“Now,” he said, placing the very tips of his fingers inside the waistband, letting them tickle my skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to take them down, Sir,” I gibbered. I found it so hard to say that, forgetful of the new rule, I screwed my eyes shut. Another loud spank shocked them open.
“You need intensive training,” he noted.
I stared up at him, aiming for the heartstring-tug appeal of a tragic puppy.
Intensive training. I squirmed beneath his touch, imagining a series of different scenarios that opened up into each other like drawing rooms in a stately home. I wanted to be trained, I wanted his boot on my neck, I wanted his whip on my backside, I wanted to crawl on my belly at his feet. And he knew it.
“So then. Take them down. That’s what you want?”
I concentrated on keeping my eyelids still. “Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”
He took a deep breath and yanked them to my knees, letting the stained fabric drop the rest of the way.
“They’ll need a good wash,” he said, as if in reproof, but there was poorly masked glee in his voice too, and his hand flashed between my thighs, prising apart my lower lips and luxuriating in the plentiful evidence of my base desires.
I felt heavier and heavier, standing there on his busy fingers, trying to keep upright, having to bend my knees to prevent myself from falling. One hand held me across the buttocks while the other probed and glided, circled and rubbed, skating across my surface, then plunging inside, finding me easy to breach.
“You’re soaked,” he said triumphantly. “Would you like to be fucked now, Lara?”
“Yes, please, Sir.” I was dancing on my tiptoes, my naked nipples grazing up against his rough cotton shirt, my face lunging for his neck, needing the support. I managed to bite onto his collar seconds before the orgasm ripped through me, almost unannounced, and writhed against him like fury, spilling all over his fingers.
“Ohhhh, sweet girl,” he crooned, free hand in my hair, mussing it, kissing my forehead, his fingers still lodged inside me while the pad of his thumb owned my clit. “You didn’t wait long, did you? You must have needed that quite badly.”
“Yes, Sir, yes,” I muffled into his shirt, my eyes shut, watching glorious starbursts on the inner lids.
“Next time, love, you will remember to ask permission before you come. Do you understand?”
I shook my head and hinged it upward, struggling to focus on his face. “Seriously? Still?”
“If you’re serious.”
“That could be difficult!”
“I know.” His fingers withdrew from me with a luscious slick sound. “I didn’t say I was easily pleased, did I?”
How true that was. He was a hard taskmaster, and I’d always known it. I liked that phrase, and I let it roll through my head again, precipitating a pleasurable shudder. Hard taskmaster.
“Go and bend over the bed,” he directed, taking me by the shoulders and setting me off in the right direction, while he headed for a cupboard somewhere out of my eyesight. The carpet was made of that rough seagrass matting that is so ubiquitous in modern blocks of flats and I winced a little when it made contact with my bare knees. I rested my stomach on the low bed, listening to the steady clatter of Dexter’s rummagings, wondering what it was he was looking for. Did I dare to peek over my shoulder?
I risked it, and then my sharp intake of breath drew his attention to me, giving the game away. He looked up slowly and, seeing that I needed a sign to dispel my sudden fear that I was in way over my head, he smiled—an almost bashful smile. He coughed self-consciously before following my eyes down to the weapon in his hand.
“It looks worse than it is,” he assured me.
“It looks bad.”
“The tip doesn’t hurt so much. And besides, you have the power to stop me at any time. You can walk away whenever you like.”
The tension dissipated and I smiled back at him.
“Do you ride then?”
He chuckled. “Not as such. They know me quite well at the tack shop, though.”
“Haha. I’m sure.”
Dexter decided that it was time to quit the jocular small talk and ramp the pressure back up. He did this by slapping the leather flap at the tip of the riding crop down into his palm with cracking effect. My shoulders jumped and I pressed my face quickly back into the mattress, letting it muffle the pounding of my heart.