Chapter Five
So it’s to be pet? I can live with that. It’s better than the bitch or slut I sometimes get. Kitten I like, and though it’s a bit sickly sweet, I have a special fondness for precious. As long as they steer clear of baby or sweetheart as they’ve been told, I don’t care. I stand up straighter, and his hand comes to the small of my back.
He urges me back where we came from without a word and, when we’ve entered the main hut, steers me toward one of the recessed doors.
“This leads to my room. You shouldn’t need to go in there, but if for some reason you need me and can’t find me anywhere else, you’ll knock before you come in.” He leads me to the next door. “This goes to the studio. It’s locked most of the time. Don’t forget where this is—you’ll be expected in there later.”
I note where I’m at, finding landmarks to remind me which of the plain wood doors this is. “Yes, sir.”
He points out a few more as bathrooms, closets, and a pantry before showing me to the last door. It leads to a covered walkway, elevated like the huts and made of the same wood. It connects the main house to another, smaller building, and he opens the door to reveal a bedroom.
There’s a queen-sized, framed-four-poster bed with an upholstered bench at its foot where Cris deposits my bag. A beautiful, orange and white Hawaiian quilt hangs on the wall behind it. The linens are white and look soft and freshly washed. On either side is a small bedside table and a plush chair. There are a couple of doors on the opposite wall—leading to what I imagine are a closet and a bathroom—with a dresser in-between. The far side is taken up by sliding glass doors that lead out to a balcony. Between them is a desk with bookshelves overhead. It’s a simple room. Not the most luxurious accommodations I’ve had by far, but pretty and comfortable. I like it here.
“This is where you’ll stay when you’re not with me. You’re welcome to anything in here. I expect you to make yourself comfortable. You’ll let me know if you need anything. You can have a little while to get settled, and you’ll meet me in the studio in twenty minutes. There’s a robe in the closet for you to wear around the house unless I say otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.” I’m starting to settle into my part.
* * *
Eighteen minutes later, I’m standing outside the door that leads to Cris’s studio, which I assume is a pleasant euphemism for dungeon. While I don’t care for beating around the bush, I like this. It’s easy to make kink sound tawdry and juvenile, but studio implies effort, beauty, discipline, and care. I’m barefoot and wearing only the short, orange silk robe that was in the closet. I’ve left my hair down, although there’s a tie in my pocket. I take a deep breath and open the door to a walkway. At the end, I open another door and find myself in a room a little larger than mine.
I was right. It’s a dungeon, but not like any I’ve ever seen. They’re usually in an attic or basement and either painted in dark colors with glinting metal and forbidding black leather everywhere or bland, contractor-beige with easy-to-clean surfaces. Not this one. It’s the same warm wood as the other huts, but there aren’t any sliding glass doors, only windows running along the entire perimeter just below the ceiling. It’s a nice effect—natural light filtering in without compromising the room’s privacy. The default St. Andrew’s cross is prettier than most. It’s anchored in one corner and has brown leather straps hanging at regular intervals and, for good measure, chains affixed to each corner. There’s a bed, too—another framed-four-poster big enough that a person might be tethered to the four corners without leaving any limb unsupported.
There’s no gallery wall, but an oversized and solid chest of drawers where toys and restraints must be kept. A large table with anchor points along the sides stands in one corner, and in another, a fair-sized leather couch and a matching ottoman. There’s also a door I’m guessing leads to a bathroom. If so, it’s a nice touch. Most of the rooms I’ve played in don’t have one.
We’re getting close to the twenty-minute mark. Keeping time in my head is a skill I have a special talent for. He hasn’t given me any instructions for what to do when I get here, so I stand by the door with my hands clasped behind my back and my eyes cast down.
My heart quickens when I hear footsteps coming down the walkway. It sounds like Mr. Ardmore is also barefoot. No flip-flops now. The door opens, and he enters, closing it behind him.
“I like punctual, pet. Nicely done.”
I glow under his casual praise. He walks around me, and I see his feet and his legs up to his thighs. He’s got nice feet—I’ve seen my fair share of men’s feet, I would know. And he’s wearing jeans, which I like. I didn’t expect the full-on, leather getup from him, but I’ve been surprised before.
He grips my arm above my elbow and steers me toward the center of the room, turning me to face the table and standing in front of me. Taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tips my head up. “Look at me.”
I like what I see on the way up. An open and worn plaid shirt reveals a toned but not bodybuilder-quality torso and a smattering of dark chest hair. A small medal on a leather thong hangs around his neck, though I don’t have enough time on my brief glance to tell what it is. Under damp curls, his blue-grey eyes are intense on mine. He’s looking for something, but I’m not sure what he thinks he’s going to find.
“Are your eyes different colors?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pauses for a moment, still staring, and my heart stutters. “Fitting, I think. And lovely.”
“Thank you, sir.”
That’s not the standard reaction I get when people notice, but Cris has done nothing but surprise me since before I even met him. Fitting. And lovely.
He lets go of my chin and traces my jaw with his fingers before running them down my neck, over my sternum, and between my breasts to where the robe is tied at my waist. He tugs at the sash. It comes undone, and the robe parts. He runs his fingers up the same path they traveled before, but this time he stops at my collarbone and slides one side of my robe over my shoulder before repeating the motion on the other side. I release my hands long enough for the pretty orange silk to puddle at my feet.
My breath is coming faster, but I’m practiced at keeping myself under control. It’s possible he doesn’t notice. He takes a step back and surveys me, drinking in every inch.
“Turn around.”
I do as I’m told, keeping my hands clasped, and I feel him studying the contours of my body.
“Do you have any injuries I should know about?”
“No, sir.”
“Allergies?”
“No, sir.”
“Anything I need to be careful of?”
“Only what was in the contract, sir.”
I’m startled and can’t suppress a brief shudder when he traces the T-shaped scar on my lower back. He drops his hand immediately. “Tell me your safewords.”
“Yellow for caution and red for stop.”
He gathers up my hair, running his fingers from my scalp to the tips, and plaits it before twisting it into a knot and fastening it up off my neck with a clip. After he’s through, he proceeds to run his hands over every inch of me. His touch is confident but gentle. I’m being examined, inspected, but also learned, studied, memorized. He’s familiarizing himself with my body.
His hands glide over my hipbones, over my stomach, and up my ribcage to my breasts. He cups them, hefting them in his palms and running his thumbs over my nipples. When they harden under his touch, there’s an appreciative noise low in his throat. He squeezes my breasts lightly before continuing his tour, over my chest, up my neck, before cupping my face.
“Mr. Walter was very complimentary when he described you, but he managed to sell you short. Neither he nor Mr. St. James told me you were perfect.”
Perfect! Before I can say, “Thank you, sir,” he leans in and presses a kiss to my mouth. His lips are warm and full, moving surely but not aggressively over mine. I’m aching to run my hands through his hair and pull him into me, but he hasn’t given me permission to touch him. So I surrender to his attentions, parting my lips in invitation.
He accepts my offering and slips his tongue into my mouth while sliding one hand into my hair and the other to my back to pull me closer. My knees get weak and something deep in my belly constricts—from a kiss. There’s a better-than-even chance that the men I’m with never kiss me. I don’t miss it when they don’t, but I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like this before. It’s…perfect.
When Cris pulls away, I’m left wanting, my eyes closed and my lips parted. Only my training stops me from pushing myself into him and begging for more. I’m mollified when he gathers up my wrists and presses them into the small of my back.
“You’re delicious.”
He leans in for another kiss, this one short and chaste, and I’m left wanting again. He takes his hand from my hair and leads me toward the closed door. It’s a bathroom, bigger than I thought it would be, with the same windows running the length of the ceiling. The entire thing is tiled—grey stone on the floor and rich green glass on the walls—and there’s a shower with a hand-held sprayer on the far side. On this end, there’s a large stone sink and freestanding stone tub to one side and a toilet in a corner with a small screen folded beside it. Next to that are wood shelves sunken into the wall, stacked with fluffy white towels and various supplies: bars of soap; bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and oils; a fine shaving kit with a strop hanging on the wall. The baskets that slide into the bottom shelf leave me curious.
He leads me into the shower before releasing my wrists. “Hands at shoulder height against the wall.”
I step close to the tile, careful to only touch the surface with fingers and palms. He covers my hands with his and slides them farther out to the sides. I inhale as he steps closer and his body presses into my back. His clothes are soft, worn, his bare torso is hard against my skin. I want to push against him, but I don’t. Not until he grasps my hipbones and pulls me into him.
“Head back.” At his soft invitation, I turn my head and lay my cheek against his chest, closing my eyes and dropping my shoulders. “That’s right, you can let go now.”
With his encouragement, I let my body loosen further and lean into him more.
“That’s a good girl.” He grips my shoulders and neck in his large, warm hands and starts to massage me. It feels incredible, and I allow myself a small moan to let him know.
“You like that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no need to be wound so tight here. I’m going to look after you.” He nuzzles behind my ear, and the coil that carries so much tension in my core lets go a little. It usually takes a collar being fastened around my throat, but Cris is working some strange and delicious magic I don’t totally understand. “You need this so badly, don’t you?”
The spring snaps back, and I hesitate before giving in, my voice a choked whisper.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, pet. It’s okay, hush,” he soothes, redoubling his efforts at my shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to spill your secret, I promise. No one but me will know how sweet you are, how supple. I don’t like to share. I’m going to keep you all to myself.”
His assurances let me relax again, and I settle into his attentions. I’m disappointed when he pulls away, even though I’d slip through the drain in the center of the floor if I were any more relaxed.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” There’s a gentle tug at my earlobe, and I straighten up as he withdraws, trying to blink myself back to reality. I catch sight of him taking his shirt off out of the corner of my eye and want to turn my head to get a better view, but I don’t. I do get a nice glimpse of finely muscled arm when he reaches past me to take the sprayer in hand and flicks on the water. He points the stream away from me, and I hear the interruption in the flow as he runs his hand through to check the temperature. When he turns it on my skin, it’s pleasantly hot.
“Too hot?”
“No, sir.”
He wets me down thoroughly before turning the water off, unwrapping a fresh bar of soap, and running it over my skin. It smells of verbena, and again I get to enjoy his hands covering every inch of me. He’s thorough, taking far more time than necessary. When he’s satisfied, he turns the water back on and rinses me just as meticulously before replacing the sprayer. It’s nice to be clean after such a long flight. He dries me off, and I still have my palms against the wall as he pulls his shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned and rolling up the sleeves.
“Better?” He’s standing behind me once again with his hands on my hips.
“Yes, sir.”
He grasps my wrists and tugs them down to the small of my back where he takes them in one hand. “Then let’s get started.”
He leads me back to the main room and over to the table. Patting the short end, he says “Up you go,” and releases me.
I press up onto the table, leaving my legs and feet dangling over the side. He unclips my hair and runs his fingers through it until it’s flowing down my back.
“I’ll be right back.” He touches my arm on his way past, and I watch him walk over to the chest of drawers and slide one open and shut. When he comes back, he’s got a pair of leather cuffs in his hand. They’re brown and well-used, so they’ll be comfortable and won’t chafe.
“Hands.”
I offer them to him, palms up, and he fastens the cuffs on my wrists smoothly. Yes, he’s well-practiced. When he’s finished, he grips my hipbones and scoots me back on the smooth table.
“Knees into your chest.”
I’m not sure what his game is, but I do as I’m asked. Still sitting, I bend my knees until my thighs are pressed against my torso and my feet are flat on the table. He comes to my side, wraps an arm around my waist, and cradles the back of my head in his other hand. “Back you go.”
Having the bare skin of his chest and forearms on mine is the most heavenly feeling. He’s warm and in good shape, more like from honest physical labor than spending hours in a gym. I like it, very much. I sink into his grasp, and he lays me back on the table. I’m pliant already, comfortable following his gentle instructions. Sometimes it takes me a while to acclimate to a Dom’s style, but this is easy. He slides my cuffed wrists over my head and clips them to an anchor point I can’t see. When he’s done, he takes a step back.
“Very nice.”
I have to agree. He has a very nice body I’m getting to admire more closely. I still haven’t been able to discern what the medal around his neck is, though.
He traces a path from my tethered wrists down to my shoulders and my ribcage before cupping my breasts, stroking his thumbs over my nipples again until they peak under his touch. I arch my back, pushing them into his hands.
“You like to be touched?”
“Yes, sir.”
He starts to knead at me. Gently at first, then harder, the sweet attentions of earlier left behind. I press my feet into the table.
“You’re a responsive little thing, aren’t you? You can close your eyes, kitten.”
Kitten! This just keeps getting better. I mewl to let him know I liked it and take advantage of his invitation. Thank god. Not that I don’t enjoy looking at him—on the contrary—but having my eyes closed makes it easier to behave and increases the intensity of the sensations. A win-win.
He works me over, and as he hasn’t demanded I be quiet or still, I give him cues when he’s done something I particularly enjoy: a groan here, a squirm there. He’s a fast learner, and it’s not long before I’m writhing under his attentions, careful to keep my feet flat on the table. He’s got me pretty riled up when he starts to hush me. I’m not surprised but only a little disappointed. Of course it’s not going be this easy. What fun would that be?
I calm under his gentling and open my eyes. He’s smiling down at me, a knowing, predatory smile. “You’re such a treat to watch. Beautiful. And this is only the beginning.”
I can’t help the moan that escapes at his promise, and he shakes his head. “This time you’ll be quiet.”
“Yes, sir,” I squeak, and I’m rewarded by a hard squeeze to my breasts. This is going to be good. He starts in on me again, picking up the intensity, and I’m glad he’s only asked me to be quiet and not still, too, because he’s driving me insane. His fingers dig into me as he squeezes. It’s only just not painful—precisely how I like it. His fingers grasp my nipples, and he pinches and rolls them before tugging hard. My gasp is followed by a slap to the side of my breast.
“I said quiet.” His voice is sharp, and he doesn’t pause in his torments.
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck am I in trouble, and he knows it. My breathless response gave me away. He teases me before tugging sharply again. While I don’t gasp, I can’t help the strangled grunt he’s forced out of me. My disobedience results in another slap, this time to my other breast, and a warning.
“I said no noise. If you make another sound, it will mean punishment and not the little reminders you’ve been getting. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t know whether to hope for this or not. First punishments are telling, and I can’t say I’m not curious about what this might mean for Cris. I’ve been caned for less, although I suspect that’s not his style. Not yet at any rate.
He torments me for another few minutes, driving me wild with his talented and sure hands. He’s going to go for it again, so I steel myself and manage to stay quiet. But he’s a stubborn and wily son of a bitch, and he does it again, more sharply, yielding a squeal. This isn’t idle threats and disappointment. He wants to punish me. I get another slap to my right breast, followed quickly by one to my left, harder this time.
His hands are on either side of my ribcage, and he leans over me, his mouth brushing by my ear. “It’s such a shame you’re so badly behaved. I was starting to enjoy myself.”
I whimper in response and get a hand at my throat.
“And how should we punish you, pet?” He poses his question idly, as if he has all the time in the world to compose a dissertation on the topic. “So many ways to pink up your pretty pale skin and help you learn to do as you’re told.”