His Gift 1(22)

His hands reached up, then, to the collar of my dress. He’d already taken off the shawl, and now his hands pulled my large breasts out from my bra, exposing them. His hands rolled them heavy in his palms, and he squeezed them, pressing them together and then rolling them apart.

He was using me. His hands told me that they would do what they wanted. They would pull and yank and wrench and I could do nothing. Nothing. The collar of the dress stretched at my neck. I winced as the fabric dug into my skin.

“Uncomfortable?”

He could sense my every reaction. Now, though, he took hold of the dress in the front. I felt a sharp yank and heard a loud tearing sound. I whimpered aloud. He had ripped the dress straight down the middle, ripped it in two.

That was Steph’s dress, I thought numbly, before his hands brought my attention back to my nipples. Despite his roughness—

—because of it, because of the roughness, my body screamed—

—despite his roughness, my breasts were tight and aching for more pressure.

His thumbs rolled over the sensitive nubs, and I yelped as I felt his mouth come down on my nipple. Immediately my body was aflame, and I couldn’t help squirming under his touch, even as he continued to pinch and squeeze my other breast with his hand.

His tongue traced circles around my tender nipple. I felt myself aching and I needed him. Needed him to suck me, needed him to lick me. What he was doing to my nipple, I felt between my thighs.

I was already so close to orgasm, but the sharp jolts of pain he kept giving me tore me back from the edge. My breath was heavy and I was ready to arch against him to satisfy myself, when suddenly he stopped.

He pulled back. His hands disappeared from my body. His warmth disappeared. I could feel him shifting away from me, pulling back. I yanked on the handcuffs but they held me fast.

My entire body ached for him to return. I needed it. Needed the pressure, needed his rough hands to thrust inside me and take me over the edge. I was so close, God, so close!

My face contorted along with my body. Why was he doing this? What had I done?

Again, he read my mind. Or not my mind, but my body. The confusion and pain and longing all at once. Maybe I was not the first girl he’d done this too. But his calm voice did nothing to ease the hot desire pulsing through my bloodstream.

No. When he spoke, desire mixed with fear. Not because he sounded angry, but because he didn’t.

“My dear,” he said, each word clipped and measured, “You have disobeyed a direct order. You disobeyed me. That is not a sign of respect.”

He paused, waiting, I think, for the realization to sink in. He wasn’t waiting because he didn’t know I ached for him. He knew. He wanted me to ache for him. To ache and ache, and never get relief. A cry strangled in my throat.

“You lied to me, my dear Lacey. And now I’m going to punish you.”