He was no Adonis.
He was Zeus.
She drew her lips in, wetting them, feeling the saturated soak in her panties that was beginning to coat her upper thighs, gathering her wits as she finished her slow circle and came to stand several feet in front of him again.
His eyes were on hers.
Her eyes dropped to his dick.
Yes, he enjoyed this. His balls were even tighter in his scrotum, his cock hanging so heavy, it looked painful.
“Do I pass inspection, Mistress?”
Again with the cheek.
But there was now a thread to it, an edge. Not pure impudence. He could no longer pull that off.
He’d been affected by her perusal. He tried to hide it but he’d failed.
Amélie gave him her gaze.
“You do know…” she said softly and took a step toward him.
She allowed her eyes to roam his face.
God, she wanted to touch him.
Please, please, please do not let him break in fifteen minutes, she begged the fates and moved her attention back to his eyes. Or ever, she ended her plea surprisingly.
Before she could allow that thought rising unexpectedly to tear into her concentration, she took another step toward him.
He flicked his gaze down, it came back hungrier, and she watched him draw his lower lip between his teeth and slide it against that white ridge until it was free.
At the sight, her breasts grew heavy, her nipples strained the fabric of her bra, his exposure of his desire, to have her closer, for her to touch him, the baring of those teeth, oh yes.
She wanted very badly to touch him.
“That your opening line out there was unacceptable,” she finished her earlier thought.
He looked boyishly confused for a second, it was intensely endearing for that second, as he muttered, “Uh … what?”
“The ‘how you doin’, sweetheart,’” she explained something they both knew didn’t need to be explained. She drew infinitesimally closer, the barest of leans, but he was already so attuned to her, his eyes darkened further and he reciprocated her lean, drawn to her like the pull of a magnet. “Stand strong, Olivier,” she ordered quietly.
She watched the beauty of him baring his teeth in a snarl of frustration he controlled before he swayed back and did as told.
“You know that’s unacceptable,” she repeated. “And obviously,” she drew in breath, locking his attention on her, “I must do something about it.”
He stood there, caught in her focus, hands behind his head, and said nothing.
“As I mentioned before, unless I forbid it, you’re welcome to speak, just do it respectfully,” she invited. She went on to prompt, “Don’t you agree?”
“You gotta do what you feel you gotta do … Mistress.”
The words were respectful, mostly.
That said, they weren’t entirely acceptable.
What they were was voiced in a tight, thick rumble like each was a piece of gravel, and his mouth was full of the same he had to force them through.
At the same time she liked his acute reaction to her, she grew concerned at its quickness. She was taking her time, to be certain. But she hadn’t been at him an hour and she’d done nothing to him but make him stand naked for her perusal.
He was going to break.
Fuck, she thought.
“Drop to your knees,” she ordered.
Her extreme relief was only part of her reaction when he treated her to another of those bitten-back snarls, not a look of desperate neediness, eager to jump at her command.
In fact, he was so not eager to jump, it took several very long moments before he bent a knee, his big body teetering in a controlled fall that, when he hit that knee, it was a wonder everything in the room didn’t jump at his landing.
His other leg came down.
And the new depth of emotion in his eyes as he looked up at her was astounding.
He did not like to look up.
She checked the expanse exposed below.
His cock had grown past impressive to legendary.
But he definitely liked to be made to look up.
Not easily broken, then.
Oh yes, her mind whispered.
“Behind you, Olivier,” she said gently, “on the floor, there’s a series of steel eyes set into the wood. They’re in a number of lines. I want you to place your left calf against the outermost line, the same with your right on the other side.”
He twisted to look behind him. She saw his chest heave mightily once as his predicament assailed him. He seemed to still and she watched avidly as he struggled with the mental constraints that separated him from his true nature.
She felt almost compelled to clap when he shifted his calves to where she’d told him she wanted them.
This left him still on his knees, a wide stance that would give him a nice stretch up his inner thighs but would cause no real pain.
What it was, was awkward and it made him vulnerable.
She went to the table where the bag she had packed for this room sat, put there by staff when she’d reserved the space. She riffled through it, finding what she needed. She riffled through it further, finding the things she’d need in a moment, setting them aside, at the ready.
Then she moved back to him.
He was twisted at the waist, hands still behind his head, watching her.
She nearly stuttered in her step, such was his beauty.
She finished her approach successfully, and in a closed-leg crouch, her knees shifted to the door so he couldn’t even see them or any view her position could afford him, she started clamping down the straps.
A wide, fleece-lined one just above his ankle. Another fleece-lined one at the bulge of his calf. And, she had to shift and reach so she was still as distant from him as she could be, the same at the bend of his knee.
Repeat with the other calf.
And her steed was strapped to the floor.
She stood, looking him over, avoiding his face but feeling his eyes on hers, and nodded smartly.
“Lovely,” she murmured crisply then moved back to the table.
She re-approached at his front, standing several feet away.
“You’ll know how to put this on. Do that now,” she commanded, tossing him the black leather with its mess of thin straps that had gold buckles, and in a variety of places, gold catches.
He caught it.
She stood back to watch.
He didn’t move.
She finally looked at his face. “Olivier, now, please.”
His head tipped back.
“Mistress—”
“Now.”
“But Mistress—”
Please no, it couldn’t be.
“Is there a word you wish to say?” she asked disbelievingly, her tone hiding disappointment that felt like acid burning through her veins.
“No,” he replied immediately.
“Then put the cock harness on now, please.”
“Mistress, I can see just looking at it, this won’t fit me.”
This could be true.
“Do your best, beast,” she ordered.
His head jerked in silent response to her address for him. He recovered from that without comment but hesitated, his frustration clear, and also clear was that it was mingled with an edge of anger.
She hadn’t had the latter in one of her playrooms in a good long while.
She liked both.
He strapped the harness on and Amélie thoroughly enjoyed watching him do it. It was a snug fit, the buckles on their last hole, and even so, he’d had to do some tightening which she could tell by the hardness in his jaw, the tensing of his frame, caused a twinge or two.
It wasn’t just the harness along his shaft. There was a ball harness, too, a strap down the middle that separated each testicle, stretched them slightly, this connected to the strap of leather sitting snug at the base of his cock.
And trussed in this, h
is testicles were so large, they bulged out the sides beautifully.
He wore it well. So well, it took an almost torturous self-discipline not to rush through the rest.
But she didn’t.
“The steel eyes in the floor, Olivier, to the front of you. Bend down please. Forearms lined up with the innermost eyes.”
This hesitation lasted longer—not having the use of his hands, being strapped down completely, at her mercy (unless he could pull those eyes right out of the wood, which was a possibility).
She rode it through with him.
It was her wont to be patient, she was known for it.
Demanding respect from him, the proper address of Mistress was simply a play in response to his, one that communicated she would not be topped from below.
In future sessions, if they had them, as was also her wont and something else that was well known, Amélie would allow lapses in all the formalities. Her domination would be made clear through actions, trust garnered through affection, punishment thoroughly administered only when earned—not words, not strict adherence to the rules.
But their first session, she had to practice more than the usual amount of patience even if she could feel the need to see him strapped to the floor on his forearms and knees gliding down the inside of her leg.
Eventually, after another mighty battle it was a thing of beauty to behold, he bent forward.
Ass in the air.
Another thing of beauty.
Amélie shuffled her thighs together to wipe away the wet as she forced herself to move slowly to the table.
She came back with the straps, made light work of snuggly fitting them so his forearms were immobilized at wrist and the juncture of his elbow.
His head was back. He wasn’t watching her restrain him. She could feel his focus on her face, the heat of it sensational.
She was an unknown. He’d placed himself in her hands. He had no idea what she would do. All he knew was that she had now wrested away his control. His bulk, his strength, there were likely very few situations, physically, that he would not best.
Now, that was stripped away.
There was fear tinting the air. Lovely, shimmering fear that was even more amazing drifting from this steed.
This mingled with the purple glint of arousal that a quick glance at his cock, which was straining, and not just the harness, proved fact.
Once done with both arms, she moved back to the table before returning to him.
This time at his other end.
The work she did there was practiced and swift.
The result everything she wanted it to be and more.
A leather strap around his hips, two thinner straps running down either side of the crevice of his ass, the other end attached to a catch on his harness at the base of his balls.
There was a distinct growl that throbbed through the air, a corresponding throb hitting Amélie in five places, as she tightened the buckles of the straps, this spreading open the cheeks of his ass, exposing perhaps (and she hoped she would eventually find out), his keenest vulnerability.
“Fuck me, fuck,” he hissed.
She moved again. Settling into another crouch in front of him, she tore her gaze from the gloriousness of his readied ass and turned her attention to his face.
His was already on hers.
Oh my.
Oh yes.
There …
Good God, there …
The backs of his eyes. She saw it.
It flashed fiery, almost too deep to see, but she caught it before he blinked and blanked it, his face a hard mask, this an effort to hide what she was making him feel.
Regardless.
“How are you feeling, Olivier?” she asked quietly.
“You been strapped to a floor with your ass spread open?” he returned, voice still thick and now harsh.
“Another rule, I’m sorry that I didn’t share before, but answering a question with a question is not acceptable,” Amélie shot back. “Now, answer my question, please. How are you feeling?”
“Like my dick is being strangled,” he replied.
“And?” she pressed.
“Pissed,” he bit out.
There it was.
And she gave it to him. “You top from below.”
A quick, blunt-edged, “No.”
And in his face a strange hint of chagrin.
Oh my.
Unexpected.
He wanted to be topped. He just fought letting go.
Oh, she liked this. She liked this a great fucking deal.
In a shuffling step, still crouched in front of him, she came nearer. His attention intensified as he watched, anger melting, hunger honing his features.
He wanted touch. She’d barely brushed his skin strapping him down and he wanted her hands on him.
Even the barest touch might make him climax.
She wanted to test that.
But not yet.
She had other tests to administer. Tests he had to pass and lessons he needed to learn if he was to earn her time in the future.
“You need to let go, Olivier,” she instructed.
Frustration then anger infused his expression.
“Think I did that, Mistress,” he spat the last disrespectfully. “Seein’ as I’m strapped to the floor with my ass, also strapped, I’ll fuckin’ add, in the air.”
She let the disrespect slide.
“You know you bought punishment with your opening line. Indeed, you bought it watching me move toward you. And you know you bought more with your attitude when you hit this room.”
He averted his gaze.
He knew.
“Look at me, Olivier,” she ordered softly.
His eyes came back but the effort was apparent.
She tried not to smile or, actually, howl with glee.
No, not yet broken.
A miracle.
She lifted her hand, fingers curled in a loose fist, toward his chin.
He shifted, seeking the contact.
She stopped him.
“Don’t move your chin,” she commanded, her tone still soft but now also sharp.
He froze.
She held her hand just below his jaw and leaned forward so her face was an inch from his.
More hunger, this stark.
Eyes flickering down and up, knowing what he was giving away, unable not to do it.
He wanted her mouth.
This—the mutual test, the challenge relayed and accepted, the dare, the impudence, the taunts, the battle of wills—this was his favored game. She knew it to her fucking soul.
And it was hers as well, by far the sweetest trip you could take.
Ecstasy.
“And I will punish you, Olivier,” she continued. “What you don’t know, you can only assume, is that I’ll take care of you. And that,” she edged closer but not close enough, sensing his body trembling, feeling that tremble caress her clit, the walls of her pussy, wishing she could hitch her skirt, straddle his hips and ride it to climax, “I promise, chevalier, I … will … do.”
She watched him force back a painful swallow.
“Yes?” she pressed.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The two words were strangled, giving the impression he hated saying them, giving her that even as she suspected he got off on uttering each much, much more, he just wouldn’t admit it.
Perfection.
She straightened away and turned from him, allowing the smile to curve her mouth when she heard his choked-back groan.
Amazing.
This soon in play with her, he simply fed off her nearness. Her attention.
One last piece. One minor adjustment.
Then she could begin.
She walked back to her toy with the length of gold chain in her hand.
She forced herself not to take in the glorious spectacle of his restrained body, which might cause things to get out of hand in a way that wouldn’t test anything, except
to see if he could ride her strapped like that, and kept her focus on his face.
He eyed the chain warily.
Handsome. Built. Hung.
And not stupid.
She moved behind him.
His ass tensed, the valleys on the sides coming out in even sharper relief, the muscular rounds fighting against the straps holding it open and exposed, and Amélie’s mouth watered.
Then she crouched again and reached between his legs, expertly attaching the clasp on the chain to the catch at the back of the ring closest to the tip of his cock and running the length to the ring in the floor. Quickly and expertly, she did a mental measurement of how much slack she’d need in order to give him the movement he would need without causing undue pain or even harm. She wound the chain through the ring and caught the clasp at the other end to a link halfway up.
It hung loose, only its weight now pulling down his cock.
“Jesus, fuck,” he clipped out, body unmoving, not about to test that slack.
“We’re almost ready,” she informed him.
He knew what was coming and he knew what it would mean.
She knew this when he dipped down, his forehead to the floor, ass becoming more prominent, back heaving with deep breaths, and she knew something else.
If he could take it, if she could give it to him, she’d have him again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She moved to the panel by the door and flipped a switch. The multipaned windows surrounding each playroom had air trapped between the inner two panes for soundproofing. In the outer two, two sheets of electronically controlled blinds. One white and not quite sheer, but not opaque, to offer observers outside a view of what was happening inside as a silhouette. Another that was black, which would block onlookers entirely from enjoying the view.
The white sheet was down.
The whir hit the room as the sheet rolled up.
“Amélie—” he started, fear more than an edge in his graveled voice.
She liked her name in that tone.
Indeed, in that voice.
It was lovely.
“Sorry?” she interrupted him, using the word as a reminder, stopping as she made it back to the table.
“Mistress Amélie,” he corrected swiftly.
She turned to him and his eyes riveted to the paddle she held.
“I think fifteen strikes will do. It’s a lot for a first session, though you’ve earned it,” she said conversationally, watching his big body begin to tremble, his eyes never leaving the paddle, her mind wondering if she could give that first crack without coming. “That said, it would be the switch if you were used to me, so I think the paddle is a good compromise.”