Naughty Bits Part IV: The Highest Bid (4 page)

“Christ, you’re as soaked as if you climaxed.” He gave her a mock-stern look, pinched her clit, making her jump, gasp. “Did you masturbate while you were in the bathroom?”

“No, Master.” She shook her head. “You know I didn’t. It’s just . . . you make me this way.”

Those licks of fire in his eyes were going to make her burst into flame. He bent, put his lips on her thigh, his nostrils flaring as he obviously inhaled her scent. Then he straightened. “If I didn’t have to concentrate, I’d put a vibrator on you and watch you come again and again,” he said. “But I think this will be enough to inspire me. My client’s going to get my best work tonight, thanks to you.”

How could any rational woman explain why it turned her into a pool of lust to be collared and chained by such a man? Such feelings only increased as he moved to do his work, leaving her there as his possession, to be enjoyed and used by him at his leisure, not her own. Knowing he did it
because
it made
her so intensely aroused, her helpless pleasure driving his? It was indescribable.

Yes, she could see herself during a night out with the women she’d worked with at her former job in Boston. “Oh, Doris, I’m so glad to hear you aced your recent board meeting and sent that bunch of sexist assholes home with their tails between their legs. Last weekend, I was chained to a sofa like a sex slave by a man I’ve started to call Master.”
And I’ve never felt so cherished . . . or felt so loved . . . in all my life.

She stared at him, her pulse pounding high and hard now for a different reason. It was the truth, and she found no fault with it, no instant scream for therapy from her rational mind. He picked up his tools. “Read your magazines,” he ordered. “Let me know if you get uncomfortable or if you need anything. Anything important,” he amended, that familiar gleam coming to his eye. “Else I’ll have to gag you.”

* * *

He worked for a solid two hours. With no access to a clock, she thought it could have been two minutes or two eternities. Time was both irrelevant and excruciating. She did page through one of the magazines, but in the end, she just watched him. She folded her hands beneath her head, fingers idly playing in the links of the chain attached to the collar. Her legs were bent enough she could feel the pull of the other chain on her ankle.

He chiseled out curves in the wood as sweet as a woman’s. He bored holes, biceps flexing as he put pressure on the tool, and attached pieces with carefully placed fasteners.

As his work took shape, she saw it was fashioned after the stocks placed in a public square to punish and humiliate someone. It had the usual three holes for head and wrists, but he had it designed so the height could be adjusted, the servant bent at angles according to the desires of the Dominant. He had an additional panel that could be slotted and locked into the top of the stocks. Studying it, she realized the spaced holes were intended for a woman’s breasts. Just like the bench piece he’d shown her the first time she’d toured his workshop, it gave the Master the ability to run a chain between nipple clamps or piercings, so the captive couldn’t pull back, free herself.

The way he carefully checked the dimensions suggested the woman in question had been measured, probably by her Master. She imagined Logan doing that to her, so he could design furniture to hold her according to his desires. She wondered what he might make, what he’d like to do to her.

Though he was absorbed in his work, he did glance her way now and then. He didn’t speak, but she thought he might be checking on how she was doing, or perhaps gaining more inspiration, because his gaze would course over the chains holding her, linger on her collar. Once, when he did that, she found herself lifting her chin to display it more prominently. The flicker in his eyes made her fingers curl into the sofa cushions. When he returned his attention to his work, she was nearly breathless.

She wondered if all craftsmen were as beautiful as the objects they created. He’d shed his shirt, revealing the white undershirt he wore beneath it, and had pulled that free from his jeans. When he squatted to peer up at something from a different angle, denim stretched deliciously over his thighs, his taut ass, his shoulders flexing as he tented his fingers on the ground, holding his balance. Later, when he finished coaxing out the shape of the wood, he began to use the hand sander, smoothing the wood while tiny shavings frosted his forearms. His arm muscles rolled like ocean surf as he performed every step needed to perfect his work.

She wanted him to come to her, push her back on the sofa, still chained, and take her like she’d imagined. Leave her wet with his seed, and then go back to what he was doing, making her feel used and needed. Though he appeared to be fully engrossed in what he was doing, she’d never felt so noticed, at an intense level she’d never imagined it possible for a man to notice a woman. He was as aware of her as he was his own breath or heart beating. Most people thought they didn’t think about those things, but in fact they were more aware of them than anything else, an integral part of their existence, a constant reminder they were alive.

At length, he was done for the night. He wiped down his tools, put them away. Sweeping up the sawdust, he dumped it in a bin, hung the dustpan and broom back on the wall, then moved to the utility sink to wash his hands and forearms. She watched him dry his hands, run a wet cloth over his face and neck before he turned to her.

Her lips were parted, her throat dry. She hadn’t thought to drink any of the bottled water he’d left within reach, her focus all on him. He leaned against the sink and picked up his own bottle, taking a deep swig from it. As he wiped his mouth with a casual forearm, his eyes stayed on her.

“Are you still wet for me, Madison?”

When she nodded, his gaze sharpened like the tools he was using. He didn’t have to say anything; he was a teacher adept at giving his students precise nonverbal cues.

“Yes sir.”
Yes, Master.
She wanted to call him that, write it on a chalkboard over and over like a punishment and reward both.

“Show me you’re ready to be fucked. Put your fingers inside yourself, move them around so I can hear your cunt suck on them.”

It was amazing how vulgarity became poetry in the right circumstances. She shifted, hearing the sound of her chains as she put her hands beneath the skirt.

“Pull it up. I want to see.”

She wriggled so the short skirt was up at her hips and he could see the swatch of panties she wore. He raised a finger, stilling her.

He took another sip of the water, studying what she was revealing, probably the crotch panel of her panties, so soaked the silk would be transparent. “Spread your legs wider.”

She trembled at his tone. She’d refuse him nothing. The note had said 
“
From here forward, you are not allowed to pleasure yourself in any way. Or be pleasured. A single infraction will incur severe punishment. Twenty-five strikes with a switch.
”

But he was her Master, here in the flesh, and she wouldn’t resist him. Wouldn’t deny him. Would he still, in whatever role he played for her this weekend, punish her for not following the instructions? Of course he would. That was part of the game, right? It made her tremble harder, knowing the punishment would be harsh, and yet whatever happened here would be worth it.

“Proceed.”

She pulled aside the crotch panel and dipped two fingers inside herself. Her lips parted further, her throat working on a noisy swallow at the brief contact between her fingers and the sensitive internal and external tissues. Under his gaze, her pussy contracted, and she did hear it, that greedy suck on her fingers as her sex begged for that for which her fingers could only be a poor substitute. She pushed deeper inside herself, pulled out enough to repeat the noise, and a moan slipped from her lips. A plea.

He watched her, his lips firm and unyielding, eyes fastened on what she was doing. He’d stopped drinking from the bottle, however, and when he shifted his thighs so his feet were planted at a wider angle, she wished the hem of the shirt wasn’t hiding his reaction beneath the jeans. She wanted to see his erection growing, wanted to know just how much effort it was taking to deny himself. She also wanted to drop her head back, close her eyes, immerse herself in the feeling, but watching him was such an essential part of that, she didn’t want to lose the visual input.

“Stop. Remove your fingers from yourself and hold them out toward me.”

She did it, seeing her knuckles glistening with her juices. When he moved toward her at last, the quivering of her body increased. He moved with such purpose, such focus, it was as if he pulled in everything around him, including her, increasing the density of the very air.

Grasping her wrist, he tugged her upright until the chain pulled at her collar, indicating she’d come up as far as her bonds allowed. He dipped his head, smelled her fingers, his nostrils flaring. Then his tongue came out and he licked, a light tracing of her knuckle, sampling. When at last he sucked one finger in fully, the chains jangled as she jerked in sensual reaction.

He raised his head. “Lie back and spread your legs again. Both arms above your head, fingers holding on to the arm of the couch. Stay that way.”

She obeyed, and she couldn’t stop shaking, needing. He took off his shirt, revealing fine, furred muscle. He opened his jeans, a quick slip of the button, a tugging of the zipper, the denim pushed down just enough to suit his intent. From the sinuous roll of his hips, the way he reached in to stretch out what was beneath, she anticipated and was not disappointed to see he was fully erect, thick and hard, the tip already damp with viscous fluid.

As he knelt between her legs, he gave her that implacable look. “You’re my obedient slave,” he murmured. “You don’t move, except in whatever way I move you.”

“Yes, Master.” There was no hesitation, no sense that she was playing a game. She’d called him what he was, and he’d just as clearly told her what she was in this moment. Nothing in her objected or disagreed with it.

He slid his hands beneath her thighs to cradle her buttocks, and then he tilted her hips up. He had one knee on the couch, the other foot planted on the floor, in between her chained foot and the sofa so her ankle rubbed against his pants leg, the chain making its soft metallic music as she twitched, involuntary movements she couldn’t control.

He pushed into her, holding her still as a doll, and she gave a tremulous sigh, a tiny pleading sound captured in the breath. He held her gaze, binding her to his will as he eased in all the way, lifting her higher and adjusting his own hips to navigate her channel, moving slow to protect her from pain, even as his size stretched her in a pleasurably less comfortable way. Then he stayed that way, deep inside her, his fingers kneading her buttocks. It made a swirl of sensation spin from the delicate anal region to her cunt, spreading out through her stomach, up to her breasts. He hadn’t had her remove her blouse, but now, when his eyes finally moved to it, she anticipated his next order.

“Take it off.”

She unbuttoned it and had to arch her body to shrug out of it, which impaled her further upon him. She let the fabric slide to the floor. His gaze rested on the bra she’d chosen tonight. It was all thin lace, not intended to conceal or cushion the shape of the nipples at all, so beneath the dark blue lace the circles of her areolae, the hard points of her nipples, were visible. The bra had a front clasp.

“Open it.”

When the cups slid away, revealing her breasts, his gaze devoured them. He moistened his lips, and she jolted as if he’d put his mouth there with just the implication.

“Grip them as if you’re offering them to me. Squeeze them and hold that tension on them so they’ll swell out of your hands.”

She obeyed, and his brown eyes glinted. “Keep that pose, and don’t move.” Then he began to thrust.

“Aahhh.” The noise couldn’t be contained, not that one, nor the ones she uttered afterwards. The other night he’d been gentle, building up to fast. Tonight, with her pose, with his orders, he was making it clear this was about his pleasure. Which, diabolically, made her even crazier with lust. Her pussy spasmed with each impact. He was going to make her come, disobey the instructions entirely, because she could take nothing but pleasure from this. But she lacked any will to stop him, to protect herself from anything he might do to her, and somewhere in her lust-fogged brain, she understood that was the point.

It was impossible not to move during an orgasm, but she fought hard to obey. As the waves started to build, about to crash over her, she was pushed over by his own hard, fast release, his cock convulsing inside her, spewing hot seed over her cervix and channel, making her cry out, her body bow up impossibly as she still held her breasts on display for him, fingers leaving pressure marks in her soft skin.

As she went over her own crest, his other arm snaked under her waist and, still pumping, he bent and captured her right nipple in his mouth, making her scream as he bit down, lashed at it, licked at her tight fingers. She worked her hips on him, her other leg coming up to hook his hip, but he shoved it down, held it pinned in the position he proscribed. It made the orgasm a long, never-ending toss in the surf, where she kept surfacing for air and then was pushed down again, drowning in the pleasure, rolled over and over.

When she was at last done, floating, her body jerking with tiny movements as if recovering from a seizure, he guided her hands from her breasts, letting her arms fall limp as they needed to do. He kept kissing her breasts, teasing nips, then he caught his fingers in the chain, tugging against the collar so she opened her eyes, focused on him. She was utterly lost, with him her only chance of rescue from this vast sea of nothingness, a place she would dwell forever at his behest.

“Logan . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“It’s all right, love. Ssshhh.” He fingered the lock, keeping his weight on her without inhibiting her breath, as if he knew she needed the anchor of his body holding her to the couch. “I’ve half a mind to keep you like this for the next week or so, but I don’t think I’d get any work done, knowing you were back here, waiting for me to do whatever I want to you. And Troy would swallow his tongue if he saw you.”