Page 47 of At Her Pleasure

Care versus cruelty. It was its own special mindfuck.

She drew back, uncapped the jug and poured it over his shoulder blades in a smooth arc. He jerked, a step-ahead reaction to the pain. His brain would tell him it was pain, and then recalibrate, an interesting reaction that rocked him forward on his toes and made his muscles quake from shoulders to calves.

The second jug didn’t hold saltwater. It was a diluted salve, one from a local homeopath who also happened to be a high pain masochist. She was the wrong gender for Cyn’s interests, but she understood aftercare needs. The ingredients aided in the healing, cleaning and protection of the wounds Cyn caused.

The first touch of it brought a wash of heat, followed by a rippling coolness, especially when she leaned in and blew on the track the fluid followed.

“Jesus,” he muttered. When she looked at his profile, she saw his eyes were closed. He swallowed hard.

She rubbed the salve over his back with light fingertips. It would sting where she’d cut deeper. However, it was so much better than the saltwater, Sy had told her it was like the pleasure of her bite.

After she covered Mick from nape to ass with the oil, she took off all her clothes, not letting him see her, though his head came up at the sound of a zipper and rustling fabric. Retrieving a head mask from the table, she put it on him.

He tried to jerk away, but before he could dislodge it, she had it snugged down and zipped up the side. The nose area had a mesh panel for breathing. There were ear holes on the sides so he could hear. She could choose to open the mouth or eye slits, but she didn’t right now.

His reaction to sensory deprivation was stronger than to the sting of the cane, cut of the whip or burn of saltwater. He went rigid for a full ten seconds as she stepped back, waiting. Waiting for the muffled safeword to come, if this was a limit he couldn’t tolerate.

He had no problem being bound, enduring high levels of pain, even with the threat of much worse on top of that. But everyone’s “too much” was different. As different as the memories and experiences they carried within them, creating those hard limits.

That rigidity settled at last, one set of muscles at a time. She watched him breathe it out through flaring nostrils. And when she shifted to his front, his cock had performed as required. He was fully erect again. She expected he’d used the incentive she’d offered to counter his reaction to the mask.

She was naked, and she wasn’t behind him.

Though she enjoyed a good strap-on fuck of a man with a muscular ass like his—especially if she used one of her special oils to make it burn like the fires of hell—she wanted him inside her. She’d liked how he’d filled her and wasn’t in the mood to deny herself a repeat experience. She began to unbuckle his restraints, scraping her nails across cane and whip marks for the pleasure of it. “When you’re free, turn around and put your back against the cross. Your arms behind you, gripping the middle part. No misbehaving. Not if you want inside my pussy.”

His head turned in her direction. Even with the mask, the calm in his voice held menace. “You let me go, I could fuck you, with or without your say so.”

She put her hand alongside his throat. “No, baby. You couldn’t.”

His jaw flexed and, though she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt that odd despair from him again. Then it was gone. When she finished releasing the cuffs, he complied with her order. He winced as his tender skin came in contact with the wood, but he pressed himself harder against it by locking his hands together behind the narrow waist of the cross. The male mind could leap mountains for the promise of pussy.

Though the cynicism didn’t ring true with Mick, she needed its reminder to give her breathing space. The intensity of what was ricocheting between them had her wanting to give him the clutch of her sex, not just for her own pleasure, but as proof of how pleased she was with him.

She put her hands on his shoulders, and abruptly his hands released and came back around to grasp her bare hips. The energy that thrummed through him reflected the impact of the flesh-to-flesh contact, the effort it took him to stop her, to stop himself from moving his hands anywhere else. He dipped his head in the general direction of his clothes.

A condom. She’d forgotten something she never forgot.

She shook it off and moved to the table. She’d left her own preferred brand there, and returned, tearing it open before she rolled it down his rigid length, giving him a few firm strokes that had his legs quivering as he restrained himself from thrusting into her touch. He could be well-behaved when he put his mind to it. When she wanted that.

“Unclasp your hands and lift them up to the cuffs. Hold onto them.” When he did so, she put her hands on his shoulders, tightened her core muscles and climbed him, wrapping her legs around his hips.

To do that and keep herself there, her legs needed to be between his ass and the cross, wrapped over his hips. He adjusted outward for her without being told, to help her do that. As she fitted the head of his cock to her opening, she pressed her breasts against his chest and whispered into his ear.

“I’m fucking you. Stay perfectly still, or I stop.”

She could hear the rasp of his breath, see the movement of his lips under the stretched fabric. Either prayer or curse.

She sank down on him, gripping his tightened biceps to lift herself and lower, lift and lower. God, he had a marvelous cock. It stretched, rubbed, pushed deep into her as she took more and more of it. She dropped her head back, eyes closing in pure bliss.

He’d proven better than every thought or fantasy she’d ever had about him. So far. She wouldn’t build false hope for herself. But she could enjoy the hell out of this.

Her hands had moved up to his neck. His body was vibrating, at war with the urge to do what any male beast would, thrust into her heat and wetness. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, clasped his hips with tight thigh muscles. When she leaned back to slide up and down him at a different angle, her buttocks pressed against his upper thighs. All the things he wasn’t allowed to touch.

When she straightened and pushed down on him again, that perfect angle, she convulsed, her climax driven like a charged rocket by his struggle to obey her, to serve entirely at her pleasure. The orgasm swept up through that joining point, her throaty cry echoing in the warehouse, bouncing against the silent floats, under the blank painted eyes of animals, monsters and voodoo queens.

She milked every last ounce out of the release. When she was done, energy churned within him, a tornado of pressure. She wanted the heat of it to scorch her. She bit his ear and put a thumb to his lips, pushing the zipper across the vinyl so he was free to speak.

“Want to come, baby?” she whispered.

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