Xquisite (9 page)

“Yes.” He turned the blade slightly and slowly scraped it across the same expanse of skin, peeling away the drips and drops of wax, letting them fall to the floor. “I can.”

“Oh,” Chelsea breathed, all thought of her loss, her past, fading from her mind. She looked down and watched the process of the knife, which Ricardo wielded with expert skill. He allowed the tip to come close to her nipple, but never touch it;
he shaved away the wax without leaving anything behind but the redness of her inflamed skin, the tingling of every nerve near the surface.

“Among other things, the wax is quite an emollient,” Ricardo said. “It will leave your skin feeling very pleasant.”

“Pleasant” wasn’t a word that Chelsea would imagine anyone using to describe the way he was making her feel right now. Her panties were once again drenched, the fold of fabric pressing against her cleft teasing her maddeningly now.

The knife could easily slice through her skin, spill her blood, wound or even kill her. She was naked before him, bound so tightly that she couldn’t even wiggle her hands. She was helpless and defenseless and there was nothing she could do if he were to turn menacing.

No: not nothing. He had given her the out, the safe word. And she believed he would honor it.

The wax had been scraped off the swell of her breasts, leaving only the streak across her nipple. Chelsea caught her breath as he brought he blade close, hovering a mere millimeter above her skin. Her nipple tightened and beaded, and she trembled with anticipation. Between her legs, the ache had turned to a dull, needful throb. There was something intoxicating about the threat of danger…combined with the trust that she was probably very naïve to feel for Ricardo, who was still a near-stranger with some strange compulsions.

Why was he waiting? She could feel the combination of his warm breath and the cool air caressing her nipples, and she arched her back, trying to force his hand. But he moved with her, maintaining the tiny distance between steel and skin.

“You remember your promise,” he hissed.

Her promise. Oh, yes. Not to come—an eventuality that no longer seemed so ridiculous. But what could he do if she—

He touched the tip of the blade to the wax, tracing the teardrop shape of the wax, separating it from her rosy pink aureole. The gentle tug caused her to shudder violently; the sensation went deep and radiated out, and she knew her climax was not far off.

“
Don’t come
,” Ricardo repeated, his voice now husky and commanding.

Chelsea whimpered and tried to clench her thighs together, but the bindings did not allow it. If she wriggled on the chair now, if she slid her slick pussy lips along the edge of her panties, she would not be able to stop herself. She had never felt that lack of control in her life, not once; orgasms, for Chelsea, were a reward to be worked for, an athletic exercise that took all her focus.

Now she threw herself into keeping her climax at bay. Ricardo might not harm her, but he sounded deadly serious, and she imagined the price she would pay for disobeying would be steep. She clamped her teeth together, her eyes shut, and as he peeled the last of the wax away her entire body strained and twisted with the effort of keeping the sensation from bursting forth, devouring her, turning her inside out.

He pulled the knife away.

And touched his fingertip gently to her eyelid, stroking her lashes gently. She was…was she really
crying
? He pulled his fingertip away and showed her the tear glistening on its tip.

“Good girl,” he said. “My very good
niña linda
.”

I am, I am
, she wanted to moan. Because she was ready to be his now, had left behind all traces of doubt about whether or not she wanted to be with this man for any but purely selfish reasons. Her father’s painting…the mysterious connection…the promise of an exciting discovery…all of these faded from her thoughts, as insignificant as dust motes.

“Please,” she mumbled through chattering teeth. She was both hot and chilled at the same time; her core felt furnace-fired, but the breeze played at the sweat-soaked skin of her forehead, her arms. She needed him to finish her off, surely he could see that? And what of
his
need—his cock, never more than inches from her face, was rigid and unflagging. She’d settle for putting her mouth on it; she wouldn’t mind his fingers in her hair, even, holding her still while he drove deeper. Her previous convictions about blow jobs seemed as quaint and pointless as her girlhood belief in the tooth fairy: preposterous and unsustainable. Why had she wanted to be in control, why had she insisted on pushing her lovers hands away when they tried to guide her hands and mouth, why had she believed that she knew what any of them wanted?

She’d always thought she pleased her lovers well—but none had ever given any indication of feeling quite like this. This desperate for touch, this close to losing her grip.

“Please what?”

“Please…sir.”

“Yes. That is better. But what is it that you need?”

He dipped the hand holding the knife down, and for a moment Chelsea thought he might cut her wrists free. It was getting harder to ignore the pressure of the bonds, the pain where fabric cut into flesh.

Instead, he traced the blade along one thigh.
Oh. Yes
. The wax had dripped there as well, and her hips lifted toward the blade, desperate for him to carve it from her as he had from her breasts, for the feel of the cold steel on her sensitive, tender flesh.

“You did well before, but do you think you can keep it up? Can you keep your promise?”

He was asking her if she could keep herself from coming. But she was so close. His legs anchored her as much as the silk; his calves pressed against hers. His scent mingled with hers. “If you could…” she tried. If she could just touch him, if she could bring him to the same place of need, if she could make him see that it was past time for play, that he should be plunging into her now, sating her need and his own.

But her words wouldn’t come. She licked her lip and shook her head. She couldn’t keep her promise. Not now.

“I see,” Ricardo said gravely. “Well, you have done as I asked until now. I believe you have tried your best.”

He stood, pushing his chair back, and then he knelt before her. Now that she had failed him he would untie her; she had disappointed him and he no longer wanted her. Maybe it was the waiting that got Ricardo off; maybe her pleasure would smother his own. People had stranger desires than that.

But still he didn’t reach for the knots. He took his knife and gently worked the tip under the fabric of her panties, at her hip—and then yanked it up, hard. Any doubts she’d had about the sharpness of the blade vanished as the beige fabric tore away as easily as if it were tissue paper. A second swipe of the blade severed the other seam, and then Ricardo grabbed the shredded undergarment and pulled it out from under her, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.

And she was exposed. They both looked down at the gold-flecked, curling hairs thickly covering her mound, and Chelsea felt suddenly shy. She didn’t want him to see her this way. Covered with the hair that he said didn’t suit her. She wondered what it would feel like with the hair gone, what it would feel like to be so bared to him.

“Beautiful,” he growled. “Look at that. How wet you are. How juicy. How needy. You need someone to take care of you, don’t you, little girl.”

It wasn’t a question, and Chelsea had no answer, anyway. She was
not
a little girl—her childhood had been taken from her and destroyed. But yes, she was needy. Yes, she needed someone—no, not just anyone, she needed
Ricardo
, who affected her like no one she’d ever met—to take her and take her hard, to pound her without mercy until she found release again. Her first orgasm had been spectacular, but she was so far past that level of arousal now; it wasn’t just her erogenous zones but her whole body that hummed with the rhythm of her longing.

He bent to his task, carefully scraping one inner thigh, the blade making short, neat work of the curl of wax that fell to the floor. Then, about to do the same to the other leg, he stopped and looked up at her. “Are you ready, little one?” he asked, blade poised at the juncture of wax and skin.

“Yes, yes, oh yes,” Chelsea sobbed, the hunger mounting inside her. She wasn’t even sure what she was pleading for as he separated the wax with one decisive downward swipe, and then tossed the blade to the floor, where it bounced off the thick carpet and skittered away, clanging against the polished wood floor of the dining room.

His hand reached between her legs, his fingers pressing against her hot, throbbing slit, and tensed.

“Then come for me,” he commanded. “Come
now
. Come as hard as you need to.”

His middle finger slid inside her as his thumb swiped up, flicking her swollen clit and then circling it. A second finger joined the first, pressing deep and up, and found a rhythm, working in and out as her hips frantically bucked. The orgasm began almost immediately, a cresting wave that burst all over the chair before being followed by another, and another. The sounds she was vaguely aware of making were between a wail and a scream and grew louder as each surge of sensation grew stronger. Something was splashing against his hand, wetting them both, and some distant part of her brain registered that it was coming from her, that she was exploding for him, geysering, drenching, and that no power on earth could bring her back until this moment ran its course.

By the time the tide turned and the ebbing climax receded, sending gentle concentric circles of sensation through the bliss it left behind, Chelsea was aware of other feelings. Intense pain in her wrists and knees, where her bucking had pulled
the knots tight. Maybe a bruise on her tailbone from slamming so hard on the chair as she writhed. Damp—no, make that
soaked
upholstery below her ass. And, as Ricardo slowly withdrew his fingers from deep inside her, taking his time, a final wave of pleasure as her cunt clamped tightly.

“I’ve…I’ve ruined your chair,” Chelsea said faintly, trying to cover up her horror at the sheer amount of liquid that had burst from her. She’d
squirted
, that whimsically named act that she’d secretly doubted existed, a parlor trick meant to stoke men’s masturbatory fantasies.

Maybe Ricardo made every woman squirt. Maybe, as promised online, there were techniques a man could practice, and maybe—like a star athlete or a concert violinist, Ricardo was born naturally endowed with a gift. But his eyes, gazing unblinkingly into hers, reflected awe and astonishment.

“It’s not ruined,” he said. “It is now my favorite chair. It shall remain at the head of the table, always. No one else will sit in it besides the two of us.”

“Will you untie me now? Please? Sir?” Chelsea asked. She was feeling immensely self-conscious now that the buffering layer of lust was no longer clouding her senses. “These knots—they’re getting awfully tight.”

“Soon.” Ricardo stood. His movements all had a natural grace that was all the more impressive for a man of his size. He was easily six-two or –three, with the solid chest and shoulders of a man who regularly lifted huge weights, the muscles rippling under his shirt as he’d pleasured her.

His feet remained planted wide, and now he put his hands to his belt, unfastening the buckle, watching her. “See what you’ve done to me,” he said ominously, without a trace of humor. “See what you make me feel.”

He skimmed the trousers over his hips and pushed down his briefs, and his cock sprang free. He rubbed his hand slowly down its length, then back up. A tiny drop of moisture appeared on the head, and Chelsea licked her lips hungrily. She wanted that. Oh, how she wanted to taste him, to greedily suck and slide her mouth along his length.

“I will leave this last decision up to you,” he said, stroking himself. “You will take me in your mouth. You will feel me fuck you deeper and deeper, in your throat, between those pretty lips. But you may decide—do you want me to untie you first or do you want to remain bound when I do it?”

Chelsea’s eyes widened at the thought. Without her legs, there was no way to escape; without her hands, she had no defense against his enormous length, filling her, possibly gagging and choking her. Unable to shove him off, she would have no option but to take him, as deeply as he wanted, as deeply as he forced himself.

Unbelievably, her pussy tingled to life again. The orgasm that had felt like it was drowning her hadn’t finished her off at all. There was still need in her, and as she stared at Ricardo’s shaft, his slowly stroking fingers, the bit of pre-cum that he smeared around the entire head of his cock, teasing her, she knew that there was really no decision to make at all.

“Don’t untie me,” she breathed, unable to meet his eyes—and even before she had finished speaking, his splayed fingers grabbed her hair and savagely twisted, and he drove straight into her parted lips.

Her cry of shock was drowned by the head of his cock slamming the back wall of her throat, then pulling out slightly to piston even harder into her. She struggled to take him farther yet, her tongue sliding frantically along his slick length, saliva pooling greedily in her mouth. A string of it spilled from her, looping down from her chin, and she didn’t even care.
More
, she tried to scream, desperate to take him all the way inside her;
Harder
, but no words could make it past his mass. Both of his hands were in her hair now, twisting and pulling, her scalp on fire with pain, and still she needed him farther. In frustration she whipped her head side to side like a dog with a bone, and then he slid his hands down the sides of her head and held her as tight as any vise and fucked her, slowly at first, then speeding up. She tilted her face up to see him and her throat opened just a little farther, and he slid all the way in, her chin mashing against his slapping balls as he went faster, faster, harder. She could barely breathe, the sounds coming from her were almost inhuman, the tingling inside her had surged again into a mindless roar and then he held her fast and ground one last time against her and his hot, salty essence shot from him, filling her mouth, down her throat, escaping past her lips, making her gag. She ground her hips against the chair, working the textured damask against her clit as another orgasm built to an agonizing precipice. Her tongue worked, licking, laving, desperate for every last drop of him, and the sensation of his cock along its center drove her the rest of the way until she felt herself go over the edge for a third time, opening her mouth to scream and finding herself gagged to silence.