Author: Tara Sue Me

“Beautiful,” he whispered when I trembled at his touch.

He pressed against me, the denim of his jeans rough on my sensitive skin. I felt every part of him—his erection pressing my backside, his arms coming around my shoulders, his fingers rubbing and twisting my nipples, his breath hard and panting in my ear. I arched my back, desperate for him to enter me and put an end to my longing.

“Not yet,” he said again, once more crashing my hopes of an easy release. “Later. When I decide you’re ready.” He undid the cuffs binding my wrists and tenderly massaged my upper arms. “Open your eyes,” he said, slipping to stand in front of me.

His intense gaze met me. “Are you okay?” he asked, his hands still working magic on my arms.

“Yes, Master.”

He didn’t respond, but took my hand and led me to the corner of the room, where a blanket had been spread. “We’re going to take a little break,” he said. “I want you to have a seat and wait for me.”

The blanket felt soft and inviting. He must have placed a mat of sorts underneath.

“It’s going to be a long day, Abigail,” he said. “I hope you were telling the truth when you said you slept well and stretched properly.”

Chapter Eighteen

—ABBY—

I felt light-headed imagining what he could have planned that required me to have slept and stretched well. Were we going to spend the entire day in the playroom?

Holy f**king sh—

“Abigail,” he commanded.

My head snapped up to meet his eyes. “Yes, Master?”

“Stay here in your waiting position. I’ll return soon.”

I moved quickly into my standard kneeling position and dropped my head. My knees sank into the soft mat beneath the blanket, and I was thankful he decided to have me wait on the mat instead of the hard floor.

There was no way to measure time in the playroom. Even if I’d been at ease and free to look around the room, there was no clock to indicate if it was past lunch. How long had it been since I first entered at ten? My eyes itched to look for a window, but even those were covered with room-darkening shades, so I kept my head down.

I heard him when he returned and felt the mat give as he stood to my side.

“Relax, my lovely,” he said, sitting beside me.

As I slid to sit on my backside, I noticed he held a platter: a large one, filled with numerous, yummy-looking items.

“Tapas,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

What? So he decided to have a snack in the playroom?

“Here.” He placed the platter in my hands. Everything looked delicious: meatballs, bread with aioli, and skewers with veggies.

“Banderillas.” He nodded toward the skewers and then opened a large bottle of water at his side. “I’ll start with one of those.”

I looked back to the wooden sticks lined with cucumbers, olives, and baby onions. He’d start with one of those?

Beside me, he waited.

He wanted me to . . . ?

Oh. Oh!

Oh.

“But first,” he began, reaching inside his pocket and pulling out the nipple clamps and chain. “I want to decorate you a bit.”

I swallowed and put the platter down. I remembered the pinch of the clamps and the sharp pain when he released them. The way a tug on the chain sent a jolt of need to the ache between my legs.

I moved to my knees and thrust my chest out, both in invitation and acceptance. My ni**les hardened at the thought of what he would do.

He worked with a comfortable ease, rubbing first one nipple between his fingers and then the other. He teased me. Taunted me. Whispered to me how beautiful I was.

I still gasped when the first clamp latched onto my nipple. He slipped a finger between my legs and drew lazy circles around my clit, teasing and taunting again before returning to slide a clamp onto my other nipple.

“Beautiful,” he said when he was finished. He sat back on his heels. “Now you may serve me.”

I picked up a skewer, noticing immediately how the chain swayed when I moved. Everything I did caused the chain to move, to slightly tug at the clamps. It would be a long lunch break. I hid a smile just thinking about it.

“Now, Abigail,” he said, pulling the chain and making me moan.

I looked back down at the platter. Should I take the veggies off the skewer and feed him by hand or just put a banderilla up to his mouth?

He hadn’t given me any instructions, so I was fairly certain I could do either one. What would he want?

I wasn’t sure.

I knew, though, what I’d want if the situation were reversed.

I slipped a cucumber off a wooden skewer and fed it to him. His lips parted. His tongue brushed my fingertips as the cucumber disappeared in his mouth.

Fuck, that was fun.

The bulge in his jeans told me he was just as turned on as I was. I fed him an olive and a baby onion, each time offering him the food from my fingers and feeling the electric shock as his lips brushed my hands. Between that and the still-noticeable ache of my nipples, I was a quivering mess when I lifted a small piece of aioli-covered bread up.

Again, the chain swayed. Again, his lips lightly kissed my fingertips.

It was the same when I fed him the meatballs. Same when I went back to the banderilla. How was it possible feeding him was such a turn-on?

I wasn’t sure, but it was.

I realized serving him was just that: offering myself to him in any capacity he wanted. It was the sexual offering of my body. The way I served him breakfast in the dining room. How I prepared myself for him, whether that preparation be yoga, jogging, or waxing. And it was as simple as feeding him an olive.

“Are you hungry, my lovely?” he asked, eyes dark with longing and need.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

He silently took the plate from me. His eyes watched mine as he slid a cucumber from a skewer and pressed it to my lips. I parted my mouth, accepting his offering.

When I’d chewed and swallowed, he brought his bare fingers to my mouth.

“I have marinade on my fingers,” he said. “You need to clean it off.”

I took his fingers, one at a time, into my mouth and gently licked off the marinade. When I finished, he took an olive and fed me. Again, he lifted his fingers and again, I cleaned them of every trace of marinade.

Once he bumped a nipple as he dropped his hand to the platter, and I stifled a whimper. Nathaniel feeding me, combined with the ache of my nipples, left me feeling wanton and primal, because it wasn’t his finger I wanted in my mouth.

“Patience,” he ordered as I shifted in my seat. “I’m going to extract every ounce of pleasure I possibly can from your body, and when you don’t think you can bear any more”—he tugged the chain—“I’m going to show you what you have left.”

I shivered, believing his every word.

He smiled at my response, picked up a meatball, and finished feeding me lunch.

“You’ve had the clamps on long enough,” he said when we’d finished. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

Lunch had turned me on more than I would have imagined. He’d fed me at a leisurely pace. Every so often, he’d hold the water bottle to my lips and instruct me to drink. Only when I’d had my fill of the water would he have some himself.

In between feeding me, he played with the nipple clamps. Sometimes, he would lightly bump one as if by accident, but I knew he never did anything accidental. Other times, he would brazenly tug the chain or flick the skin around a clamp. No matter what he did, though, the end effect remained the same. By the end of lunch, I was a trembling mass of need.

At his command, I waited until he stood before rising to my feet before him. I dropped my head and waited for further instruction.

After removing the clamps, he tied my upper arms behind my back with a soft rope. “Move to the table,” he said.

I spent the short walk to the table doing my best not to think ahead. Instead, I tried to focus on doing what he told me to do, not trying to anticipate or guess his next plan. It took a few minutes to work my way onto the table, what with my arms behind my back and all.

When I’d managed to get onto the table, in what had to be one of the most graceless moments of my life ever, he positioned me on my stomach so my lower body rested on a padded wedge and propped my upper body up with pillows.

I heard him walk away only to return seconds later. His hands worked their way around and fastened a blindfold around my head. I felt a fleeting moment of panic, but calmed when he stroked my hair.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“Yellow or red if you need me to slow down or stop,” he said, still caressing my hair. “I have a few more things to do in preparation. Relax.”

His voice was low but held his normal no-nonsense tone. Between that and his hands making their way down my neck, across my shoulders, and tapping lightly along my spine, I felt myself yield.

“Lovely,” he said, hands never leaving my body.

I realized after a bit that the preparations he mentioned had to do with me. I was what he was preparing.

Gah.

My suspicion was confirmed when he took one of my arms and tied a rope to my wrist. I shifted slightly on the table.

His hand came down across my bottom in a hard slap. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

I held perfectly still as he tied another rope to my opposite wrist. His hands moved lower and massaged my waist, his strong fingers kneading my lower back. I relaxed further.

My lower body was already exposed to him, but he took my left ankle and tied it to my left wrist; then he repeated the action with my right ankle and right wrist, exposing me even further. I felt helpless.

“Beautiful,” he said.

I didn’t feel particularly beautiful. I felt helpless and awkward.

The sound of a camera clicking behind me made me jump.

“Just because you might not believe me,” he said. I heard his footsteps as he walked around me. Again the camera clicked.

Holy fuck. He was taking pictures of me.

“Just look at this,” he said, slipping a finger into me briefly. “I think you rather like the idea of me taking pictorial proof of your beauty.”

He moved closer to my head and tsked. “But look at this. My fingers are all messy again.”

Said fingers brushed my lips, so I opened my mouth and cleaned them off. He was right; the thought of him taking pictures did turn me on, especially bound the way I was.

“Look at you. All spread out, waiting for me.” His fingers skimmed my entrance. “Just think about all the things I could do to you.”

He swirled his fingers around my clit. “The things I could do here.” He thrust two fingers deep inside me, and my body shifted. I moaned as my aching ni**les rubbed against the pillow in the most agonizingly delicious way.

He chuckled.

“Or here.” He moved his fingers and they teased my other entrance. I sucked in a breath.

Oh, yes. Again. I want him to consume me again.

I let out a whimper when he spread the warm lube on me.

“So needy,” he said. Some sort of plug slowly circled where he’d prepared me. “Remember?” he asked. “Paul and Christine?”

I searched my mind, trying to decide what he meant.

“How you wondered what it felt like?” He pushed, gradually inserting the plug into me.

I was stretched.

Stretched and open and exposed and waiting.

He delivered a hard smack to my backside.

“Remember now?” he asked.

Oh, yes.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Master.”

His hands were gentle again, teasing me, running along my slit. They slowly grew rougher and pinched my outer lips. Then he spanked me again. He alternated, spanking and teasing, until it became hard for me to tell what was pain and what was pleasure. Under his hands, they combined.