Truly helpless, p.21
Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font       Night Mode Off   Night Mode

       Truly Helpless, p.21

         Part #10 of Nature of Desire series by Joey W. Hill
 

  She was also getting warm. She let go of him long enough to strip off her halter top. As she stood before him in jeans and a demi-cup bra that barely held her breasts in a frame of lace and sheer mesh, his gaze tracked the sparkling spider pendant resting in her cleavage. He moistened his firm lips and she could feel them there, along with the tip of his clever, teasing tongue.

  She increased her grip on his cock, emitting a purr as it convulsed under her touch. "Walk with me," she said. "One step back for me, one step forward for you." She put pressure on his cock to help him understand, and he did. He moved with her as she brought her other hand to rest on his chest, controlling their pace. He had his hands wrapped in his belt so his chest was open terrain for her to explore. Stroke, play with a taut nipple with her thumb, tug on his chest hair, scratch him with her nails. He missed a stride and stepped on her foot, but they were both barefoot. Her quick smile seemed to knock something loose, his intensity lessening, lips quirking. He took a breath, chest expanding under her touch.

  "So this is being led around by the cock?"

  "The literal interpretation, yes. Much better than the pejorative meaning. You're your own man, Marius. I don't make any choices for you. Not even the choice to stay here."

  They were moving down the hallway, nearly at her playroom. She stopped, letting go of his cock with a caressing touch, and gestured into it. "Go stand in the center of the room."

  He moved into the space, filling it up with his size and the energy vibrating from him. She let him look his fill, see the spanking bench, the several pieces of BDSM furniture she'd splurged upon over the years. The walls were extra insulated oak paneling to muffle noise, the floor covered with a bold, dark red throw rug.

  Rising on her toes, she unhooked a pair of steel cuffs from the doubled over chains embedded in the ceiling beams. The doubling over was a practical measure to keep her from banging into them when she was doing other things in the room.

  "Drop the belt to the floor."

  She'd picked up his shirt, and now shimmied out of her jeans, leaving her in her bra and panties, a matching mesh and lace. Shrugging into his shirt, she left it open over the set, and freed her hair from the collar. She wrapped herself in his scent, enjoying the touch of the cloth still holding the heat of him. His face might be hard to read right now, but the way he had his gaze locked on her sent its own message.

  She stepped closer to run a hand down the valley of his spine, slow, molding her palm to his lower back and hip. "Put on the cuffs. Do you trust me enough to do that?"

  In answer, he locked them onto his wrists.

  So she was going with soft play. Surprising, since his reputation was for more hardcore stuff, but so far, even in pony play, she'd gone a different way. Well, yes and no. He'd expected the pony play to be undemanding, but she'd used the trappings to mindfuck him pretty damn well, taking him somewhere he hadn't been before. So maybe he shouldn't assume he knew where she was going with this. Thinking he did kept him in a comfort zone that might not last very long.

  This, his hands in cuffs, he'd done this before. It was like a Domme staple. When she pulled them up, taking the slack out of the chain so his arms were over his head, she didn't put any strain on his shoulders. She even double-checked that with the welcome grip of her smooth hand on those muscle groups. Was he disappointed? No...not necessarily. But her going the well-worn track with him was unexpected. She'd probably do a little flogging or spanking, maybe take him with a strap-on, have him come.

  What he wanted to compel her to do was fuck him herself, her tight, wet pussy sliding down the full length of his cock, her ass pressed against his upper thighs as she seated herself there. She'd denied him direct participation in her last climax, denied him the right to fuck her. It was starting to piss him off. Or maybe that was the cuffs, this whole soft approach. He wanted a fight. He wanted her to push, to hurt.

  Hell, what was she fucking planning to do? She'd asked if he trusted her enough to let her cuff him. He did. But alarm bells still went off. Especially when she put a blindfold on him, an eye mask she seated securely so he was kept in darkness.

  But why did it bug him? He'd been blindfolded before. Hell, full head mask, gagged, hog-tied and immobilized. That didn't put him out of control. He still knew how to work a Mistress, even when it seemed all senses were hampered. Body language was almost impossible to completely silence and Mistresses looked for the responses they wanted to see. He could give her a good time. Why wouldn't she give him the freedom to do that?

  Why was he having a fucking two-way argument with himself that was threatening to burn out the hamsters turning the wheels of his brain?

  "I don't want a blindfold. I want to see you in my shirt." Longer. More. He never wanted her to wear anything else.

  He'd said it like a demand and knew it. Wouldn't apologize for it.

  "There'll be time for that. You're a little too bossy right now. Let's take care of that." Her fingers were at his mouth, easing in a ball gag. He locked his jaw, but she merely slid her finger into the hinge and wrenched it open the way she had with the bit, strapping it in before he could force it loose. It had a handkerchief wrapped around it. When the scent hit his nostrils, it stilled him.

  "I rubbed that between my legs," she said. "I want you to know how much I liked thinking about doing this to you. And how much I liked that kiss at the Riverwalk." Her knuckles slid along his sides, to his hips, down over his upper thighs.

  Her voice thickened, giving him an unexpected glimpse of emotion. She stayed in such control, was she playing him now? But her words hit him in a way that didn't leave room for him to analyze.

  "I don't know if any sub can truly understand what it does to a Master or Mistress, seeing you helpless, surrendering your will to us. It takes the mind some interesting places."

  She pressed against his back, her hands sliding along his bound arms. "You think you can scare me, big bad wolf? You don't know all the uncivilized things I want to do with you, here, trapped in my house, bound and helpless. It's you who should be worried."

  He could get out by tearing the hook out of the ceiling. He knew it, she knew it. But the teasing caress of her breath on his neck had him quivering, his cock getting stiffer.

  She'd moved away from him and was doing something, perhaps at the table he'd seen when he first came into the room, the one that had items concealed by a cloth on one end.

  When she returned, the clatter of metal suggested she'd set a bucket next to him. Next, she ran her hand down his left leg. "Lift," she ordered. When he did, she slid a cushioned mat under one foot, then the other as he shifted.

  "Some people use plastic, but I like to have my sub stand on something soft and warm. It has a rubber backing to absorb liquid, though. Remember the other night? You became a horse, and it was an amazing thing to watch. Tonight, we create something different."

  He started as she smeared a handful of clay-like substance along one shoulder. It was crazy, how he was more skittish about the unknown things she might do than the harshest punishments he could see coming from the frustrated Mistresses at The Zone.

  The clay was warm. As she packed it on, it stayed where she put it. It also seemed to be hardening fast, like wax. She applied it to his chest, back, abdomen, buttocks. It smelled like earth and cocoa butter. He'd used cocoa butter lotion on his tattoo to keep it supple while healing, per the artist's direction.

  Regina had left that shoulder bare and was stroking the design. "This is a good symbol for you, Marius. I think you're the skin over the armor, being ripped away. Duncan is the armor and the man beneath."

  He tensed. He didn't want her going down that road, but fortunately she returned to working with the clay. She spread it over his ass, tracing the seam between his cheeks, the sensitive lines where buttocks and thighs met. Her touch was meditative, like she was detached from his reaction as she savored her own.

  "It's different for you, isn't it?" she mused. "Whether intentional or not, you
chose Mistresses who think the way women are expected to do. How is he doing? Is he engaged? Is he thinking about me? What is he feeling?"

  She chuckled, a husky sound that stirred his nerves like a hot summer breeze. "I prefer to think about what I'm feeling and thinking. What I'm doing. Am I engaged? You can only touch my heart and mind if I allow it, and right now I'm busy pleasing and engaging myself. I've blindfolded and gagged you so I can watch your reactions and feed off the pleasure of those. No interruptions except those I want."

  His breath had slowed while she spoke, but his heart had compensated threefold. Her fingertips glided over his upper thighs, back along his sides. His cock was throbbing, aching and stiff, and she was ignoring it. His hands were clenched in fists above his head.

  "I told you my thoughts go to some interesting places when I do this. I think of a goddess, at the dawn of creation, sculpting life. I imagine this is the way she did it, spending days, maybe years, to create every curve, angle and feature of a male body like yours. She wants to know exactly what she'll have the joy of gazing upon when the babe grows to manhood."

  A blade slid through the clay on his shoulder, a curved edge that scraped him as clean as a razor and left a tingling burn behind. Her voice was a sensual current, carrying him away from the shore he knew.

  "When a baby is born, we think that's perfection. New, pure, unsullied. But a goddess looks into our future and uses our experiences to sculpt her vision of our adult selves. That's what makes the results interesting, how those experiences affect our bodies, our faces. Our soul and heart inside. The soul is as visible to her as our bodies."

  A smile entered her voice. "Despite her interest in our souls, I imagine she'd linger over a body as fine as yours. I would if I were her. She'd also weep at some of the damage you've done to her work." The blade slid down his back, over the upper curve of his buttock, her fingers following and stroking, lingering over various scars. The chain clanked as he shifted. Her touch stilled, her voice dropping.

  "And here's where I imagine myself stepping into that goddess's bare feet, for she never wears shoes. Perhaps on occasion there's a soul, a sculpture, so fascinating to her she decides to keep him for herself for a while. She hasn't yet given him eyes or a tongue, just a powerful, yearning, virile body, and what goddess wouldn't want to take full advantage of that? She wants to see if he can serve her as she desires."

  She was doing it again, transforming him. Suddenly he was a faceless entity in a goddess's workshop, with no existence beyond the molding and sculpting of her hands, the direction of her voice.

  The part of him that stayed in this reality became acutely aware of not being able to control any of this, not without destroying it. He stilled as she set the blade to the base of his cock, her thumb against the top of it to control the movement as she scraped a long smooth line along the turgid flesh. She hooked the curved edge under the glans and pressed metal against him. His thighs quivered.

  If she'd left him unbound, merely ordered him to keep his hands curled around the chains, his eyes closed and mouth shut, would he have obeyed, simply to please her?

  The thought startled him.

  She removed the blade from his genitals and gripped his hair, pulling his head back. She patted more clay onto his exposed throat, then skinned it off once again with the blade. Slow, letting him feel the pounding of his pulse beneath the press of the knife.

  "She'd need to fuck him before she sent him off into the world, to leave her mark upon him, wouldn't she?"

  He nodded vigorously. God, he wanted that. Wanted to ram into her soft, wet cunt, feel her grip him with those strong, internal muscles.

  He let out a groan and snarl of frustration when the tip of the strap-on nudged his rear entry. No. He wanted--

  Her fingers wrapped around his throat, holding him fast, restricting his breathing.

  "You belong to this goddess. You submit to her will. She can keep you a slave forever, make you crawl on your hands and knees, make you climax over and over. You control nothing, because your loss of control is what pleases her, what turns her on so much. You want to fuck her, bring her to climax, but no. You haven't earned, learned, or accepted, what that desire is. You tell yourself you're taking, but only a goddess takes. A servant serves, gives, submits. He cuts himself open and lets her take it all. That's how he finds his salvation."

  She drove in, hard, and he strangled on a curse. She chuckled, a sound of lust and heat. "So tight. Lucky for you, this goddess believes in lubrication. She's going to bring her newest creation to life, over and over, until he understands. Even when she at last cuts him loose to wander the earth, he belongs to her."

  "Want inside you..." The words were muffled by the gag and she disregarded him anyway. She thrust, teased him, brought him to the cusp of climax, took it away and started again. The clay dried on his skin where she hadn't scraped it free. She stayed buried deep within him when she used her blade on it and pressed harder, both within and without, making him flinch. His body was twisting in the chains, hers moving with him. He was groaning against the gag, the cloth saturated with his saliva.

  She took him up and nearly over, such that he snarled like a crazed animal when she pulled out. Yet she'd aroused him so much, he didn't have time to rally and strike back before she'd set him off balance again. She gripped his cock in a blissfully firm grip.

  "Stay very still so I don't hurt you. Can you stay still for me, Marius?"

  He nodded, though he had second thoughts when a hard, thin rod began to slide into the slit of his cock. She paused.

  "Okay. Nod again for me. Tell me you're going to stay still or I'll remove it."

  She had an implacable, stern voice in this mode, yet the way she mixed care with it messed him up. He found himself nodding again.

  She slowly let the rod invade him, sending tendrils of that weird not-good/good mix of arousal and trepidation through him. He'd done sounding once or twice with mediocre results, but submitting to it with her had him stiffening further in her gentle hands.

  "Lovely. To bring a creation to life, one needs lightning. Electricity."

  Christ. He jumped at a crackle of sound, right next to his ear. A fucking violet wand. But she wasn't done. Something cool and sharp slid along his shoulder, a prick in the pocket of his collarbones.

  "It's amazing, what putting together a knife blade, electrode pads and a cock stuffed with a urethral sound will do. At a certain point a man will feel like he's having a climax even when he's not. Wave after wave, pounding him against a brick wall that never gives way, never relents a bit. And then, when the climax does come, it's overwhelming."

  Her breath was against his ear, her body against his back. "It destroys his fucking mind. All his walls are knocked down, so there's nothing between him and his Mistress but his overwhelming need to do everything for her."

  She applied the electrode pads with tantalizing touches on his genitalia, and then ran the wand along his cock before he could figure out any kind of defense. It was an invasive, crazy feeling, impossible to describe.

  His groans had words, lost against the gag, but Christ, this was... He bucked and convulsed as the wand danced over his cock, again and again. She lifted it away to alternate the sensation with the grip of her hand. Sometimes she played with the sound, sliding it out an inch and then back in. She rubbed her pussy, clad in satin, against his ass. Then she was back to using the wand on him. Not just on his cock. Nipples, a tingling path over his abdomen, then back to his dick. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck...

  She was right. Suddenly it was like he was coming, only he wasn't, and the feeling was going on and on, like a torture that he wanted to stop yet didn't.

  He was thrashing in his bonds, crying out, kicking, but she was too nimble, moving around him and keeping the wand going over his cock as he screamed for release, for mercy. He was enraged, needing to do violence. Yet he also wanted to beg. To do anything for her.

  "Please, please...fuck..."

  She t
ook the wand away, though it felt like the metal rod was still vibrating. Probably the throbbing of his cock. He hoped like a lost man in the desert when she removed the electrodes, but then groaned in despair as she pushed the strap-on inside him again. She'd put everything else aside to wrap her arm around his waist and hip to give her more leverage. Christ, she fucked like a man, shoving into him so he was pushed up onto his toes. She didn't touch his cock, and it was slapping against his abdomen from the force of her thrusts, giving a whole new meaning to the term beating off.

  Her breath rasped and he suspected there was a clitoral stimulator on the strap-on to get her off. But she didn't go over either, pulling out and stroking his chest, his sides again. She loved playing with him this way, and nothing he did swayed her from her course or rushed her. She would not be moved. She was the wall itself.

  Like a goddess who had all eternity to play with her creation in her workshop.

  He was panting, his body quivering. He'd stopped trying to tell her what he wanted to do to her. She removed the gag, her fingers deftly slipping the strap and plucking out the ball wrapped in the soaked kerchief.

  "What do you want?" she asked in a voice that gave nothing away. It was full of emotion, but he couldn't latch onto a single one to identify and use it.

  "Please. Let me give you pleasure. Please." He couldn't handle her doing it as she'd done it before, driving him to climax and then handling her own needs, denying him the right...the privilege.

  A privilege. "Please," he said with a dry throat and tongue.

  She moved away from him and he thought she was going to turn him down again. He would deserve it. He hadn't done enough to prove he wouldn't be a total shit to her at the first opportunity. Because he would be. It was the desolate truth.