Storywitch's "Book of Shadows"

So here’s the next part – hope everyone’s been having a good August. Because of the upcoming August 31 deadline for Gideon and a bunch of promo deadlines coming together, I’ll probably be doing a segment every two weeks for the next little bit. Hope that’s okay – know you guys want to get Gideon’s story out there. Oh, and I have the final galley of Mermaid’s Ransom to review by August 25, and know many of you are looking forward to Alexis and Dante’s story – particularly how Jonah is going to handle his daughter bringing home a hell-spawned vampire-Dark One, as if he’s a stray puppy she’s rescued (grin).

But without further ado, here’s Part V of our ongoing vignette…

 

* * * *

When she drew back, she caught his bottom lip in her teeth, holding there while he stilled, his hot breath caressing her face. She gave him a tiny flicker with her tongue, then drew back.

“I’m going to strip you now. I want to see all of you.”

“Your voice isn’t steady, angel. Why don’t you let me go?”

“So you can rob me of speech entirely?” She smiled, but took several steps away to open the cabinet where extra tack was kept, only she’d placed some different equipment there. She was sure he was acquainted with the snick of a well-oiled switchblade, so she wasn’t surprised to see his head come up, a delicious tension running through his upper body at the sound.

“Where did you get that?”

“From your desk, of course.” She came back to him, laid her palm on his chest to feel the thud of his heart. “Hope you’re not fond of that shirt.”

“I’ll use the strips to tie your hands when I get loose from here.”

“Threats, promises.” She leaned into him, using the firm brace of his body to reach up and slice smoothly through the seam and free the shirt from the cuffs. She knew as long as she was leaning against him, he’d hold steady. Taking care of her, as always.

She’d intended to drop the shirt to the side, but she gave herself a moment to turn her shoulder to his chest, prop there and inhale the fabric. She had all sorts of sexy lingerie that Tyler had bought her, but she’d noticed they both seemed to prefer it when she wore one of his shirts to bed. The sense of claim, and being claimed. If something awful ever happened to him, she suspected she’d just lay all of his clothes on the bed, use them as her linens for as long as she could last without him. Or simply sleep in his closet.

Because such a thought was unbearable, she pushed it away and let the shirt go, moving to his waist band. Using the tip of the blade, she traced that delectable diagonal line of muscle from groin to hip bone, making a fine red line, just short of drawing blood.

“Sometimes I’ve wanted to brand you, the way I did Brendan that night,” she mused. “Something that said you were mine, that I could reach over and touch at night, as if it were a magical symbol that would always keep you with me.” She raised her gaze to his firm mouth, the attentive cant of his head. “And sometimes I want to give you pain, as if it’s somehow more permanent than pleasure, like cauterizing a wound to heal it. Does that make sense?”

“You do whatever you need to do, angel,” he murmured in a husky voice. “Just touch me.”

She drew the knife up, then down, a flourish that did draw blood, a mere thin line. Pressing her palm against it, she felt the essence of him dampen her palm, make it sticky like his other fluids could.

Setting the knife aside, she slid the button of the jeans free and worked the zipper down, moving carefully over the sizeable impediment there. He had lean hips, long thighs. If he were a club submissive, she would have had him toe off his shoes himself, enjoying his struggle to do it while maintaining his balance against the give of the suspended hook. But he was her Master, and she liked the dichotomy of it, having him at her mercy while she knelt at his feet, leaving his jeans open as she slid off the loafers. She suppressed a smile at the dirt in them from the garden. In her position, it was easy to rub her cheek over his confined erection, inhale the damp musk of his arousal.

“While you’re down there…” There was strain behind the humor, and she managed a breathy chuckle.

“You wish.” She curled her fingers in the jeans and worked them down his legs, scraping his thighs with her nails, giving his knees a passing caress, knowing the backs were slightly ticklish. The beauty of eroticism and domestic bliss mixed. She wondered that anyone ever got tired of their spouse, thinking the terrain too familiar, the mind too well plumbed. Maybe because she was a Mistress, she knew that the male body was infinitely responsive, the mind never fully revealed. And for a complex man like her husband, she could spend ten lifetimes with him and still not have it all.

He wore his preferred boxers underneath the jeans, the snug knit that emphasized the hips and thighs, the large cock stretching the fabric. She took the underwear down next, making a pleased purr behind her teeth as his organ stretched up toward his belly, hard and demanding, the testicles a heavy, virile weight between his thighs. Her pussy contracted, weeping into the silk of her panties, her thighs already loosening in response to his cock’s proximity, the implied demand of it.

How often had she woken in the middle of the night to see the shelter of his broad shoulders over her, the wide chest? Felt his knee insinuating between hers, her legs already spreading for him, body automatically welcoming him?

Controlling her body’s learned and eager response, she finished removing the jeans and underwear, then stepped back to survey pure art. Lean, long muscle in his arms and chest, thighs and stomach, cock aroused and at her mercy. She walked around him, dropping the clothes in a pile to the side, and studied a back like a powerful Roman god, tapering down to firm, high buttocks and spread thighs. Moving casually around him as if considering him from all angles, she picked up something else from the cabinet without pausing or giving away what she’d acquired. When she came back around, one step, two, she laid her unoccupied hand on his lower back, caressing the rise of his ass. Shifting onto her toes, she put her lips on his nape, bit down.

“Are you mine, Tyler?”

“Yours and no other. You’re killing me, Marguerite.”

“Really?” She bit him again, suckled the place hard, wanting to leave a nice imprint of teeth. Why was it so many sensual things had such silly, demeaning names? A hickey. It sounded juvenile, harmless, rather than a mark of pure erotic possession.

He let out a growl, responding in kind, and she brought her tongue into it. Pressing her body to his bare side, she let her hard nipples slide over the expanse of his ribs. Her pubic mound rubbed against his flank, telling him how snug her riding breeches were. The seam bit into her labia, making the friction of his hard heat a pleasurable gift.

Considering him sufficiently distracted, she made her move. Before he had time to react or tighten, she positioned the slim probe between his buttocks and slid it through the two rings of muscle in one economical movement. The slick lubricant on it made it sink swiftly into the dark channel and her fingers followed, delving between the buttocks to tease and caress the now stretched rim.

“Son of a—”

She’d never placed anything there. It really wasn’t something a submissive did to her Master, was it? Unless the slave happened to also be a Mistress, who knew the kind of pleasure it could bring, how it could reduce a male to mindless orgasm.

“Easy,” she crooned, placing her hand on his shoulder, her fingers caressing his throat. “You have such a tight ass, Master. One would think you were a virgin.”

He gave a strangled sound that might have been the closest thing to a threat she’d ever heard from him. It only made her anticipate his revenge. But that would be later. She wanted to savor this now. She worked the probe with her fingers, stroked him inside, and was rewarded by a jerk. She’d had four mirrors placed fore and aft, to the left and right, so she could see his every reaction. His lips were stretched back, breath coming through his teeth as he tried to suppress his response to the stimulation.

“I want you harder than you’ve ever been in your life, Tyler. I want you to beg me to let you come.”

“Not…happening.”

He was probably wondering once again how this qualified as his birthday present, but she knew he didn’t know how to think like a submissive. He didn’t know the release that came with full surrender. But she was going to take him there, because she was the only one who could.

Fitting the harness around the base of the probe, she threaded the straps around his legs, coming around to work the cock ring over him and tighten the straps for it, constricting the testicles. She couldn’t resist bending down after she did it, pushing her hair back onto one shoulder to keep it out of the way as she took him fully in her mouth. She went all the way to the base, teasing those metal rings and tight strap, the flesh constricted under them, before withdrawing with painful slowness, savoring every considerable inch of him. He was hard, hot steel beneath her tongue and lips. Flicking her tongue over the slit at the end, she tasted salty male fluid.

When she straightened, she thought the muscles in his jaw were drawn tight enough to break. “I want to feed you now,” she decided. “I know you haven’t had lunch, because we were going to have an early dinner.”

“You bringing your cunt up here? Because that’s the only meal that interests me right now.”

It made her shiver, the raw demand in his voice. Even in his most aroused moments, he had polish. But she’d opened the door to the beast beneath. It was a good thing she’d brought a whip and a chair.

Tags: Tyler Tied UP

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