not white or black, but red.
When Amélie led Olivier to the door, he murmured, “I see tonight is going to be interesting.”
She hoped so.
She said nothing, just opened the door, flipped the switch for occupancy, and pulled him through.
She let him go and moved directly to where she wanted to be, knowing what he was seeing.
The opulence of the rich red watered taffeta papering three walls (only one wall in this room was windows).
No toys or equipment on display, as Aryas’s gear remained here. It was all in ornately carved walnut chests and not available for use by other Dominants.
Amélie’s things had been stowed for her in the empty chest Aryas provided for others who used his space.
There was a variety of furniture to be used for a variety of reasons—armchairs, stools, a chaise lounge, upholstered benches—and rugs on the floor (all this meaning this room was the only one that required controlled ejaculations for it was disallowed to make a toy come on any of these things).
And there was a canopied, king-size bed, dressed in red satin sheets, an abundance of pillows in the same, a beveled mirror on the ceiling above it, one behind the headboard, sturdy black ties with black velvet-lined shackles easily visible at the bottom, the same with black velvet-lined cuffs at the headboard.
And last, a plethora of candelabrums all throughout the room.
“Remove your suit jacket, shoes and socks,” she ordered as she moved. “Put them by the door as normal. Otherwise, stay dressed and sit on the stool facing the bed, please.”
She went to the long matches on one of the bureaus and was about to strike one when she heard a sweet, quiet, deep rumble of, “Baby.”
She turned and saw Olivier’s eyes on her, his face soft, his expression warm.
It not being difficult, he’d read the scene (or part of it).
“Please do as I ask without delay, my steed,” she replied, turned away so he wouldn’t see her face had also gone soft at the idea of giving him something he so obviously desired (this being her) and struck the match.
She moved through the room, lighting candles, and then more, and more.
She felt his eyes follow her as she did, there being so many candles, having to put out the match she was using to strike another and keep going.
Halfway done, she ordered, “Stay seated. Untuck your shirt and unbutton it. But just unbutton it, Olivier. Leave it on.”
She didn’t look at him and only knew he’d followed her direction when she finished with the candles and moved slowly to the bin to deposit the spent slivers of wood in her fingers.
As told, Olivier had one bare foot down, one foot on the first rung of the high stool where he was sitting. He was not lounged against the curved back but instead on the edge of his seat, his eyes hungry and on her, the crotch of his trousers lifted with his arousal.
She knew she’d enjoy this night.
She knew it better then with one look at him, the casual posture, the aggressive masculinity, the power of him at rest.
She deposited the spent matches in the bin and walked his way, demanding, “Don’t move.”
He didn’t, watching her approach, his hands resting lightly on his upper thighs, his gaze devouring her, head to black, strappy-sandal-shod feet.
She stopped close and dropped her attention to his chest before she put her hands on it. Roaming it with her fingertips, feeling the silk of his skin and the steel of his flesh drift from fingers to nipples to pussy, wondering if it would take minutes or hours to memorize every swell and dip and hoping she’d one day be able to answer that question.
Sliding one hand in his shirt and around his ribs, she rubbed his nipple with her other thumb and looked in his eyes.
“Are you harnessed for me, my steed?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah, Mistress,” he answered, thickness to his voice, laziness to his eyes, banked fire there ready to be stoked.
She slid her fingertips down his side, over his waistband, honing in to cup him through his pants.
“And you’re hard for me,” she noted, rubbing the heel of her palm down his length.
“Always, Amélie.” That was uttered thicker, his arousal growing against her hand and in his tone.
She took both hands away. “Stand for me, Olivier.”
He seemed disoriented at the abrupt change in circumstances, hesitated momentarily, then slowly unfolded out of the seat.
She moved close and put her hands back to him, roving the skin inside his shirt, around to his back and forward to his stomach, doing this with her head tipped back, watching the uncertainty leave him as the lazy came back.
Holding those lazy eyes, she moved her fingers to his fly, unhooked it, and slowly slid it down.
His white teeth emerged, skimming his lip, his lids lowering, hooding his gaze.
God yes, he was going to make it fun to watch.
She lifted her hands up, running them along the waistband, hooking his underwear in her thumbs, and she pulled them down slowly, swaying his hips, until she got them mid-thigh.
She took in his cock, which bounded clear of his shorts, his strapped balls declaring her ownership, and her mouth watered.
Amélie tipped her head back. “Sit again, Olivier, as you were sitting, one foot on a rung, but I want your pants to stay right where they are.”
There was a flash in his eyes. Rebellion. Perhaps a memory of how she’d had him before in that way, but against a door. Perhaps uncertainty because he wasn’t quite sure he liked where she was leading him.
She rode it through with him, unwilling to give him too much patience. He should know by now they were beyond what happened when she’d taken him at that door and definitely he should know he should follow where she led.
Before she could remind him, he sat and she felt her own eyes get lazy, lifting her hands and pulling his shirt over his shoulders just to the tops of his biceps, shoving the sides back so she could see all his chest and his belly, along with his cock and sac.
She leaned in and at his ear, whispered, “Cup your balls, chevalier, stroke your cock slowly. Let me see all your beauty.”
She stepped back one step, two, and watched his hands move to do as commanded. She hit the end of the bed and lowered herself on it, her eyes now hooded, her pussy saturating, taking in Olivier exposed to her en déshabillé.
Watching his big hand stroke his long cock, his harnessed balls resting in his cupped hand, she said softly, “You must know how beautiful you are.” She lifted her gaze to his. “But you can’t possibly know just how beautiful you are.”
“Amélie.” This was a near growl, the thickness giving into rough.
“Squeeze your balls just slightly for me, chevalier,” she ordered.
He did, and when he did, his head tilte
d marginally back, giving her more of his throat.
“Yes, Olivier, so beautiful.”
She watched for some time until she saw his movements get faster, his stroking turn jerky.
“Slow, my beast,” she whispered.
He didn’t want to do as told, she could tell. His excitement was palpable. He liked touching himself, as he would. He liked more that she liked watching.
Even not wanting to do it, he did it.
So very good.
Rising from the bed, keeping her eyes on him, she moved to the chest where her things were placed for her use.
She came back with a bottle of oil, coming to a stop in front of him.
“Hold your cock tipped up for me.”
“Mistress—”
She had no idea if he wished to say something or dissent.
It didn’t matter.
“Do it, Olivier,” she commanded.
He did as she asked.
“Now hold it gripped just under the tip,” she ordered.
He stroked up, holding the head upward.
She opened the bottle of oil and in practiced, slow drops, she dropped it on the head of his cock.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered.
“Don’t stroke,” she demanded.
One drop. Two. Four. Eight.
“Killin’ me,” he muttered.
She suppressed a smile.
She eventually stopped torturing her beast with the drops and looked in his eyes. “Now, stroke, Olivier,” she ordered and he immediately complied. She bent close to him. “You’ll be stroking for me a good deal tonight, chevalier, I’d like it to be in comfort.”
There was dark in his eyes and his tone when he asked, “Please, Amélie, kiss me.”
“Perhaps later,” she replied.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Stroke, my steed,” she said as she leaned back. “But uncup your balls. Shift so your arm is hooked around the back of the chair. Both of them, actually, but careful not to lose hold of your cock. I need you arched for me.”
That got her more dark and another hesitation, though less this time, as he moved to do as she wished.
The new pose left him pants at his thighs, cock rigid, balls harnessed, chest displayed beautifully with his back arched, the frame of it all with his blue shirt—extraordinary.
Before she let the sight of him overwhelm her so she lifted up her skirt and climbed that lap, she went to the candle.
His eyes followed and there was a bite to his, “Mistress Amélie.”
She drew out the taper and came back to him.
His head was up, his body tense, his hand around his cock gripping it at the base not moving.
“Did I tell you you couldn’t stroke?”
He was staring at the flickering candle.
“Relax into position, beast, and stroke your cock for your Mistress.”
His gaze cut to hers. “Baby—”
She bent over him, getting close quickly, and the snarl curled his mouth.
“I love it when you call me baby, Olivier. I feel it right in my pussy. Sometimes it floats up inside me sweet, sometimes it thrusts in like it was your big brute of a cock. This is why I allow you to use that word when I play with you, but right now, you use it and do as you’re told.”
He stared into her eyes.
“Now, Olivier.”
“When I drive inside you, Amélie, fill you up to your throat with my dick and pound my mark in you, you’ll feel that every time I call you baby.”
She felt a tremor go up and down the insides of her thighs at this shift in the game.
A shift back to the beginning.
The dare. The taunt. The defiance.
He was uncomfortable with what she was doing but that discomfort came from the fact he liked it and was fighting giving in.
And the night got better.
“Is that a promise, Olivier?”
“Yeah, it fuckin’ is, baby.”
“Stroke yourself,” she ordered. “And relax.”
They battled, eye to eye, will against will.
“Do it,” she whispered, “or you’re over my knees, getting a spanking.”
She knew by the flash of fury in his eyes that would never happen and marked it as somewhere to go only proceeding cautiously.
Not that she could take him there if he didn’t allow her to, physically.
But it got him stroking and he semi-relaxed into position.
“Thank you, Olivier,” she said softly.
He said nothing, lips tight.
She bent to him and touched those lips with hers.
He didn’t open.
Yes, defiant.
She slid her lips to his ear and worked him there, at his neck, down to his collarbone, down to his nipple, where she nibbled, holding the dripping candle in her hand extended from their bodies, the wax sliding down, giving a slight burn to her fingers.
The same except direct from the flame she’d use on him.
She moved to his other nipple and when they were both tight nubs, she brought in the candle.
“Fuck,” he grunted.
She tipped the flame and watched, wetting her lips, feeling the slick of her pussy coat her thighs, as Olivier took his wax, his chest tightening, his hips shifting, his hand stroking. The wax would drip, drip, drip, she’d shift it, mold it, squeeze his nipple under it, peel it off, and give him more.
“Amélie—” The gruff was there.
She moved to the other nipple. “Shh, stay still as you can and stroke.”
“I need to stroke faster, baby.”
She lifted her eyes from the flame to his.
Need.
She’d taken him there.
“Then stroke faster, darling.”
He stroked faster.
She worked his other nipple until she saw his jaw tighten.
“Mistress … Amélie … gorgeous, need you,” he grunted.
She lifted the candle away, peeled off the wax, and moved to the holder. Sliding the taper back in, she stood in front of him. His cock now distended, his balls high and tight, his eyes wild.
“What do you need, chevalier?”
“Climb on, Amélie, need your pussy.”
“Not this?” she asked.
Putting her hands behind her to draw down the short zipper at the low vee in the back, she shrugged the heavy beaded dress off her shoulders and let it fall to her ankles, exposing her entirely naked underneath.
He tensed and lurched like he was going to burst from his seat as he bit off, “Christ,” his eyes roaming everywhere.
The beast was nearly unleashed.
“Keep your seat and keep stroking yourself,” she ordered as she moved slowly closer. “Do not touch me until I offer myself to you.”
He lifted the dark need in his eyes to hers. “You’re beautiful, Leigh-Leigh. Fucking amazing.”
Fuck, she loved that.
Fuck, fuck, she loved that he gave that to her.
She lifted her right hand to her right breast, circling her nipple with her thumb.
“You want my pussy?” she asked.
“Take anything you wanna give me,” he answered, his eyes watching her thumb.
She moved. Putting the sole of her sandal to the rung between his legs, she lifted up. Fingers curling around his exposed shoulder, she steadied herself and just barely moved forward toward his mouth with her nipple when he moved in and seized it.
“Yes,” she breathed, her head going back as he sucked it deep, the tip of his tongue swirling. “More, Olivier.”
He sucked harder, gave her more, but suddenly let her go and begged, “Baby, closer, sit on my cock. Arch your back. I’ll take your tits and your pussy.”
Carefully, beating back her body shaking, Amélie shifted position and hands. Lifting her left breast, she guided it to him.
His rebellious eyes were on her. “Mistress, want that, fuck, want it, but need your fuckin’ cunt.”
; “What my beast needs is to learn to accept what he’s offered or he might lose it.”
He pierced her with a look of fury before he dropped his eyes, turned his head, and if he’d seized her right nipple, he marauded the left one. Sucking so deep and flicking it with his tongue, she had no choice but to arch her back, allow him to pull it deeper.
Unable to control her breath anymore, she panted softly, whispering, “God, yes, Olivier.”
Proving precisely why he was so good with his mouth between her legs, when she thought he couldn’t give her more, he did.
“God, darling,” she breathed.
She was going to come, knew it, and pulled away, stepping on shaking legs away from him.
She stared into his face.
He was there.
“Pull off your shirt,” she ordered.
Damn, her voice was shaking.
She backed up toward the bed.
Olivier ripped off his shirt, his eyes to her feet, watching.
“Stand and take off your pants.”
If she were to blink in that moment, she wouldn’t have been able to before his pants were gone.
Her calves hit the bed.
“Does my beast want me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer and he did, his growl surging through the air, and she didn’t know if his “baby” would do it after he fucked her, but that growl thrust deep inside her.
“Then take me,” she whispered.
Before she knew it, she had his arm around her waist and she was up, being dragged into the bed. Then she was down, her legs spread, knees jerked up, her eyes just focused on his before he drilled her.
Her head shot back and his mighty thrust forced a soft “Hah” from her throat.
He didn’t relent and she was glad he didn’t. God, so big, after their play, she was so fucking ready to be filled full of him, she took his fucking, grasping him with her pussy, reaching blindly and taking every inch of skin she could touch, feeling his dick to her throat and wanting more.
She got more.
He pulled out abruptly, flipped her to her stomach, and yanked up her hips.
When Olivier was driving back in, Amélie moaned into red satin.
“Fuck me, Olly,” she panted. “That’s it, baby.”
Her words set him loose, his thrusts unchecked, God, so damned deep, his grunts scoring the air in a way it drove into her skin, the noises made by the pounding of his flesh into hers making her body start to tremble all over.