Of Being Yours[another way 2] (5 page)

“You do realize how stupid that sounds?” I said. “It’s a crap excuse. You’re one step away from ‘I locked my wife in the basement for fourteen years and didn’t let her leave because a guy checked out her tits at the supermarket.’”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered.

The temptation to stomp out on him again washed through me. I felt proud of myself for resisting and, instead, slumped down into one of the armchairs. Eventually he sat down opposite me.

“Are these insecurities that you had last night and didn’t tell me about, or just things that have started to bug you in the cold light of day?”

My question, I thought, was a reasonable one. Will shrugged and didn’t look at me. When he did finally meet my eyes, his were full of remorse. I knew him well enough to recognize that.

“Mostly from this morning,” he admitted.

“Okay. Because you really did encourage me to pick him up last night.”

“I know.”

“I think this is life teaching us a lesson. We shouldn’t make decisions while half-drunk and horny.”

He laughed and stood, crossed the room, and maneuvered himself into the chair with me, half on top of me with his legs dangling over the arm. Instinctively my arms wrapped around him.

“You are very probably right.”

“Of course I am. Just don’t… don’t use things like Adele against me when it’s actually your own insecurities at play. I don’t tell you everything, but I try and be honest with you where it matters.”

“I know you do. I really am sorry.”

I kissed him softly, ending his string of apologies because they weren’t needed. He was a dick, for sure, but he was my dick. So forgiving him was easy.

His kisses traveled down my neck, and the feel of his lips on my skin tore a small, broken sound from my throat. When he looked at me again, his expression was hot.

“Would you have a session with me?” he asked. “Not now. In a few days. I’ve sort of got something special planned.”

“Of course,” I said, reaching up for another kiss.

“This is just a question at the moment,” he said as we snuggled together, “so don’t freak out or anything. But how would you feel about us switching?”

“Like… me dominate you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I could.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “I’m not talking about a full-on session or anything. Just a little bit of domination and submission.”

“If you wanted me to…,” I said slowly. “We’d need to really plan it beforehand, though. I couldn’t go into it blind.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, baby. We don’t have to do it at all. It was just an idea.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

After nearly four years of being his sub, there was definitely the risk of our sessions getting repetitive. We’d attempted to counteract this by not having them quite so often, with mixed results. Sometimes a “session” would consist of him throwing me over his lap while he watched
American Idol
and spanking me until I came. Or me sitting at his knee while he worked in the evenings.

It was nice, sometimes, the way things progressed.

Chapter 3

A
FEW
weeks later, I was waiting on my knees in our playroom when my Master decided to test me.

“Go down to the bedroom and put on the outfit I’ve laid out for you,” he said, his fingers tightly gripping my chin as his eyes bore down into mine.

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

His request wasn’t unusual.

The outfit was.

Not that I would call it an outfit, per se. It was lingerie. Specifically, a delicate yellow satin-and-lace camisole, matching panties, and thigh-high stockings. There was a tube of soft pink lipstick next to it to complete the look.

It was firmly in my Yellow zone, but I was intrigued enough to follow his instructions, dressing and then applying the lipstick. My slightly rough jaw made the entire ensemble look even more stupid, so I rushed to the bathroom to quickly shave it off.

“You took your time,” he said as I reentered the playroom.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said. I couldn’t help smirking. I wasn’t into this at all and I didn’t think he was either. If he had given me any indication of what he was planning, then maybe I would have had time to get my head around it. As it was, my headspace was wrecked and I was more than a little amused.

He took one look at me and knew. “Kneel,” he commanded, sitting down on his high-backed spanking chair.

I knelt.

“Display.”

It was good to follow instructions, but I accidentally caught sight of myself in a mirror opposite and couldn’t help but grin again.

Master sighed. “If you want to safeword and end the session, Jesse, then do. This is new and different, but I want it from you. I want your obedience.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, chagrined.

“Your attire has all sorts of connotations right now. It is humiliating, for sure. It is demeaning. I want you to know that you are beneath me, you serve me as I wish. Do you accept this?”

“Yes, Sir.” It was slowly starting to make sense to me, and I felt a little sick at my previous response.

He lifted the toe of his boot between my spread knees and nudged my cock. “Why aren’t you hard?” he demanded.

It took some effort on my part, but after a moment of the hard leather caressing my balls through the pretty lace, my cock responded.

“Good girl,” he praised me.

I bristled, started to protest, and sank further inside my own head, finding the place where I was not only okay with this, but I wanted it too.

“Now, I think your previous behavior warrants a spanking. Up over my knees.”

I arranged myself over his lap, ass up, balancing on my hands and tiptoes on either side of him. When the first smack landed, it was before I’d had time to prepare myself, and I yelped. The next few landed over the lace, the itchy scratchiness of it adding another layer of sensation.

“Pull your panties down to your thighs,” Master said. “Let me see your bare bottom.”

He wasn’t going to do it for me—I reached back with trembling hands and tugged the panties down over the swell of my ass, revealing the heated skin to his gaze. His next few smacks landed on my bare flesh and were far from gentle. He was really chastising me, putting me back in my place.

“Good girl,” he murmured again when he was done. He gently rubbed the sore flesh, letting me align my thoughts and prepare myself for the next thing. “What should I do with you now, hmm?” he said softly. “Does my little girl want me to play with her cock?” He reached under me and flicked it. “Her nice, big, swollen cock, it seems. Or would she like me to play with her hole?”

I whimpered.

“What was that, darling?”

“My hole,” I whispered. “Please touch my hole.”

“Oh no,” he said. “You need to ask for it properly.”

It took me a moment to realize what he wanted me to say. “My pussy,” I sobbed, the humiliation throbbing through me now. “Please play with my pussy, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he said, petting my hair. “There’s my good girl.”

He reached behind him to a table I couldn’t see, and his well-lubricated fingers returned to my hole moments later. He teased me, stroking me gently with ever-decreasing circles around my ass, making me even more desperate for his touch.

“What do you want?” he said, his tone patronizing.

“Put your fingers in my pussy,” I yelled. “Please, Sir!”

He laughed, mocking me, then shoved both his fingers inside me roughly. “Like that?”

“Yes,” I hissed. “Like that. More.”

“More?” he asked, still mocking me. “My girl wants more? What do you want, baby?”

“Fuck me. Please.”

“Come sit on my lap,” he said, petting my hair.

I shifted off his legs and shoved the lace panties down off my thighs and straddled his lap. He held his cock steady as I sank down on him. We both moaned from deep down in our chests, and he moved his mouth to my neck, kissing and licking and nibbling and biting as I started to work myself up and down.

My thighs burned as I bounced on his cock, his hands supporting my waist as I braced mine on his shoulders. My cock slapped wetly between his firm stomach and the satin of the camisole, leaving a darker stain on the delicate fabric. He watched it spread with hungry eyes, then inched his hands up to the lacy hem and slid it up and up, exposing my stomach.

He licked his lips, almost unconsciously, then fisted his hands in the loose, unsupported area over my chest and viciously ripped it from my body.

I gasped. The tattered shreds of fabric were discarded somewhere over my shoulder. His eyes were still dark and dangerous as his hand cupped the back of my neck, then roughly pulled me down to his kiss. He worked my lips, smearing my saliva between our faces. And I understood. I wasn’t his dirty little girl anymore. I was his fucking hot boyfriend.

It was familiar territory now, his cock in my ass, me riding him hard. He leaned in and flicked my nipple with his tongue, then hooked the tip through the metal ring that adorned the pink flesh and tugged. My nipples had always been sensitive, but ever since getting the cold silver piercings, they’d become hot-wired right to my orgasm.

“Can I—” I gasped.

“Fucking 
now
,” he growled.

He moved his hands to my ass, painfully dug his fingers into my sore flesh as threads of come spurted out of me between us, and he grunted, unashamed of the noise he was making as he released deep inside me.

I collapsed forward into his arms, panting against his neck and laughing breathlessly.

“Fucking hell, Will,” I said, still struggling for breath.

He laughed and held me close, causing the come on his stomach to squelch against mine. “Are you okay, baby?”

“If I ever see women’s underwear on our bed again, I’m screaming ‘Red’ or ‘divorce’.”

Will stood, laughing with me now, and kept an arm around me until he was sure I could stand unaided.

“Don’t try and tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Oh, I did,” I said. “But I will never, ever do it again.”

“You said that about me fisting you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I laughed. “Once a year on my birthday or yours. I’m a real pro.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

We held hands as we descended, naked, to the bathroom.

“I must say, it’s an awful shame,” Will said as he turned the water on for the shower.

“What is?”

“The knowledge that I won’t ever get a repeat performance.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh really.”

He winked as he pulled me into the shower with him and into his arms. “Yeah. You make such a pretty girl.”

T
HE
morning dance around each other was a delicate choreography. Will usually got out of bed before me, rising with the alarm clock and letting me snooze while he showered, then pulling me physically from the sheets to make sure I got to work on time.

He dressed from his closet full of beautiful well-cut suits; I still insisted that he looked good in gray, and he indulged me from time to time by wearing a full three-piece charcoal pinstripe set with a waistcoat—his torso was slim enough that it looked good on his frame.

My job was more laid-back, and I generally wore smart jeans and a shirt, a knitted sweater over the top if it was cold or if I was going to be in the bowels of the museum, where it never got fully warm even in the summer. Will hated that my side of the closet was full of what he termed “hipster” shirts and jeans that cost almost as much as one of his suits. I maintained that he was just jealous that I got to wear jeans to work.

I took less time in the shower than he did—I always had—so there was usually coffee and toast or a bagel waiting for me by the time I got down to the kitchen. I preferred to be rushed in the morning than hang around for ages watching TV or whatever; I grabbed my travel mug and a triangle of toast, exchanged quick, buttery kisses with Will, threw my leather messenger bag over my shoulder, and rushed out the door.

I had upgraded my old truck to something a bit flashier and a lot sportier. In literal terms that meant a black VW Golf GTI that nipped around the city and was pretty hot when we took it up to the mountains for a weekend of snowboarding too.

By the time I started working at the museum, Will and I were pretty much all the way out of the closet, and it was nice to be able to introduce him as my partner right from the offset. I only had one awkward moment when running into someone I’d vaguely known in my first year of college; she was a friend of a friend of Adele’s and had been slightly outspoken in her opinion of our breakup. Fortunately for me she only worked a few days a week in HR and I rarely had to deal with her.

Before I worked for the museum, when I first started subbing for Will, I had worked in a shabby old bookstore in downtown Seattle. My new career was a million miles away from that. However much I’d loved my job there—and I really had loved it—it never gave me a chance to explore my talents and push myself. I still went back there, though, rather than pick up a book at the supermarket or in one of the big chain stores.