Page 22 of Entangled Mafia Princess

Grabbing her hair, I yank her head back and look down at her. “Maybe your issue isn’t that you haven’t found a good Dom. It’s that you’re a piss-poor sub.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she apologizes.

She looks and sounds sincere. I twist my hand into her hair, pulling on her scalp till her brow furrows and lips remain parted.

“I like action,” she reiterates.

“All right. Since it was your birthday yesterday, I’ll give you action. No guarantees that you’ll like it, though.”

Chapter eight

Casey

Anticipation surges through me. I haven’t been this excited since my early days in BDSM. The slaps to the face sting, but I like them. I know I’m being a bit of a brat, but I want to make sure he doesn’t go too easy on me. Based on the tone of his voice, I don’t think I have to worry about that. And I’m glad I successfully goaded him into action. I don’t have the patience to think my way to an orgasm.

He pushes my face down into the bench, then lets go of my hair to unzip my top. Grabbing my hair again, he pulls me back into a sitting position. I relish the pull on my scalp. With my merry widow off, he has access to my breasts, which he flogs until my skin tingles all over. This is more like it.

He alternates between flogging and slapping my breasts for several minutes before setting down the flogger. Straddling the bench behind me, he reaches for both breasts. He toys with my nipples, gently tugging and rolling each between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’ve creamed my panties for you, Sir,” I tell him.

“You think that’s enough to please me?” he returns.

Using my nipples, he pulls my breasts in all different directions before mauling and slapping them. I yelp when one of the smacks glances off my nipple. He grabs the hardened nub and adds to the pain by twisting and pulling. I fall back against him with a cry. Sitting down, he holds me in place with his other arm while I squirm, but there’s no place for me to go. The more I try to get away from his grip on my nipple, the more I aid his efforts.

“Shit!” I squeal. Is he trying to pull my nipple off?

Just when I think I might need my safe word with this guy after all, he releases my nipple and finishes with a sharp smack to the side of my breast.

In a husky voice, he says, “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Sir,” I whimper.

“Now for the other nipple.”

Shit. I brace myself. But he doesn’t go for the nipple right away. Instead, he massages my breast, his deft fingers kneading the pliant flesh.

“Natural. I like that,” he says.

At one point in my life I had considered breast augmentation, but I’m glad I never went through with it.

After he has me relaxed a bit, he starts on the nipple torture. I try to grit my teeth, but the fucker is hard on my poor nub. My screams draw the attention of everyone in the club. But I can’t give in and use my safe word. Not this early. Not after I boasted that I might not need one.

“You can fuck me now, Sir,” I say during a reprieve.

“You haven’t earned cock yet,” he says. “And don’t try to top from the bottom.”

He resumes pinching, pulling, and twisting my nipple until I wish I had never been born with nipples.

“Let’s see how wet you are now,” he says before cupping a hand to my crotch. “You’ve soaked through your jeans. Good.”

Even though I’m not looking forward to wearing soggy jeans back home, I’m glad that he’s pleased. He rubs me between the legs, and I’d give just about anything to have the barrier of my jeans removed. I press myself against his hand, trying to feel more of him through the fabric.

When it seems like he might just tease me like this forever, I plead, “Please put your hand down my pants.”

“What are you offering in exchange?”

In exchange? There’re dozens of guys who would happily shove their hand down my pants in exchange for nothing.

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