Bound by Lust (18 page)

“He hung himself,” I said. “I never told anyone his secret, how he hated soccer. I knew and I never said anything. I just let him suffer, I let him hurt me.”

Marcelle pet my head. “Look at me, Ronan.”

I looked.

“I've wanted to kill myself before,” she said.

I hugged her around the waist. “Please don't, please. I love you.”

“Of course not.” Marcelle hit me so hard I fell sideways. “You're saving me.”

 

 

 

 

 

A
whippoorwill shattered my attempt to sleep, calling out over the lake with a startlingly loud demand that someone beat him. I sprang bolt upright in the narrow camp bed. “I'm going to kill that fucking bird!”

Ben, who'd had the fun of a four-hour drive on top of our shared end-of-the-first-year-of-law-school exhaustion, had slept through the whippoorwill and the other weird, unexpected woodsy night sounds that kept me from sleeping. Hell, he'd even ignored the lumpy mattress that was just as vintage as the rest of the furnishings in our borrowed cabin. But my burst of temper woke him.

“It's nature, Cathy. It's supposed to be relaxing,” he murmured, nuzzling at the small of my back. “So relax.”

Normally Ben's lips tracing my tailbone and working up my spine would have set me shivering so much that I wouldn't care I was desperately underslept. Sex had gotten us through our first year at Yale Law. Granted, most of it had been rushed, without
the energy for bondage, beatings, or any of our shared kinks. Sometimes we'd fall asleep partway through and wake stuck together like dogs.

This week, at his uncle's cabin on a secluded New Hampshire lake, was supposed to recharge us so we had the energy for properly improper sex. But how was I supposed to recharge if I couldn't sleep? I hadn't brought ear plugs. I hadn't thought I'd need them way out here. “Who knew peace and quiet would be so damned loud?” I groused, sliding out of Ben's arms and out of bed.

“You can sleep through car alarms, sirens, and screaming drunks, but not a bird?”

“Those are normal, constant city noises. I can ignore them. But first this place seems spooky quiet and then…” The bird call jarred through the air again. “Some kinky bird starts screaming for kinky love—in the third person, no less. Why doesn't his damned top show up and give poor Will his beating so we can get some sleep?”

I stomped to the kitchen and poured cabernet into a Looney Toons juice glass. Wine might help me sleep, or at least relax me enough that I wouldn't be Grumpy McGrumpypants at Ben.

As I poured, I looked out the picture window. The lake was moon-illuminated, and the sky was domed with more stars than I'd ever seen outside a planetarium. I couldn't see lights from any of the other cabins on the lake.

Okay, there was something to be said for the boonies.

And here, I had a chance for a pleasure a city girl rarely experiences—sipping wine outside stark naked on a lovely night.

Glass in hand, I wandered onto the deck overlooking the lake.

The whippoorwill was still begging for a beating, but under the stars, it sounded more lovelorn than annoying. A light,
pine-scented breeze cut the humidity and caressed my bare skin, perking up my nipples and reminding my pussy that I'd left a handsome, naked man alone in bed.

A poor choice, that. A few more sips of wine and I'd rectify that mistake. If nothing else, we could smooch and cuddle, and maybe I could drift off to sleep in his arms.

Before I could, though—before I could even have that next sip—a strong hand plucked the glass from my hand, then bent me forward over the railing.

My ass cocked back in response. I knew that position. I liked that position.

“How long has it been, Cathy?” Ben's voice was full of silken menace. “How long since I've beaten you?”

I shivered and clenched at the memory of pleasures long neglected. “So long we didn't even bother packing toys. Damn it.”

“I still have my hands, Cathy. Do you want a spanking?”

The wave of lust that crashed over me suggested I'd been mad at the poor bird because I was jealous “Will” might be getting something I wanted.

The first hard thwack sent fire through my out-of-practice butt. I was still considering whether to submit or squirm away when Ben struck three times in rapid succession.

Submit, definitely submit. I needed that hurt to release the stresses of the last few months, and Ben needed to give it. My ass throbbed already, but the throbbing started a matching rhythm in my pussy. “More,” I begged. “Please.”

Ben stroked the curve of my ass cheeks, lulling me with gentleness—then dug his fingers in hard. “Do you deserve it? You threatened to kill a poor, horny bird earlier. A bird you might have sympathized with. Not very nice. Only good girls get spanked.”

That had always been our game. Good girls got spanked, or maybe flogged or caned or something else painfully yummy. Bad girls didn't get anything.

“I've been good!” I sought desperately for examples. “I did well in school. I came to the north woods because you like it up here. I…I cooked dinner!” Grilling up a couple of burgers hardly made me Rachel Ray, but it was better than either of us managed toward the frenzied end of the semester, when PBJs seemed like gourmet treats.

He pretended to consider, alternately petting and pinching my butt. “All right,” he conceded, “but only because I want to.”

I thanked him, knowing I'd want to curse him before I thanked him again.

Ben wasn't in the mood to build up slowly. He spanked again and again, his hand hard and hot against my tender butt. He pushed me fast to that place where pleasure and pain blurred, a place where I couldn't think of anything except sensation—of the fire building as his hand blasted into my ass over and over again.

God, it stung.

If he stopped, I'd strangle him.

The breeze picked up, teasing at a trail of moisture trickling down my thigh.

But much as I craved this sweet, hot annihilation, even good pain hurts. At home, on the rare occasions when we had time to play, I'd stifled the urge to scream, knowing I was sure to disturb the next-door neighbor, who worked two jobs and caught naps when she could, or send the undergraduates across the hall into spasms of giggling. Out of habit, I tried to stifle cries of pain and pleasure that would shatter the night.

But the nearest neighbors here were probably half a mile away. If they heard anything, it would be muffled and disguised
by distance. They might write it off as an animal in heat.

And that was what I felt like, an animal in heat.

I let go with a roar, and as I roared, I came so hard the stars blurred and swirled around me.

Ben thrust into me as I spasmed, setting off another wave of orgasm and another wave of cries that echoed in the silence. He pounded into me, each thrust pushing me higher. I'd have bruises on my hip bones from slamming into the railing, bruises to match the ones on my ass. In the state I was in, that felt good. My ass throbbed, my pussy clenched and gripped. The noises coming out of me didn't even sound human, but they blended into the wilderness perfectly. Ben, too, was noisy, his curses and grunts building to a crescendo. Finally, he yelled for anyone around to hear, “Come for me. Now. While I…”

He lost his words as he exploded, or maybe I just lost track of them, carried beyond words by the force of my orgasm.

Once we reached stillness again, we wrapped around each other on the battered glider, sharing my wine.

“Listen,” Ben whispered.

I did.

I heard nothing.

It took a second to remember the significance of the silence. “No whippoorwill.”

“Poor frustrated bird,” Ben said. “We scared him off. Or maybe someone finally showed up to give him that whipping.”

“Now maybe I can get some sleep,” I suggested, but Ben poured some wine on my breast and bent to lick it off.

What the hell. We could sleep all day if we wanted to.

 

 

 

 

 

H
e bends over me as I sit in the chair. The length of silk slips cold around my neck, trails shiver between my breasts. He picks up the ends and begins to tie the knot. I love the sound of the whisper and shush of the cold material as he feeds it through the loop.

“Eyes up, missy.”

I snap my eyes back to meet their reflection in the dresser mirror. But I can still see my own breasts, nipples hard and eager, flesh firm and willing. I can still see his hands as he draws the knot tight against my throat. I shift, rubbing together thighs that are wet again. He tips my head back to kiss me.

He eases the knot loose and slips the tie over my head, transferring it to his own collar. I watch him in the mirror as he adjusts the knot, smoothes his collar down. His black hair falls over his eyes and his jaw is new-shaven, but I can still see the shadow beneath. His lips are full and red, and I can feel my mouth swell just looking at them. I stand and press myself
against him, mindful that I'm naked and wet between the thighs, and I don't want to get a mark on his immaculate grey suit. He lets me lean my face into his shirt, breathe him in. I swear I can smell the strong, warm muscle beneath his skin.

“I hate it when you go.”

He touches my face.

“You'll eat popcorn and watch girl movies and write and work and do lunches and wear woolly socks. You'll have a fine time, Saph, you know you will.”

“I do know. I like the space. But I'll miss you anyway. And I'll be lonely. And…horny.”

“Hmm.” He looks forbidding. He's just made me come three times and told me that's it until he gets back. I'm really hoping he'll relent and let me come over the phone for him.

“I need a play friend,” I say, absently. “A slave sister, to love when you're not here.”

“That would be nice,” he says, and smiles. “That would be very nice indeed.”

 

Michael dressed me oddly for an evening at the club. Gone was the usual latex, leather, or lace. The '40s-style dress hugged my torso and flared to my knee. Its soft, clingy brown material was dotted with tiny rose buds. A demure outfit, except for the way my breasts pushed out of the bodice, for the height of the heel on my red, red shoes.

They were high enough to make me clutch onto his arm as he walked me to a back room at the club. Inside, several naked men and women knelt along the wall. He passed by the first few, bringing me to a stop in front of a curvy young woman with long, light brown hair. I knew her vaguely, Liz Massey. She'd lived with her dom, but he'd died of cancer just over a year ago. It was a really sad story. She still wore a collar around her neck,
a leather strip with a stone of some sort in it. Other than that, she was naked, shining hair plaited and a little patch of fur on her mons. Michael hunkered down in front of her and raised her chin, peering solicitously into her eyes, that stance I knew so well. I watched as her lips parted, and she looked at him wide eyed. He looked up at me and took my hand, drawing me in closer.

“What do you think, Saph? Would you like her?”

“Is she for me?” My voice sounded awed, incredulous. I was the little girl at the pound.

“Sure, she's for you. What do you think?”

I looked at the woman on the floor. Her breasts were full and pillowy, large nipples rosy against her smooth skin. Her hips and stomach were sweetly curved, and the hands that lay on her thighs looked more capable than elegant. Her nails were short and neat. She was beautiful.

“Oh, Michael, she's perfect! Can we take her home?”

Michael stood and held out his hand to Liz, who took it and rose to her feet.

At home, I hung up the coat she'd traveled from the club in, and she was naked again. Michael fed her sips of water and led her to the playroom, up onto the table padded in dark leather. He positioned her on hands and knees, her braid hanging over one shoulder. I sat on my cushion and watched, with eager breath. Michael ran his fingers down her spine, navigating each vertebra, passing so gently into the cleft between her buttocks and feeling of the plump flesh beyond. Liz's body undulated as he cupped her sex, pressed up with the heel of his hand. I could see her eyebrows knit with the effort of staying silent. Michael pushed her back into position with one finger between her shoulder blades and walked around in front of her. He stroked her full lips, then raised her head with light pressure under her chin. I could feel his fingertips on my own skin, his effortless
instruction, and I knelt up straighter.

“Such a pretty kitten,” he said, grasping the braid at the nape of her neck and pressing her mouth to the ridge of his erection. “I am so looking forward to seeing what you can do.”

I worried that Liz's eyes were looking suspiciously shiny, but she closed them when Michael walked back to the other end of the table. With one hand on the small of her back, he started to smack the undercurve of her buttocks with rhythmic, gentle blows, working his way from the outer edge to her inner thigh. Liz gasped and writhed, and Michael reached up a lazy hand and twined it in her hair to hold her in position. He switched his attention to her pussy, swinging his hand up in between her spread thighs over and over, pulling her head back. Beneath her soft, open-mouthed moans, I could hear the noise of his smacks change as she got wetter.

But the tenor of Liz's cries were changing too. Before I could whisper “Sir,” Michael saw that Liz was communicating a different kind of pain. He stopped and stroked her back, gentled her. She knelt there, hunched over, and sobbed, wrapping her arms around herself, emitting hoarse, panicked cries. Michael put his arms around her, but that made it worse. A tilt of his head and I ran over to cradle the naked, shaking woman, drew her to me and held her until her shivering sobs abated. Michael put a blanket around her and lifted her from the table. He brought her to sit between us on the huge floor cushion. When she was settled against me, he stroked her hair from her face and gently ran a finger along the collar she wore.