San Francisco Lost: San Francisco Trilogy: Part Two Page 10

  “I’d… I’d rather not. Unless we have to, for us to keep… touching one another.”

  “I want you to understand how to protect yourself.”

  “I asked you not to talk about what I have to do when I’m with other people.”

  “I’m not.” Not directly, at least. “The contract is set up to—”

  “I’m not an idiot, I can figure out a contract,” she snapped.

  James’s feelings, only barely leashed, fought to get free. “What would you like to do then?” he asked in as soft a voice as he could manage.

  She raised her chin. “Let’s negotiate a scene.”

  “Very well. Let’s.”

  Christiana stared at him, face defiant. “I want to orgasm five times.”

  James’s anger melted as his lips twitched. “An interesting opening tactic.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Are you challenging me?”

  “If you don’t think you can manage it…”

  “Oh, Christiana, my sweet, you are poking the viper.”

  “You’ll bite me?”

  “I’ll do more than bite you.”

  She shrugged negligently. “Maybe.”

  “You think because your backside is bruised that I won’t punish you?”

  “You mean leave me?” she asked softly.

  Silence hung in the air between them.

  “Impact play,” he said, forcing out the words. “What are you willing to do?”

  “No slappers,” she said immediately.

  James gripped the sides of the table, knuckles going white as his mind treated him to a vivid image of her naked and scared, some hulking moron beating her black and blue.

  “No slappers,” he agreed. “And nothing on your ass or legs, at least until you heal. What about bondage?”

  “I like it?” she asked, no longer sounding angry, but rather bemused.

  He, too, relaxed. “Yes, you do, my sweet. Ropes, cuffs, tape?”

  “Tape? No tape. That’s too serial killer-y.”

  “And gagging? You indicated you were willing to try that.”

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. Not for this scene. I’m allowed to say no, right, even if I put maybe on the checklist?”

  “You’re always allowed to say no. Consent is the foundation of any sort of responsible BDSM play. What you should not do is agree to something you don’t want, so that, during the scene, you can use your safe word.”

  “People do that? Plan on using their safe word?”

  “There are some submissives who suffer from damsel-in-distress syndrome—they want the Dom to place them in peril, so they can then play the victim. If that is your kink, you have to state that, and find someone willing to play along. It sometimes goes hand in hand with rape fantasy scenarios.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want that.”

  “I didn’t imagine you did. Can I ask, and I want to make clear that you are welcome to refuse to answer, why you don’t want to be gagged?”

  He expected her to say she was scared of not being able to use her safe word—he was going to use it as an opening to talk about alternatives to verbal safe words—but she surprised him.

  “I like talking to you,” she said simply.

  He stared at her, and the distance between them seemed too great. He wanted to touch her.

  “In summary,” he said, voice deeper than it had been a moment ago. “You want five orgasms, will accept impact play, do not want to be gagged for this scene, and agree to be bound.”

  “Yes…” She looked wary. “Am I missing anything? I mean, did I do it right?”

  “You are not missing anything, and you did it perfectly,” he assured her. “Unless there is anything else you want to limit, because as it stands, besides gags, and anything specific to your ass, like spanking, I can do anything to you that is on your checklist.”

  “As long as you give me five orgasms,” she agreed haughtily. “Oh, wait. How long? I just realized you might claim the scene is like… five days long or something.”

  “Until dusk or dawn is customary,” he said. “And you’re playing with fire, insulting my ability to give you orgasms.”

  Now she smiled in truth. “Just want to keep you motivated.”

  He rose from the table. “You have thirty minutes to prepare yourself. I expect you waiting, in whatever clothing and position you feel appropriate, in the parlor.”

  Christiana stood. “Is there a shower I can use?”

  “You only have a half hour,” he warned.

  “I know.”

  “Upstairs.”

  She turned to walk out, but he called out to stop her. “Christiana?”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Don’t wear anything you’re not willing to have ripped off.”

  She took a deep breath, her gaze full of heat, then whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

  Christiana was nervous, which seemed ridiculous since she’d been with James before. But for the first time in her life, she was going into a BDSM scene the right way—eyes wide open, everything arranged and negotiated the way it should be. And in another first, this time she didn’t have to worry about pretending to be something she wasn’t.

  She wore a simple, short nightgown—one of the only lingerie-like items she’d been able to find during her frantic packing session. Ginger had given it to her one year when they’d done Galentine’s Day in single-lady protest of Valentine’s Day. It was black, with wide lace straps, and lace around the mid-thigh-length hem.

  She’d had a quick shower and her hair was wet, but she hadn’t had time to do anything besides towel-dry it, so she curled her hair into a bun at the top of her head, securing it with a decorative wooden fork hair accessory she’d grabbed at the last minute. She had thick hair, so the pretty piece of curved wood wasn’t practical, but she figured for something like this, it was perfect.

  She debated how she should position herself, and finally settled on “kneeling up” on the rug in front of the fire, her palms turned out the way he’d instructed her. The thick rug protected her knees from the hardwood, and the position kept her abused backside from touching anything.

  She wasn’t wearing a watch, or any jewelry for that matter, so it felt like time stretched on as she waited. With each moment that passed, her stomach knotted tighter, her breath coming in shallower pants.

  She heard him first, his measured footsteps on the hardwood. They sounded soft—he was barefoot.

  Maybe he was naked. The mental image of a totally naked James made her nipples hard, and she had to consciously control her breathing as she heard him walk into the room. She kept her chin up but gaze on the floor, and a moment later she saw him—at least from the knees down. She was right, he was barefoot, but sadly not naked. He wore a pair of dark slacks, and she could see the dangling tails of the ends of his shirt, which was unbuttoned and untucked. He was more naked than normal. She’d take that.

  “Safe word,” he murmured.

  “Engineer,” she replied in a matching quiet tone.

  “You look lovely, Christiana.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I’d like to see more of your lovely body. Slide the straps of your negligee off your shoulders.”

  She did as he commanded, the neckline sinking an inch but not falling.

  His right hand, which he’d been holding behind him, appeared. He was holding a crop.

  She sucked in some air, her nightgown sliding down a bit more as her breasts rose on the inhale.

  The tip of the crop pressed up under her chin. He applied pressure until she tilted her head, looking up at him. “Scared?”

  “A little.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He slid the folded flap of leather at the top of the crop down the front of her neck, over her collarbone, and then under the nightgown. With a small flick, he yanked it down, the fabric pooling around her knee
s, leaving her naked before him.

  “Beautiful. Exquisite.” When he said it, she felt it—she believed it.

  James extended one hand, and she placed her fingers in his, rising to her feet, stepping out of her nightgown. James plucked it off the floor, tossing it to one side. Now that she was standing, she could see he had brought his leather kit and set it on the couch. He went to the kit now, opening and unrolling it.

  It was the first time she’d gotten a good look at what was inside, and her brain went in to overdrive at the possibilities. There were ropes and cuffs, a variety of vibrators and plugs. There was a pocket filled with condoms and another with what looked like surgical gloves. Several tubes of what she assumed were lube; a short, round paddle; the hairbrush she knew so well; and several crops. Those were the things she could see. There were plenty of closed pockets that must have contained smaller items.

  She was so focused on the kit that the first slap from the crop took her by surprise.

  He struck her hip, staying well away from the bruises Dino had left. She jumped.

  “Focus on the now,” he said. “You’re thinking, maybe worrying, about what’s going to happen.”

  “A little,” she confessed.

  He walked around her, trailing the tip of the crop over her waist and back in a sinuous, snake-like pattern. “Ah, but don’t you see, you have no control over what will happen now. Worrying or guessing will not change what I’m going to do to you. You have given me control, and in exchange, you are free.”

  “Free?”

  “All you have to do is trust and accept.”

  His words slid over her, and she found herself relaxing. He was right, and she knew he was because she’d felt it before, that wonderful freedom of giving up control. He slid the head of the crop up the midline of her body, between her breasts and up her neck. She tipped her chin up and back until she was looking at the ceiling. The crop lifted away from her skin, and despite her newfound calm, she held her breath in anticipation of the blow.

  This time he struck the outside of her right breast. It didn’t really hurt, but it made a nice slapping sound, which had more emotional than physical impact. Another slap, this time to the outside of her other breast.

  “Does that hurt?”

  “No, Sir. It feels… good.”

  “Impact play can, and most of the time should, feel good. Though I am, of course, being gentle with your lovely breasts.” He dipped his head, and his warm mouth closed over her nipple. He laved it with his tongue before sucking hard on the peak. She arched into his mouth, and it was a struggle to keep her hands at her sides. She wanted to twine her fingers through his hair.

  He switched to the other breast, sucking and nipping, and this time she couldn’t resist. She grabbed his head, pressing his face against her breasts even as she arched into him, standing on her toes. For one glorious minute, his face was pressed hard into her breast, then the crop lashed against her calf, now with a bit more bite to it, and she yelped, releasing him.

  “Naughty, naughty,” he scolded.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to. I mean I didn’t… I just…”

  “I understand, my sweet, and I will help you.”

  “Help me?” she asked suspiciously, lowering her chin enough to look at him.

  He smiled, and her breath caught in her throat. He really was devastatingly handsome, her dark prince. Her Dom.

  He went to the kit, coming back with two sets of handcuffs. The chains connecting each cuff were far longer than normal—probably eighteen inches. “Step back, toward the fireplace.”

  She looked over her shoulder as she walked backward until her feet were on the cool brick of the fireplace and her shoulders nearly touched the mantel.

  “Right hand,” he commanded.

  She held out her arm, and he attached the cuff to her wrist, then walked to the end of the mantel. He connected it to something she couldn’t see. When he was done, her arm was out to the side, but with enough slack that it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  “There just happens to be a bolt or something on the end of the mantel?”

  “I paid the owners quite a bit of money to let me install decorative circular pulls.”

  He’d used this place before, with other women. Enough that he’d installed special hardware.

  How many other women had stood where she was right now? Christiana gazed at the floor, trying to come to terms with her feelings. It was pointless to be jealous, even more pointless to be upset.

  He bound her left wrist the same way he had her right, and the clicking sound the cuffs made jerked her attention back to the present. “Spread your legs,” he commanded.

  Christiana inched her feet apart, toes curling against the cold brick. When he tapped the inside of her thigh, she spread them wider.

  “In deference to your injured ass, I will not use the spreader bar. If you start to cramp or get uncomfortable, you may narrow your stance.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now then, shall we begin?”

  “Haven’t we already started?”

  “No, my sweet. This was just preparation. Now it’s time to have some fun.”

  “Who, exactly, will be having fun?” she asked in mock suspicion.

  James smiled, and Christiana wished she were free so she could reach out and kiss him.

  He ran the tip of the crop up from the inside of her ankle up to her thigh, stopping just short of touching her vulva. He repeated the motion on the other side, then lightly cropped her inner thighs.

  Each small slap was a momentary sting, gone before the sound faded, leaving behind a spot of heat, and a spreading desire.

  He worked his way up from her thighs to her lower abdomen, then up to her breasts. Christiana held her breath as he gently cropped her breasts, starting with the undersides. He used soft taps that made her breasts jiggle, then slightly harder smacks to the inner curves. Christiana twitched and gasped in reaction, her pussy throbbing with undeniable arousal. As she moved, the chains dangling from her wrists clanked, adding a delicious soundtrack to the scene. Her nipples were hard with need, and she vacillated between being scared of the idea of the crop landing on them and desperately wanting that to happen.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Hot,” she whimpered. “Needy. Please.”

  “Please what?”

  “More.”

  “More what?” he demanded.

  Christiana tipped her head back. “More of whatever you want to give me, Sir.”

  “You’re perfection.” James swooped in and kissed her, hard, then stepped back and struck her right nipple with the crop. It wasn’t a particularly hard strike, but the explosion of sensation against such delicate skin made her scream. He didn’t wait, but struck her other nipple.

  She arched her chest up, offering her breasts to his deliciously cruel touch, but the crop didn’t strike her again. She heard it clatter to the floor and then his tongue was on her, toying with her nipples. His right hand danced up the inside of her thigh. He cupped her pussy, and she leaned into him, trying to grind herself against him. He pulled his hand back and lifted his head from her breast until she stopped moving. She tried to maintain her posture, but she was so hot, so needy, that soon she couldn’t bring herself to remain still. When she moved against him, he pulled back.

  He did it again and again, teasing and tormenting her. Each time she tried to deepen or intensify the contact between them, he would pull back to where she couldn’t reach him.

  “Please,” she whimpered.

  “What do you need, my sweet?”

  Her mind whirled, the words escaping her in rough pants. “Tie me down,” she begged. “Make it so I can’t move.”

  She felt him smile against her nipples, and then his hand was on her pussy, delving between the swollen lips of her sex to finger her clit. He circled the bundle of nerve endings in short, hard motions. She knew she was close to orgasm, and even if she’d wanted to hold o
ff, she wouldn’t have been able to. He seemed to know just how to touch her, how to drive her wild. His other hand plucked and rolled her nipple while his mouth settled on her neck, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive spot just under her ear.

  Pleasure rose higher and higher within her, and she relaxed into it, sure in the knowledge that she would come, that he had the skills and tenacity to bring her pleasure. She let her head fall back, breath coming in short gasps.

  James closed his teeth on her neck in a gentle bite, and that little hint of pain pushed her over the edge.

  She gasped and moaned as the orgasm rolled through her. His fingers kept moving and she tried to dance away, afraid of the intensity of sensation that came from having him continue to touch her through the orgasm. She closed her legs, but all that did was trap his hand between her thighs. He massaged her pussy, prolonging the orgasm until she was practically sobbing from the pleasure. She curled into him, the chains on her wrists clanking, and finally his hands stopped moving. She panted against his shoulder, her eyes closed as her body quaked with residual shudders.

  James nuzzled the side of her head, kissing the top of her ear. He murmured something she didn’t catch due to her pleasure-induced coma.

  “Hmmm?” she asked.

  His chuckle rumbled through her, and then he kissed her ear once more before saying, “That’s one.”

  Christiana made a sound best described as “meep!” as she realized challenging him to give her five orgasms had been a wonderfully terrible idea.

  For her second orgasm, he placed her on all fours on the coffee table, binding her using the same cuffs for her hands, locking the free end of each cuff set to the legs of the table. Her own legs were bound in place with rope, wrapped across her calves and then under the tabletop until she was held firmly in place. He’d placed small cushions, almost like kneepads, under her knees before binding her, and she was surprisingly comfortable, minus the occasional twinge of nervous anticipation.

  James sat on the floor, back against the front of a chair, and reached up, playing with her nipples as he sipped scotch and soda, though it seemed to be mostly soda water. She knew what he was drinking because he would occasionally reach up and kiss her, and when the liquor was gone from his glass he plucked out a large, square ice cube and rubbed it against her mouth.