Page 46 of Ward

With my free hand, I trace the delicate lines of my collar. The chains on either side of the center ring, then the ring itself, resting comfortably at the base of my throat. It’s a lightweight piece, but the meaning behind it is substantial.

I belong to Aidan now. Though at times it feels as if he’s owned my heart from the very beginning.

I wonder if this is what love feels like. Wanting to give yourself over to another person, offering up your still-beating heart on a plate for them to consume.

Pleasure mounts within me as my fingers dance over my clit. Aidan doesn’t want this part of my body. I’m trying not to take it personally. He must have his reasons, and I hope one day he’ll share them with me.

For now, my own touch will be enough. My touch, and the memory of Aidan’s spanking, and the taste of his kiss on my tongue.

I bash the tip of my pointe shoe against the stone terrace. My ballet instructor will be here soon, and I want to be warmed up and ready to dance when she arrives. Somehow, Jen managed to entice a third-year Jost Academy student with some time on her hands this summer to come to the house five days a week to train with me.

Aidan and Jen are both working from the Manhattan office today. He hinted that he might bring back cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, since I’ve been especially good at following his instructions lately. Over the past week, Aidan has been introducing me to different tools and sensations. Rope bindings, paddles, and riding crops, on top of what his own skilled hands are capable of.

To go from hardly being touched at all to being touched nearly all the time was a heady transition, and one that I welcomed. If he could keep his fingers in my hair from morning ‘til midnight, I think he would.

Of course, there are places he still won’t touch me. He’ll spank my ass, but he won’t explore the cleft between my cheeks, and he’ll slap my pussy with the riding crop, but only if I’m wearing panties. In fact, he rarely tells me to take my panties off—out of sight, out of mind, I suppose.

Sometimes I think his rules frustrate him even more than they madden me. He seems to be constantly holding himself back from crossing lines he’s drawn in the sand.

Last night, he brought me to his bedroom for the first time.

Unlike my room, which is all pastels and gauzy drapes, his room is decorated in rich, dark woods. His bed isn’t a normal bed. He had the frame custom built with bars across the top for suspension play and hooks along the headboard and posts.

When I saw it, I thought it looked like an adult jungle gym, and I told him so. He told me to take my clothes off and get ready to play.

I’m still not used to being undressed in front of him. It’s the way he looks at me, like a caged lion staring down a toddler at the zoo, only the cage is of his own making, and he holds the key. The black track pants he wears during scenes make it impossible for him to hide his excitement. He’s virtually given up on trying to downplay his erections. As much as it turns me on to see him hard, it’s agonizing to know he’s not going to let me see or touch him.

“Stand at the foot of the bed with your hands clasped behind your back,” he told me. Doing so raised my breasts, placing them front and center. He pressed his palm to the center of my chest, right over my heart, which began knocking at my sternum like it wanted to jump out and greet him.

I gasped as he swept his hand across my breast to capture my nipple. He squeezed, gently at first, then harder. I felt the echo of his touch between my legs, in my clit, and I pressed my thighs together. He switched to the other breast, teasing and pinching my nipple hard enough to make me whimper, before letting go.

“Turn around,” he said. I desperately wanted him to continue playing with my breasts, but he’d given me an order.

I turned to face the bed with its gray comforter and burgundy pillows. I pictured myself lying there, with Aidan on top of me, his mouth around my nipple and his body between my legs.

He guided my hands apart and buckled my wrists into soft leather cuffs, which he clipped to leather thongs that hooked to the bedframe. Then he cuffed my ankles and fastened them to an adjustable rod called a spreader bar, which he extended to keep my feet apart. Bound to Aidan’s bed, I felt completely at his mercy as he tied my hair back into a loose bun.

Hooking a finger around my collar, he asked, “What does this chain mean, little one?”

“It means I’m yours, Sir.”

“What else?”

“It means I belong to you. That I serve you.” I swallowed as he gently pulled on the chain, pressing the center ring tighter to my throat. “It means you can do anything you want to me.”

As if to prove my words true, he began gliding his hands over me, down my back and around to my stomach. He scraped his teeth along my shoulder and skated his palms over my breasts. Then he pulled away, leaving me wanting.

Something tickled my backside. I glanced over my shoulder, catching sight of red and black leather.

“I’m going to hit you with this flogger.” He draped the leather strips over my shoulder, letting me feel the soft suede against my skin. “This is what you’ve been begging for since the first night you offered to serve me. Let’s see if it lives up to your expectations.”

The first stroke landed square between my shoulder blades. I cried out more from surprise than from pain. The second blow hit slightly lower and to the side. It felt like a punch, deep and thudding. It hurt, but not in a way that I couldn’t tolerate.

The pain reminded me of physical therapy, or a deep-tissue massage. Pain that was meant to heal and strengthen.

“Is it everything you thought it’d be, little one?”

I sucked in a breath. “No... It’s better.”

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