“Yes, Mistress,” he hissed out, not anger, his breaths coming fast and uneven as he held back what she knew was an overwhelming desire to fuck her fist.
But it was more.
It was the first time she’d touched him in any real, direct way.
And she’d done it by claiming a man’s most precious possession.
And he’d done very well. He was so very beautiful. And she’d looked forward to this all week.
She’d experienced more than a persistent anticipation all day, and the day before, and the day before that (and so on), knowing she was coming to the club.
As the time drew nearer, it was a want that kept her panties relentlessly wet.
So as her steed had performed very well so far, it was time for his reward.
She stroked him and did not go easy. She wanted to see the pull arch that powerhouse of a body to her will. She continued to fist him tight, tugging hard at the root and the tip, jerking his body into a deeper arc of offering to his Mistress.
His head dropped back and he fought it. Not the pull, the relinquishing of himself. She saw the tenseness that caused his muscles, all of them, already standing out in relief, to start straining.
With relentless and swiftly increasing tugs, she didn’t give up.
It took time, long, glorious minutes before he cracked and she knew precisely when as he gave her some of what he was holding back, the grunts that grated up his chest and filled the room like explosions, pounding against her clit.
There was so much of him, so much she wanted to see, it was impossible to take it all in as she kept working him, harder, tighter, the pull more brutal.
She knew his ass was clenching, she was forcing it from her manipulation but more, he needed to do it to stop himself from taking over.
Her focus remained on his cock, his harnessed balls restrained but so fucking big, they still rocked with her pulls. But her mind was on his ass and how she intended to have him again, just like this, but fill him, perhaps with something special that would spread out on the floor around his calves and feet, swaying with her movements.
On this thought and the one that chased it, the one that made it difficult not to press her hand between her legs, it happened.
He broke.
The tenseness of his body vanished. He was hers to work at will.
He was hers.
He gave himself over to her, and if the sight of it etched in every line of his frame wasn’t enough, he gave her more.
Lifting his head, she caught her breath and felt the gush of wet between her legs at the burn in his eyes, the look on his face so dark with need, she fancied it cast a shadow on them both.
“Yeah, Amélie … Mistress,” he ground out. “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Jack my dick. Jack my fuckin’ dick.” His words so affecting, her strokes came faster, rougher, testing his flexibility as he fully capitulated and gave it all to her. “Jack your dick. Jack your dick, Amélie.”
Her voice was husky in a way she could not hide when she allowed, “You can meet my strokes with your thrusts, Olivier. Give my cock to me. Fuck my hand with that brute.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice, thrusting into her fist, forcing his own body into an impossibly beautiful arc. His head fell back again, the column of his throat convulsing with each grunt that came with each thrust, his jawline hard.
She felt the tension gather, shifted her grip from wrist up to wrist below, and ordered, “Offer your seed to me.”
“Fuck yeah,” he groaned and convulsed, his body staying arched, only his hips powered into her hand, the movements fluid yet spasmodic, coming in rapid succession, like an animal rutting.
And then on a muted roar, he spewed his seed, the milky jet of it soaring up his chest, wetting him from belly to nipple.
And it kept coming.
“Beautiful,” she breathed.
She held him tightly throughout, even as his drives weakened, his back slightly relaxed, and his head began to loll on his shoulders.
“Stay in position,” she ordered when he stopped thrusting altogether and she took over, gently milking out the last of his seed. “Stay offered to me, Olivier,” she repeated.
Reaching her other hand out, she cupped his harnessed balls.
And carefully squeezed.
A final gush of milky cum splashed on his flat belly as his hips juddered violently.
“Jesus,” he murmured, the tone one of stunned surprise, a shudder lightly shaking his body.
She stroked down and held him at the base, feeling the coolness of the ring.
“If you must, you may relax,” she started and his head came up, that sated look on his handsome face one she could get dangerously addicted to, soft around his mouth and eyes, lips parted.
Hers.
In that moment, all hers.
“But I’d prefer, mon chou, if you’d keep yourself presented to your Mistress while I go about the task of cleaning you up and preparing you for more play.”
He blinked.
He wasn’t expecting more.
She fought a smile.
“You came very hard. It was stunning,” she continued. “So I’d understand if you feel the need to relax. But as I said…” she trailed off, held his gaze, and then slowly released him before she straightened and moved to her bag on the table.
When she got what she needed and turned back, she could have wept with joy to see his head up, turned, and his body still arched for her.
She wanted to command him to sit back on his calves, straddle him on the floor, and kiss him so deeply, he’d wonder if their mouths had fused.
This before she rode that cock to another climax for him … and for her.
She didn’t do either.
She moved to him, giving him a look that she hoped shared her gratitude as she took the wet wipes she’d gathered and swabbed the cum from his chest.
She felt him watching her as she walked to the unobtrusive bin and threw away the spent wipes.
Ignoring the shadows at the windows indicating they did indeed have an audience, a large one, coming back to him, she crouched between his knees.
He was still semi-hard but had reduced in size enough that she could slide off the ring without causing him pain or harm.
He was clearly sensitized for he allowed a long groan to roll up his throat, and in a lovely gesture of submissive gratitude, he followed his ring (and her fingers) with his hips like he didn’t want to lose either.
“Seems I need to go shopping. My beast exceeds the size of my equipment,” she noted.
She looked to his face and saw a small smile playing at his mouth—cocky, a bit—amused, mostly.
“That might be a good idea,” he agreed.
“You’ll stay harnessed, chevalier,” she shared. “And you’ve greatly pleased me. Greatly. You can relax now.”
Instantly, he settled ass to his ankles and came up as far as the slack would let him at his collar.
She straightened and went down again at his back, effortlessly releasing the knots that bound him, relieving him of ties and collar, dropping them to the floor.
“Sit forward, Olivier,” she ordered from behind him. “You’re at ease. You may need to do some stretches to get the blood running to your arms and legs. But when you feel you can take your feet, please do so and go display yourself for me on the vault. On your back, ass back enough your legs fall open at the sides, but close to the edge so I have access to your cock and balls.”
He twisted his neck to look at her.
There was minor apprehension creeping in. He’d come. The experience was enough to sweep his mind free so he could give himself to her.
Rational thought, or irrational, however you looked at it (and Amélie considered it irrational), was intruding.
“As I said, my beast, you’ve pleased me greatly,” she continued soothingly. “When a toy pleases me, I give rewards. I’m not done with you yet.”
The last peaked enough interest he battled th
e beast and looked away from her, stretching his arms in front of him.
She left it at that, and moved to the table, lifting her hands to her hair at the nape of her neck.
She deftly pulled the pins out that fastened the soft twists of the chignon she’d curled there. She set them in a neat pile on the table, her back to the room and Olivier, her hands up, fingers moving through her hair.
When she turned, she was pleased to see she’d given him enough time. And he’d followed instructions. He was reclined on the vault, the old fashioned kind that was used in gymnastics competitions.
He was back far enough his powerful legs were spread off the sides, not quite dangling for they were too long. His feet rested on the ground but his legs were relaxed and falling wider open.
Next time, she’d have to remember to have the beam raised.
And, as well as the rest of him stretched across the vault, his cock and balls were exposed for touch and on display.
Yes, very much yes, he could get more beautiful.
She walked to his side, doing so seeing his head was up, chin in his neck, eyes on her in a way that was so deliberate, she knew he was focusing on her instead of the fact his beauty was exhibited to all in the club who wished to see.
It was crucial to focus him again.
She stopped close and looked down at him. His hands were up, resting on his chest.
She took one wrist and pulled it to her, flattening the palm against her breastbone above the opened neck of her button-up blouse.
Skin against skin.
His nostrils flared and his focus shifted.
Oh my.
She liked that.
There were no onlookers now. Just a touch from her and they’d melted away. It was Amélie and Olivier and his first touch of her, which he appeared to take as the gift it was.
“I’d like this, and the other one, chevalier, lifted over your head and holding on to the end of the vault, please,” she ordered.
He lifted his other hand to comply but she held the one to her chest for a longer moment, giving him that nuance more.
When she let him go, his hand lingered only a beat before he did as he’d been told.
“Now, Olivier, I’ve inspected you but I’d like to take that multisensory tonight. You’ve been so sweet for me I’d like you to feel free to stroke your cock as leisurely or rough as you wish when it starts hardening again.”
She swung back in surprise as the right arm whose hand she’d just laid against her chest came down and went right to his cock.
She looked that way and stared, fighting back an astonished blink.
He was not fully hard but he was getting there.
She turned back to him. “You seem to have a good deal of stamina.”
“Amélie … Mistress, I don’t think you’re gettin’ that I seriously find you not hard on the eyes.”
She bent closer, as intended for this part of their session, some of her hair falling on his chest in another caress. She did this letting her amusement show, if not all of the emotion she felt at his compliment.
“I wonder, mon chou, if you think you can butter me up with compliments.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Though not sure why I’d bother since I didn’t give you one and you just made me shoot a huge-ass load the likes that have never come from my cock.”
“And he gives another compliment,” she said through a smile.
“You earn it, I’ll say it,” he replied, his lips twitching. “That is, if I’m physically capable of speech.”
She was still smiling when she reached out a hand and delicately traced circles around his nipple.
His eyes darkened.
Her good humor increased.
“You’re of course aware I should do something about you being so audaciously cheeky.”
Another darkness crossed his face. “What?”
“I shouldn’t allow you to be cheeky with me.”
“Cheeky?”
“Impudent,” she explained.
The look fled. “You mean, in uppity, hot-chick speak, a wise-ass.”
Amélie couldn’t help it, she laughed softly.
“She’s got a pretty laugh, too, to go with that pretty accent,” he murmured and she saw his eyes on her lips.
I could get lost in this one, she thought. Lost and never found.
She had the thought with no fear.
The fear she felt was at the hope that struggled to break through. The hope that their future held something outside of a playroom.
“Just sayin’, Mistress,” he stated her title like it was a nickname, something forbidden at the same time immensely alluring, “you don’t want me to be a wise-ass, might be best not to invite me back to your barn. Think it’s a part of me you can’t get rid of by paddling my ass.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, smiling at him with her eyes.
“Amélie, I’m totally hard and shit is getting serious down there,” he whispered.
She looked that way.
He did not lie.
She turned her attention back to his face and swept the hair off his forehead, running the tips of her nails down his hairline.
Obviously in a certain mood, a giving one, an acquiescent one, one she liked a great deal, he turned his head and kissed her palm.
This tender gesture came as a pleasant surprise and it made her bend farther to him. He held still as she ran the tip of her nose down the length of his.
That bump at the bridge, God, it was insane but she could fall in love with it.
Controlling the movement so it wasn’t jerky at her growing-more-intense-by-the-second reaction to him, she pulled back.
“I ask you not to come, please,” she ordered. “If you need to take a break, do. I’ll let you know when you can give me your seed.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She gave him another smile and then set about the serious business, for her, of this session.
That was touch.
And taste.
In an epic journey of discovery, she lavished his body with attention. Touches as light as a feather. Scrapes of her nails. The whisper of lips. The sweep of her hair. Nibbles.
She mixed this randomly with rougher handling, the dig of her thumbs in his biceps, the scratch of her nails, the light twist of a nipple, sinking her teeth in his flesh enough he could feel the bite, but it wouldn’t leave a mark.
It was with delight that she discovered him exceptionally responsive.
She found he had the usual sensitivity behind his ears and along the vulnerable strain of muscles down the sides of his neck, but farther, in the dip of his collarbone.
He also liked to have the lobes of his ears nipped.
His nipples responded to touch, but she discovered she’d need further exploration during sessions for they didn’t elicit the response she’d expected. They’d need rougher play, pulled, twisted, clamped.
He had quite a lovely reaction to her digging her nail in the thick line of hair that led to his shaft just above and below his navel.
He was unsurprisingly, but deliciously more than normal, sensitive at the juncture of his thighs, her attention there with fingers, nails, and tongue taking his fisting of his cock to extremes before he’d stop, puffing out rapid exhalations of breath.
Inner and back thighs charmingly responsive, as were the backs of his knees. The fronts, not as much.
Tugs on his pubic hair brought a hiss that drowned a groan.
He liked that.
As did she.
She’d take that monster of a cock in her mouth on another, special occasion.
But when she’d noticed his body was taut with his increasing need for release, she finished her discovery, saving the best for last.
Laving his harnessed balls, sucking one, then the other, gently into her mouth, caused his hips to buck.
She watched, building her own need, the pull of his fist stretching the root of his cock as she relentlessly focused her attention o
n his sac.
As she did this, she found she liked his musk.
He wore aftershave and she liked that too.
But here, down here, the seat of his meat, he smelled divine.
“Amélie.”
There it was. The need.
She took one firm, final suckle of his ball sac, hearing his hushed explosion of, “Fuck me,” before she lifted away from him but came to his left side.
“Do you need to come, mon chou?” she asked, staring (she knew because she didn’t hide it) affectionately into his sweltering eyes and his dark, hard face.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“Keep stroking, Olivier,” she ordered, reaching for his hand that was still over his head, now clutching the edge of the vault.
She took it and watched with great fascination the myriad of lovely expressions shift across his face as she moved it so he could comfortably accept what she was offering. Then she pressed his hand into the damp crotch at her center.
Unable to stop himself, he took what she gave him and beyond. Long fingers strong, he curled them in, shoving her panties into her pussy, palming her clit.
Right, he knew what he was doing down there.
That was good to know.
She drew in a sharp, delicate breath and whispered, “Very nice, Olivier.”
“Let me fuck you,” he begged.
She shook her head slightly, bracing her legs against the sensations and modulating her voice as his strong fingers forced themselves up and out, again and again. “Not this time, my chevalier.”
His hand curled into her roughly.
Possessively.
Her alpha.
She clenched her teeth to bite back a cry of pleasure.
“I need this,” he growled, tugging on her, swaying her hips toward him, like she wouldn’t know to what he was referring.
“You have it,” she pointed out, slightly breathlessly.
“Need it, Mistress.”
That was a plea.
“You have what I’m giving you tonight, Olivier,” she informed him.
His hand shifted, middle finger finding her clit through her pants, up and circling, pressing hard.
Her lips parted.
“Fuck, Amélie,” he whispered. “Please.”
“You’ll take what I give you, Olivier.”