Page 39 of His Pretty Little Duet

He's making the decision for you.

For us both.

Find comfort in that.

He sees you. Knows what you desire.

Unravelling his fingers from my hair, he leaves it a mussed mess around my shoulders and back, the ends dancing below my waist. He reaches around me and grips my hands, still clutching the towel for dear life, pulling them away from the soft cotton towel. The material glides down my body and puddles at my bare feet.

He hisses, and I tremble.

I try to stifle my humming and whimpering, but my nipples harden to aching beads, forcing the insolent little sounds from me.

“I came here to gift you a dress to wear tonight. To check you were... feeling better.But now I need you to finish what you started in the shower.”

Is this really happening?

Fear and arousal compete for dominance inside me. We stand a few inches apart, and he doesn’t lay a finger on my skin, but I can feel his presence, potent and dangerous, rich in this room. “Do you want me to help you come?”

Panting fiercely, I nod my head.

“Do I accept a nod as an answer?”

“No. Sorry, Sir.”

“Kneel,” he orders, and I hear him sit down on the opposite couch, feel his eyes all over me. “Do as I tell you, or I won’t be able to control what I’ll do to you.”

I swallow hard. A sick, sadistic part of me wants to explore what'I won’t be able to control what I’ll do to you'really means, but I drop to my knees for him as nerves gather inside me, preventing my defiance.

“Bend over. Press your pretty tits to the cushion."

My stomach swarms with my friendly eagle-sized butterflies as I lean forward, bending at the hips to lay my torso on the cushion.

I fist the soft material by my head. My hair makes a blonde wing beside my face as I turn it to stare at the armrest, waiting for his voice to carry me away, to direct me.

I can't think of anything.

Braced and hanging on for his voice.

Heat mars my body bright crimson, a physical coat of embarrassment I can feel sizzling as he stares at my exposed body bent over, his eyes on my bare arse, on the wetness slidingdown my inner thighs as my pussy grasps around nothing. I'm not sure whether to fight it? To enjoy it? If it's normal to be this wet?

I just want the swelling to stop, want the distraction that is him, the late nights, and restless sleep, to culminate in something. Anything.

“Pretty." He hums his approval from behind me. "You're dripping down your legs, little deer. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so desperate. Let me fix this for you," he says, restraint deepening his words to a near growl. “Now, be a good girl and reach between your thighs. Stroke the length of your pussy lips...slowly.I want to see your flesh quiver as you do."

"I'm scared," I find myself whispering, before squeezing my eyes shut and hoping he didn't hear that confession.

"Don't be. Do as you're told."

His gravelly voice soars around the room, his demand an undeniable entity. I decide that I like the way he says, little deer. I found it patronising before, but now, I want him to say it again and again in that dark, husky, authoritarian voice.

As I remember the way his eyes held me as I walked through the bathroom door, like he was on the brink of detonating, I know this isn’t just about me.

He wants me too.

Like I want him.

With that realisation encouraging confidence in me, I reach between my thighs and find my soaking lips, doing as he asks. The plump skin feels soft and supple. The touch of my finger like the beginning of a tickle.

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