Page 66 of Please, Sir

“He put his hands on my shoulders and told me to stop being stupid and ruining everything, and then it happened really fast. He just, hit me across the face, here,” she says, pointing a delicate finger to the edge of her eye, then moving it to point beneath her eye. “I faltered backward a few steps. I grabbed the counter behind me and I looked at him and I was waiting for him to have this moment, you know? This,holy shit I just hit her in the heat of the moment and I’m so sorryepiphany. But after a second, he stepped up into my face, and grabbed my throat and said, ‘I dare you to leave.’”

I am going to kill this motherfucker.

“What happened after that?” I ask, still struggling to maintain an even tone as I clench my hands into fists beneath the counter.

She sits up a bit straighter. “I left. I waited for him to go to work and I packed up my clothes and jewelry, and I got in my car and left. I stayed with Leah for the first two weeks in Bluebell before I got my house. Got my furniture off Facebook marketplace–” she smacks me in the arm. “I got a couch fromCoach McAllister, actually!” Her face droops. “Sometimes I think he tries to be unfriendly to me.”

Not ready to drop the topic of her ex but wanting to set her straight about Dean, I say, “Yeah, he does that on purpose. Since you’re both single, if he’s polite to you, everyone will accuse him of wanting to date you.” I shrug. “Small towns.”

She laughs. “Oh believe me, I get it. Willowdale wasn’t much bigger than Bluebell.”

I drop my hand to her knee and give it a squeeze. “I’m really sorry that Michael treated you that way—that’s about him, not you. You know that,” I tell her, adding, “but Riley, I’m sorry.”

She smiles, her eyes growing misty with emotion she ignores. “Thank you, Jake. I think—and this is the part that is hard for most people to identify with—I think what hurts most isn’t what Michael did or who he turned out to be. Truth is, I wasn’t in love with him, I was just doing what I thought I had to do. What hurts most is my parents. The way they put their stupid fucking country club and friendship with the snottiest people ever before me. Their only child.” She looks at me with wistful eyes. “You didn’t date or have sex for ten years to be a good dad to Jo Jo. Mine couldn’t even take my side.” She blinks, setting free a stream of tears down her velvety cheeks that she chooses to ignore. “When I told them what Michael did, my dad asked if I was sure. Like I could misunderstand getting hit and choked. And my mother, a self-proclaimed feminist, said, love has rough patches. As if physical violence is nothing more but a tiny rough patch.”

My hand moves up her leg, rubbing her thigh gently. “I’m so sorry, Riley.” Her watery gaze puts a tightness in my chest. I waffle my hand through hers, forgoing the leg rub. I bring our joined hands to my lap, stroking my thumb over herfingers as I say, “I see a therapist twice a month. Dr. Tanner. I’ve been with him since Janie passed. At first it was to cope with grief and to learn techniques to help Jo Jo through her grief. Then it evolved into just… therapy.”

She smiles. “Maybe I should get his number.” We laugh lightly but she squeezes my hand, whispering, “Thank you for sharing.”

Her eyes still on mine, using her free hand, she opens her robe, exposing her bare torso to me. Her breasts make my mouth water, but when her fingers trace the pink grooves left behind from my flogger, my cock grows hard.

“I liked the pain, and the way pleasure felt through the lens of pain. And now, touching these makes me feel good, because it reminds me of you.” She slips off the barstool and tugs on our joined hands, urging me to stand. “I don’t want to sleep. I want more of you, sir. Please.”

Every time she calls me sir, I find myself a little more smitten with Riley. “God that turns me on so much.”

“Me too,” she says, rocking to her toes to press her soft lips to mine. “And this time, I was thinking about that gag. And that other thing. The long one that looks like a crop but has leather at the end.”

I know exactly what she’s talking about. My modified quirt. Unlike the ones I make for riders to use on their horse, this one features not two but a singular rawhide tail, a bit thicker than normal. It motivates with a sharp sting, and she wants to try it.

“That’s a quirt. Modified.” I lift my eyebrows. “It stings.”

She bites her bottom lip, and my groin tugs with desire. “I want it to sting.”

I love her vigor, and the idea that she wants to explore these things with me, that she trusts me enough to do so is erotic and flattering. “I think maybe we'll save that for acouple hours from now.” I reach out, smoothing my fingertips over the pink marks on her belly. “Let’s give your skin a break. I got something else in mind.”

“It’sgonna be a long time before you’re ready to take me like this,” I tell her, getting comfortable at the head of my bed. I nod toward my armoire, where I’ve placed the rest of the pieces we’re going to use together tonight and tomorrow morning. Jo Jo isn’t slated to be home until lunch time, and I’m gonna make the most of it. “Grab the black velvet bag,” I tell her, reaching for the lube on the bedside table. She lets the white robe pool at her feet before she saunters over.

I got what I needed from my cabinet in the garage and brought it upstairs, putting it out in the armoire before grabbing us water. In the interim, Riley adorably asked if she could peek around the house a little, telling me she was in awe of the place the first time she saw it.

After rejoining me, she made me promise for a tour after I’ve fucked her brains out so she can “really focus,” her words, not mine.

“This?” she asks, slipping her wrist through the stitched strip of leather looped to make a handle.

I nod. She carries it to me, then sits on the bed, playing with the ends of her honey hair as she stares at the bag, waiting for me to open it. “I made this a while ago, honestly never thought I’d use it.” I slide the leather thigh saddle from the bag and place it over the meatiest part of my leg, fastening it with the nylon black straps I’ve sewn in the back. Her eyes track the bottle of lube as I bring it over my leg, squeezing. The liquid runs down the silicone archessewed into the leather, and when it’s glistening and ready, I smile.

“C’mon and have a ride,” I coax, reaching for her hip. She easily positions herself over my thigh, her knees pinched around each side of the saddle as she lowers herself onto it.

She rolls her hips, placing her hands on my shoulders as she tips her head back, the ends of her hair dragging over my knee. Her spine goes concave as her eyes fall shut, nails carving marks in my flesh as she rides.

“That’s right, Riley, ride my thigh, make yourself come for me. I wanna see it, I wanna feel you,” I tell her. Her head rolls, blonde hair going everywhere before she snaps back, exposing her face and throat. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are dark when she moans, “god, yes, Jake.”

It’s then I realize, I want her to call me sir. Maybe not all the time, but tonight, I crave it. “Sir,” I correct. “Yes,Sir.”

Her eyes pop open, tits swaying as she rocks over my thigh, grinding down on the silicone pieces I stitched in just for the clit. Her clit. I didn’t know it was for Riley specifically when I fashioned it, but now that she’s riding my thigh and moaning my name, I know it was designed only for her—it feels too right for it not to be for her.

“God… Yes, Sir,” she repeats, her tone frayed and raspy as her orgasm creeps in.

I tug my fingers through her hair, and force her head back. She moans, rolling her hips over my leg, the sound of her arousal making my cock stick up straight from between my legs. She eyes my cock as she rides, reaching for it.

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