She came to a stop at his side and his eyes shifted up to hers.
The plea was there, laid open bare.
He didn’t want to be watched. He didn’t want to be paddled. What he wanted, she was not yet sure.
But she would find out.
And in the meantime, she would make him love everything she gave.
“I said that I—” he began.
“I know what you said,” she interrupted again. “However, this room is mine. When you’re in this room, you are mine. I do as I wish. You submit to any wish. And frankly, Olivier, you are far too magnificent a specimen not to share.”
A flicker of confusion passed across his face.
She had no time for that. He had to know his beauty. He wasn’t blind.
“I would brace, chevalier,” she instructed gently.
When her words penetrated, he had only a second to do so before, two hands on the handle of the long, wooden paddle with holes drilled through the wood, she bent her knees slightly, twisted her torso, and put her weight and a considerable amount of strength in the first strike.
Even braced, his body flew forward, the chain at his cock clinked as the slack disappeared, yanking it down violently.
“Fucking hell,” he blew out, automatically swinging back through his recovery.
Thwack!
The second strike had more momentum and he again flew forward, the chain slammed taut, wrenching his cock at the last moment.
“Fucking fuck me,” he ground through clenched teeth.
Marvelous.
Thwack!
After the third strike, she knew they had an audience, of how many, she didn’t care so she didn’t bother to look.
Her entire world was the tethered, muscled body and its cock harnessed and chained to the floor and the man who owned those (for now) named Olivier.
Thwack!
The fourth strike, as he swung back, his big frame shuddering violently, the visual so splendid, Amélie had genuine concerns she could finish his punishment without coming.
She persevered because she had no other choice.
Thwack!
The brutal forward sway, the vicious pull on his cock that was akin to a ferocious hand job, and he couldn’t bite it back anymore.
His exquisite grunt filled the room.
It was music to her ears. It exposed, not with the lilt of pain, but with the edge of pleasure, along with his quick recovery and the almost imperceptible tilt of his ass, that he wanted more.
Thwack!
Another grunt, another pull, another recovery, his body now quaking in his effort to hold back his response.
Thwack!
And again, her nipples so hard she thought they’d pierce the material of her dress at watching him endure his punishment, especially since, with this recovery, the tilt of his ass was not nearly imperceptible.
He offered it proudly, no mistaking it.
It was a silent plea.
More.
The next one, his hips jerked at more than the pull and continued to do so as he shoved back.
Triumph filled her, and with a quick check, she knew what she suspected was true.
He was coming.
In rapid succession, but with equal intensity, Amélie finished his strikes. She did this watching with a fervor that she knew was complete adoration as he lost all control. Surging forward, grunting, flexing back, offering his ass, his legs shaking, his hips automatically thrusting his cock into the restraining harness like it was a pussy, his extraordinarily large offering of cum gliding down his chain.
When she was done, he was forehead to the floor, body quivering, hips still weakly thrusting through the aftermath of his orgasm.
She went to stand between his ankles and reached between his legs with the paddle, caressing his balls and cock with the flat of the wood.
And he gave his Mistress more.
Promptly angling back, he pressed down, accepting the caress and straining to deepen it.
He’d accepted his punishment so well, given her so much, it was time for a reward.
She shifted the paddle up, adding pressure against his sensitive organ, giving him what he needed.
He rode it, milking his dick in his harness, the final rivulets of cum gliding down his chain, and good God, good God, he was sheer perfection.
She continued to coddle his cock and balls with the paddle as she reminded him quietly, “It’s customary to thank your Mistress for her ministrations.”
His voice came deep and hoarse, spent, pleasured, but fucking blissfully unbroken as he hesitated a delicious moment before he murmured, “Thank you, Mistress Amélie.”
She liked her name in that tone too.
“You were magnificent, Olivier,” she told him.
She watched his shoulders slump and he settled back into his calves, not with shame. He’d come so hard, his body was forced to recuperate.
She carefully glided the paddle out from between his legs, twisted it, and ran the edge of its tip hard along the exposed crevice of his ass, stopping at his hole, pressing gently.
Another test. One it was essential he passed.
He passed.
Going inert at first, he then pressed back just as gently.
Another offering.
She gathered control and when she accomplished this, she whispered, “Well done, my beast.”
His hips flexed, juddering either at her words or an aftershock of coming, but he said nothing.
She removed the paddle from his exposed crease and walked swiftly to the table, her heels making dull sounds against the boards. She dropped the paddle there and then she moved to the control panel.
Stellan was outside at the window, just next to the door, the best view Amélie knew bar none in the house. A female sub was on her knees beside him, leaning against his leg, both were watching.
His eyes were not on Olivier, they were on Amélie.
She lifted her chin in acknowledgment, her friend looked down to it, and she flipped the switch that would bring both sheer and black screens down.
She moved back to Olivier, crouching in front of him.
“Chevalier,” she called.
He didn’t lift his shoulders, just tipped his head back.
Those eyes sated, warming her deep in her belly, the power of this statement when he could only tip back his head that she’d exhausted (perhaps temporarily, but she’d done it) this incomparable steed, was nearly her undoing.
It deserved another reward.
“I have not had a toy make me this wet in longer than I can remember.”
His eyes rounded, his mouth softened.
“You are so beautiful, it’s hard to believe,” she said softly.
“Amélie,” he replied but said no more.
The game was this. There was a reason he fought it. He had clearly not had a Master or Mistress who’d guided him in any permanent way around it (thankfully). He was intelligent enough to recognize he needed it as well as the importance of keeping it and he was courageous enough that he didn’t allow the shame to keep him from seeking it.
He fought it, but when that flip was switched, he submitted to it spectacularly.
She didn’t know if she wished to protect the beast that fought it so she could battle that beast (something she deduced the ones that had gone before her had done) or if she wanted to break him so she could take him straight to where he needed to be.
Or, to be precise, she didn’t know which one he wanted.
It would be a puzzle she’d enjoy solving.
“I’m going to go home, doing this directly, and I’m going to touch myself, thinking of every moment with you. And I will come hard, my beast.” She smiled at him and his eyes locked on her mouth. “Just visualizing that big brute of a cock you’re hung with might take me over the edge.”
“Let me eat you,” he said quickly. “I’ll stay strapped,” he offered, like that was his choice.
Seeing as it obviously was no
t, it was an odd thing to say.
“Perhaps another time,” she replied.
His reaction was gratifyingly quick, exposing he wanted another time to happen.
As it would at this juncture—his cock still snugly harnessed, his cum still dripping down his chain.
She just hoped he wouldn’t go home and think differently.
It wasn’t about convincing him not to do that. It was his choice. She only had to give him the honest her so he could make the right decision.
It came with a thread of tortured when he forced out, “I can smell you.”
“I’ve no doubt,” she agreed.
“I want that,” he told her.
She was utterly delighted he did. She would relish the time when he’d earned her forcing his face between her legs, commanding him to make her come.
She leaned closer to him. It appeared he’d lift up to increase the chance of contact but he abruptly stopped.
Not stupid.
A quick learner.
“Is your cock getting hard again for me?”
There was the hesitation, the hint of anger at the indignity, before he hissed out, “Yes.”
“A quick recovery.”
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, somethin’ I think I already shared … Mistress.”
He was getting his fighting spirit back.
A quick recovery, indeed.
“You please me, Olivier.”
“I’d please you more with my mouth.”
“I hope that’s true, chevalier.”
She lifted a hand as if she was going to stroke his hair, he tensed to allow her to do it, but she dropped it.
That got her the controlled snarl.
Yes, a quick recovery.
“I hope that’s true,” she repeated. “Saturday, please arrive at nine-thirty sharp. Ask the front desk staff to share with you my instructions. They will be fully briefed. I’ll meet you when I’m ready.”
His head jerked slightly. “We’re done?”
Oh yes, he wanted more. Even coming that hard for her, he wanted it now.
Amélie beat back a smile.
“Yes, my beast, until Saturday. I’ll send a member of staff in to untether you. It’s unusual, and only a punishment, when I ask my toys to clean up. So no worries there. The staff will see to that too.”
“You’re leaving me here,” he stated flatly.
“Yes.”
“Like this?”
“The staff is responsive. I’ll make sure they see to you immediately.”
He very much didn’t like that.
“Amélie—”
“They’re discreet, Olivier, obviously. They’ve seen it all. If the room is black-blinded, they’re not allowed to share what they see in these rooms even with each other, much less members. They’re exceptionally professional, and if not, they’re in the middle of a lawsuit.”
“Mistress Amé—”
She lifted a hand, finger extended, taking it a whisper away from his lips, and he stopped speaking, focusing on the promise of a touch.
Incomparable.
Magnificent.
Then, in a fluid movement, she rose to her full height.
With unhurried strides and without a look back, a foolish move that would be too tempting, she walked out the door.
three
Black Box
OLIVIER
The next day, Olly stood, leaning a shoulder against the open bay, his head bent, his eyes on what he’d looked up on his phone.
Chevalier: Knight. Soldier. Cavalry. Horseman.
Horseman.
He wanted not to smile but he couldn’t fucking stop himself from doing it.
That room she’d led him to, to scare the shit out of him. The stall. The bridles hanging from its sides. The padded benches, vaults, saw horses with wide cushioned tops instead of two-by-fours.
Chevalier.
Fuck, he was in over his head.
He didn’t understand what was the big deal. He thought he could handle it. With stupid-ass, cocky certainty, he’d convinced Barclay of it, Jenna, but not Whitney. That bitch had a mean streak and when he’d asked her to do what she’d done for him, he figured she did it to set him up to take a fall, either getting caught and bounced from the Honey or getting his ass right where it already was after one session with Amélie.
Over his head.
He blew out a breath, shoved his phone into his back pocket, and looked into the Phoenix sun streaming down to bake the pavement outside the firehouse.
He wasn’t going back Saturday. He wasn’t going back at all. He’d been approved by that huge fucking black guy for a scholarship but he’d still had to pay a membership fee based on his earnings and that shit stung. It cost a fucking fortune. If he didn’t go back, which he wasn’t going to, it would be a fucking fortune for one night strapped to the floor having his ass paddled and his dick jacked.
That fortune worth every penny.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, knowing that last thought should give rise to others, others that would change his mind, and he couldn’t allow that.
He was not ready for this.
He didn’t think he’d ever be ready for this.
Amélie had put him through the wringer and she knew the potency of everything she did, every look she gave him, every word she said, every fall of her sexy-as-fuck sandals on the wood floor.
And she’d guided him to the single most phenomenal orgasm he’d ever experienced in his life.
But she’d asked what he didn’t particularly like for the sole purpose of using it against him. Opening the shades. Stretching the cheeks of his ass. Then leaving him on that floor to experience the humiliation of that girl coming in and letting him loose.
Amélie had been right. The girl had been professional about it. It was all the same to her, not about the scene, just about the job. She didn’t take any jollies from it.
She just unstrapped him, not touching the harnesses, doing it quickly and efficiently and saying as she left, “Just leave the stuff on the floor, all of it. It’ll be dealt with, honey.”
Then she was gone.
But Olly had been seriously ticked. Getting dressed, freaking because he worried he wouldn’t be able to figure out the way to get the fuck out in that maze of rooms. Seeing other people in the halls look at him and wondering if they’d seen Amélie work him.
He hadn’t felt the full extent of his anger until he was home, in bed, and again hard as fucking rock.
What she’d done to him, how hard he’d come, how fucking beautiful she was, that clingy, dark-green wraparound dress she wore, tits that were high and full, hips curvy, a sweet round ass, all this on a slender, almost delicate frame, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
He’d needed to jack off but wouldn’t allow it to control him, trying to focus on what she’d done to cow him, telling himself that shit wasn’t right.
And not allowing himself to remember that he knew the blinds were up, but once she started in on him, he didn’t give a fuck about anything but what she was doing, what he was feeling, and how fucking hard she made him come.
He eventually fell asleep only to wake an hour later with a hard-on that was raging and wouldn’t be ignored.
So he gave her more, jacking himself violently, thinking about what she’d done, and more he wanted her to do, and coming nearly as hard as he did for her.
Doing it knowing that he didn’t even know where the woman lived, her last name, the kind of fucking car she drove, but he still stroked every tight stroke for her.
Fuck.
Barclay had warned him to go into the Honey the right way, the way they’d ease him in, even if it was Barclay who had told him in the first place, “Man, you do not belong in this scene. You need to get your ass into the Honey.”
That scene Barclay was talking about was the Bolt. The club Olly had just started to go to. A club that was nowhere near the straight-up cool of the Honey.
From the
moment Barclay shared what the Honey was, Olly had been obsessed with it.
He closed his eyes and opened them, no longer seeing the Phoenix sun.
It was that box. That fucking box. That box he found when he was fifteen and his mom sent him up to her and his dad’s room to get something from the closet. Big and black and hidden, exposed only when he couldn’t find what she wanted him to get for her so he went searching. At his age, he could have no clue what curiosity would expose when he’d opened it.
The ropes. The handcuffs. The blindfold. The vibrators. And a huge fucking dildo.
Not a box owned by parents any kid should see.
He’d buried that, but not deep enough. It was impossible.
He’d been jacking off by then for a long time and the shit that filled his mind so he could come even before he found that box was extreme.
But that box unhinged something he could not rein in.
And being a weak twat, he’d become that guy. That loser asshole that hit the strip clubs. The one who paid for lap dances. The one who found and paid for peep shows.
None of it doing anything for him.
It had been when he’d been out with buds and they’d met other buds and Barclay was among them when things got clearer.
Barclay was open about being a third of a partner in a BDSM club, that club being the Bolt. He also had skin of steel since the guys tried to take strips off him constantly, giving him shit about it, banter that could turn nasty and did, a helluva lot.
Barclay was not only immune, he was also observant. He noticed Olly never said shit, didn’t participate in that, and often told the other guys to back off. This had the uncomfortable result of them turning that shit on him, accusing him of being in the closet, giving him crap about him liking to have his ass spanked.
Not knowing this was true.
Olly did not have skin of steel.
What he had, from a little kid, was a serious temper. A temper that fused fast, blew quick, and made words come out of his mouth that he might mean, but they could be communicated in a vastly different way. A temper his mother frequently told him, if he didn’t learn to control it, would get his ass in hot water.