The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (24 page)

Somehow I make myself stop, though. My ankles wobble a little in my boots and I try to stand still. I’m sure he can see me trembling, though and I wonder, briefly, if that’s going to
count against me.

He just sits there, looks at me, watches me, silent, that smug expression on his face, that satisfied smile. The muscles in my neck and jaw tense and my lips press together; I hardly realize
I’m doing it. This silence, this lack of movement drives me crazy. I want to do something. Want him to do something. Want anything but to be standing there, uncertain and trembling, but
he’s not in a hurry.

I imagine it’s a game: which of us will move first. Will I give in to the white-hot defiance inside of me, or will I somehow manage to contain it, control it, leaving him to make the first
move?

I don’t know how long I stand there; he unplugged the clock, denying me that red glow and the little bit of certainty that comes with knowing. In that unknown time, I manage not to demand,
“Well?” or “Are you just going to sit there?” or “Now what?” my lips twitching unconsciously every time I come close to opening my mouth. I think he can tell how
much this frustrates me, how maddening it is.

Finally, he says, “Strip. Slowly.”

Slowly. And I wonder if he wants a strip tease, or if he just wants me to take my time, forcing me into a longer wait to find out what happens next. He remains sitting there, his expression
unchanging, still that smug amusement and I want so much to touch his cheek, kiss him, be close enough that I can’t see the expression. Nip at his mouth, drag my tongue over his lips, press
it between them.

I peel off one glove, material sliding against my forearm, wrist, fingers. I drop it to the floor beside me. Out the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored closet door,
mocking me with the same movement. I unfasten bracelets, metal beads unwinding slowly then falling to the floor with the scraping and clinking of metal-against-metal, muffled in the end by carpet
and the first glove. Then the other glove. My hands still shake and I think, perhaps it is a blessing he told me to strip slowly.

I unfasten my necklace, drop it beside my bracelets.

As I strip he tells me, “You are allowed to say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and, ‘No, sir.’ Nothing more. Unless you need to use your safe-word. You understand?”

I swallow, draw a shallow breath. I know what he wants to hear, what I should say.

“Well?” he asks me, one eyebrow raising.

And my lips part. For a moment, the only thing that passes them is my breath and then not even that. I don’t know if I can say it. He waits, watching me in silence, judging my reluctance
or defiance, until I whisper, “Yes, sir.” I’m not certain I’ve said it loud enough for him to hear, but he says, “Good girl.” I remember to breathe.

“Tell me your safe-word, Flora.” I love the sound of my name on his lips.

My hands falter on the laces of my corset. I swallow, press my lips together, then say it – Red – though he already knows; we’ve talked about this before. He nods and I loosen
the laces further.

“Slowly,” he reminds me when my hand comes to the zipper at the front of my corset.

Slowly. I take hold of the zipper, pull it down a tiny bit at a time, trying to remind myself to breathe as I do. Eventually, the zipper is all the way down, the air cool against my
leather-warmed skin. I shrug my shoulders and the straps slide down. I catch them, then drop the corset to the floor. My skirt slips down over my hips, puddles at the floor around my boots.
I’ve nothing on underneath.

Self-conscious and exposed, I bend to the laces on my boots and before I untie the knot holding them he says, “Leave those on.” I close my eyes, whisper, “Yes, sir.”

“Crawl to me,” he says and my eyelids fly open again, eyes wide with panic. He still has not moved more than to tilt his head to the side. His hands rest on the arms of the chair,
long fingers relaxed. “Slowly.”

I feel the blush heating my skin, my breath catching each time I inhale. Crawl to him. Submission without pain and I don’t know if I can do this thing he is telling me to do. Does he see
the struggle as I stand there? Is it written on my face? In the way I tremble? And when I’ve nearly decided I cannot do this, I find that I’m closing my eyes tightly, bowing my head and
sinking to my knees. I whisper, “Yes, sir.” The carpet is smooth and rough at the same time. Flat, but ragged against my palms and my knees; I focus on that rather than the sharp
uncertainty in the back of my head, rather than the fear.

The room is forever-wide, though it’s no bigger than any other hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. The trek across the room on my hands and knees takes a painfully long time and the only
sound is the toes of my boots scraping carpet and the pounding of my heart, pulse hammering in my ears. My back arches each time I drag one leg forward and put a hand out in front of me and I
can’t look at him, if I do, I might stop, might gather up my clothes and run. I look, instead, at the floor, at the pattern in the carpet, at the chipped polish on my nails. I should’ve
fixed that before I got here; a distracted inane thought flitting into my head and out just as quickly.

Crawl to him. It sounds like such a simple order. Such a simple thing to do. And I don’t know if it’s defiance or fear screaming in the back of my head, telling me to stop right
there, not move another inch. But I keep crawling. Long slow dragging movements, my breasts swaying, a reminder that I’m naked, in case I might have forgotten somehow.

He stretches one foot out in front of me and when I’m close enough, he tells me again, “Stop.”

I’m breathing raggedly, as if I’ve just run a mile rather than crawled the length of the room. He rubs his boot against my forearm, brushes the toe of it against my nipple and I
shiver. When he puts his foot back on the floor, he tells me, “Kiss it,” and a whimper catches in my throat.

Perhaps he’s taking some small amount of pity on me as he leans forward, strokes my hair. But as his fingers tighten and tug, I shiver, go limp. He forces me to look up, to look at him.
There is no pity in his expression. “Kiss it,” he tells me and he lets go of my hair. Arms trembling, I lower my face to his boot, close my eyes partway and brush my lips against the
leather. “Like you mean it,” he tells me.

Another whimper from me, the sound almost like a kittenish mewl. I’m lightheaded from forgetting to breathe, from those short little ragged breaths when I remember to take them, from the
racing of my heart, from
this.
I kiss his boot again, lips and tongue both playing against the leather now, moving from the toe, along the top, over to his ankle, back around to the toe. I
wait eagerly for a, “Good girl,” some indication that I’m doing the right thing, but he leaves me wondering. He draws that foot back and puts the other one forward. When I give it
the same treatment, that’s when I hear, “Good girl.” He tilts his foot up, presents the sole of his boot. My eyes close again and I kiss along the sole, play my tongue over it,
over the roughness of the treads.

“I can smell you, Flora.” And I lower my face to the carpet, certain it is bright red because it feels suddenly like it is on fire. I want to deny it, but I can smell myself. I
whisper, “Yes, sir,” against the floor and the carpet gets warm against my face.

He chuckles. “That embarrasses you.” Not a question, but I nod, whisper, “Yes, sir.” I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Good.”

I want to hide, then. Want to melt into the carpet to escape that embarrassment, his amusement over it, but he’s not going to let me. His hand is back in my hair, tugging me up so I have
to look at him again. I keep my eyes closed, but he tells me to open them. I never imagined it might take so much energy, so much effort, to open my eyes, to keep my gaze from lowering. “Look
at me,” he says and I realize my gaze has wandered again: the upholstery of the chair, his thigh, anywhere but looking him in the eye.

I look at his mouth, his parted lips. I want to kiss them and he knows it.

He stands up slowly and I’ve got to raise up only onto my knees as he does. That movement leaves me unbalanced; he’s so close. My chest presses against his legs and my face is
against his crotch. He still holds my head so I have to look up at him, my neck aching a little, my back arched. His jeans are rough against my breasts and nipples and as he moves, the denim drags
against me. My breath catches and I try not to moan. I fail in that attempt and his smile widens. “I want you to sit on your heels, Flora. With your knees spread and your palms against your
thighs.” His grip in my hair loosens so I can lower myself. My boot-heels are hard and uncomfortable to sit against. My hands tremble against my thighs.

He sits down again and looks at me. “No matter what I do, you will not look away. You can blink, but you will
not
close your eyes for longer than that. You will watch this,
Flora.”

A shiver runs through me and I whimper.

He reaches over the arm of the chair to the bag on the floor and when his hand comes back into my line of sight, he’s holding a little clear bag full of black plastic clips, some of them
small and flat, others like clothespins. Those aren’t mine, weren’t in the bag I packed. My gaze darts from the bag to his face, then back. He bounces the bag and the clips rattle
softly. My fingers curl against my thighs, nails pressing into skin, then I force them to relax again.

“Hold still.” He leans forward, lifts my right breast and drags his thumb over my nipple.

It’s reflex, I can’t help it, I close my eyes and tilt my head back. His hand comes down in a sharp stinging swat against the top of my breast and I open my eyes wide. “Eyes
open
,” he says, watching my face.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, those two words trembling on my lips.

I’ve never realized how often I close my eyes in response to pleasure, in response to pain. Never until that moment. He pinches up the skin of my breast, closes one of the flat clips
against it. I suck in a sharp breath and catch myself just before I close my eyes. He pinches up more skin, lines another clip beneath the first, like a black sunray in a child’s drawing. One
clip after another, five of them in line pointing toward my nipple.

He starts another line of them a little to the right of the first, then another to the left of it. My breast feels hot and stinging and my fingernails dig into my thighs as I try to keep my eyes
open.

Five lines on my breast and he touches his fingertip to my parted lips. My tongue darts out over it and he presses his finger into my mouth. I suckle it, tongue sliding over it, tongue ring
dragging against it while he strokes it in and out. He pulls it away from my mouth and circles that wet fingertip over my nipple. A soft “ohh” falls from my lips and he takes his finger
away, takes out one of the black clothespins. I watch. I watch though I know what’s coming, though I want to close my eyes, though I want to look away. He opens it and lets it snap closed; it
hasn’t been sprung. I flinch at the sound. He opens it again and lets it close more slowly around my nipple.

My nails drag over my thighs and I whimper. Eyes close because I just cannot keep them open. His hand comes down over the top of my other breast. “Open your eyes, Flora.”

I pant raggedly, every breath making the clips on my breast shift. I whimper. It is such a struggle to open my eyes again and it’s nearly impossible for me to focus once I do.

He shifts, puts one foot between my knees. His foot shifts as he gives my left breast the same treatment, the side of his foot rubbing against my inner thigh, then the toe of his boot dragging
against my labia. I gasp and he pinches my nipple, says, “Shush,” reminds me to hold still. I whisper a ragged, “Yes, sir,” and he continues with the clips, another half-sun
on my left breast, then that last clothespin on my nipple.

I give a little whimpered moan and close my eyes, that damnable reflex. He takes hold of both clothespins and tugs, once for each word as he says, “Open . . . your . . . eyes.”

My lips are parted and I’m panting. Somehow I manage to open my eyes again, look up at him. I’m trembling and my nails are digging even harder against my thighs. His boot continues
to press between my thighs and my hips arch slightly. He tugs the clothespins again. “Stay still.”

I whimper, “Yes, sir.”

I think I may very well come with the toe of his boot grinding against my clit and pressing against the barbells piercing my inner labia, my nipples throbbing in the grip of those clothespins. I
blush again, hotly. He’s not going to let me come so easily, though.

He lets go of the clothespins, lowers his foot and I give a little mewl of frustration, nearly closing my eyes as I do. He tsks softly, looking at his boot. “Clean that up, Flora.”
The throb and heat of the clips against my breast drown out the urge to say, “I can’t,” or, “I won’t.” I’ve got to lower myself – breasts brushing
the carpet, clothespins and clips tugging – so I can lick his boot. The mingled taste of myself and leather makes me dizzy with desire. Every instinct inside of me screams that I should close
my eyes as I savour that taste, but I manage to keep them open.

He stands, pulls me up by my hair again as he does. I fix my gaze on his mouth. “You’re going to unfasten my belt now. And my jeans. But your hands are going to stay against your
thighs.”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my breath warming the crotch of his jeans. I rub my cheek against his thigh, lick and kiss along the fly of his jeans, up to his belt buckle. I nuzzle at it,
catch the end of his belt between my teeth, tug. But it’s not quite that easy. His shirt brushes against my cheek, against my hair, while I struggle with his belt, giving tiny little whimpers
of frustration. Once he unbuttons his shirt, he strokes my hair, trails fingertips over my ear, down my neck. Eventually I get his belt undone, nose it out of the way. It slaps back against my
cheek and he takes pity on me, holds it away from my face. I catch his jeans between my teeth. The button is stubborn, but I manage it. The metal of the zipper-pull makes my teeth ache as I tug it
downward, inhaling the scent of him as I do.