Читать книгу Take Me: A Collection of Submissive Adventures - Victoria Blisse, Giselle Renarde - Страница 4

Alice wakes, pale and shivering, her naked body exposed in the chilly morning light. She is still curled around his hand, his fingers deep inside her as he sleeps. For several minutes she lies perfectly still, watching dreams dance across his eyelids. His hand twitches slightly and her tiny gasp of pleasure makes him stir. Slowly his eyes open, meeting hers.

‘You’re cold,’ he says. It is not a question.

He gently withdraws the hand that plumbed her depths so thoroughly the night before and she wriggles a little in protest, tensing her inner muscles as though she might trap his fingers there. He smiles indulgently as he draws the duvet up over her legs, leaving her upper body bare.

His warm wet fingers trace a line up her body, between her breasts and along the length of one thin arm, coming to rest where the ropes bind her wrists to the iron bedstead.

‘Can you feel your hands?’

She is tempted to lie and tell him yes so he won’t release her, but she knows he would see through any such dishonesty. Reluctantly, she shakes her head. When he unties the knots she lowers her arms with a hiss of pain as the pins and needles bring her achingly back to the real world. Her wrists are scored deeply where the ropes have bitten into her tender flesh throughout the night and he massages the skin as though smoothing away imperfections in a sculpture.

She moans as the blood flow returns and her legs twine about his, entreating him to stay. But, as always, he leaves with the light, abandoning her to her memories and the lingering pain. She hears the door close softly behind him and she lies in the tangle of sheets for more than an hour before dragging herself out of bed and into the shower.

* * *

She met him on the train, on the way to a routine business meeting in London where she’d treated herself to a first-class ticket for a change. Free tea and a bit more leg-room made all the difference to what was usually a long, boring journey.

She’d been in his seat when he boarded the train and he hadn’t said a word to her as she apologised and shifted clumsily over to the window, where her reservation was. His polite smile made her feel like a child forgiven some bit of mischief. He was well dressed, his dark suit immaculate and stylish, clearly hand-tailored. His face was chiselled and aristocratic, with eyes so deeply brown they were almost black. But it was his voice that really got her attention.

He was on the phone to someone, discussing his schedule in such vague terms that Alice couldn’t guess what line of work he was in. But his voice! It was beautiful. Rich, silky and resonant. Like someone who read books aloud for a living. Or should do. She eavesdropped, pretending to read her cheap paperback as he confirmed details of a meeting in Soho the next day.

The firm authority in his voice made her squirm and she felt her cheeks growing warm as he sharply informed the person on the other end of the phone that something wasn’t good enough, that they would have to do better.

Normally Alice hated the window seat. It made her feel trapped by whichever stranger got the aisle seat next to her. She loathed having to ask to be let out every time she needed the loo, which, with tea and the many hours between Edinburgh and London, was fairly often. The seats on the other side of the table were still vacant, although the reservation cards in the seat backs claimed that passengers would be boarding at Peterborough. In this case, however, she decided she didn’t really mind feeling pinned in. Not by this man. She turned another page in her book and tried to keep her eyes on the page so as not to drool over him. She hadn’t taken in a single word of the prose.

The man ended the call and tucked his phone away, breaking the spell of his voice. For a moment she basked in the echo of it before suddenly remembering that she hadn’t told her boss what time she’d be getting in herself. She didn’t want to ring him and replace her memory of the stranger’s beautiful voice with Mr Carson’s reedy whine so she decided just to send him a text. She reached into her bag for her phone and gave a small cry as a spike of pain flared in her middle finger.

Her companion looked up as she tentatively withdrew her hand. A jagged sliver of glass protruded from the fingertip. She stared at it with a mixture of horror and fascination, trying to imagine where it had come from. Blood was beginning to seep from the wound.

‘Oh, dear,’ the man said softly. He took her by the wrist and drew her hand towards him to peer closely at her finger. A strange smile flickered across his features. He gently plucked the shard of glass from her finger, making her wince with pain. But he didn’t release her hand. Instead he grasped the injured finger and squeezed it, causing a bead of blood to swell from the puncture. Then he held her finger over his mug of tea. Transfixed, Alice found herself unable to pull away.

One by one the crimson droplets fell into the cup and dispersed in feathery swirls. The pressure he exerted made her fingertip pulse, hot and stinging. The sensation ran the length of her arm, burning a path along the network of veins to her throbbing heart.

He released her hand then and her eyes widened even more as he raised the cup to his lips and sipped from it, his eyes never leaving hers.

Heat flared in her face at this unnatural intimacy. She pressed a tissue to her finger, the skin still warm from his touch. Unnerved, she glanced down at the table and when she looked up again he was still watching her. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to say anyway. In the man’s steady gaze was the supreme confidence that he was in total control.

‘Alice,’ he said, as though pronouncing the name of a delicacy.

Her heart fluttered at the sound of her name. ‘Do I know you?’ she ventured at last.

He took her hand and peeled away the bloodstained tissue to kiss her fingertip. ‘Not yet.’

* * *

That had been almost two weeks ago. Alice had never reached her destination, nor let anyone know she wouldn’t be coming. There was only Mr Carson, and she didn’t really care if he fretted over her non-appearance. It wasn’t like she was particularly vital anyway. Back home, of course, there was no one to miss her, not even a cat. When the train arrived at King’s Cross her mysterious companion took her by the arm and led her along the platform to the taxi rank. He got in beside her and gave the driver the name of a hotel.

The suite he took her to was plush and elegant, so far removed from the Travelodge she’d been destined for that she might as well have been in another country. As she peered around the room she could feel the man watching her, studying her movements, drinking her in. There was no question that she was here for sex, but she had no idea whether he was waiting for some signal from her. She hadn’t even asked his name. She hadn’t dared to speak at all.

Finally he appeared behind her, making her jump. She closed her eyes as his hands encircled her, fitting neatly around her small waist before sliding up her body to cup her breasts. One gentle squeeze and then the hands were gone, leaving her breathless and wanting more. He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and her heart pounded wildly as he pulled the neck of her jumper open, exposing her collarbone.

Alice shivered in response to his warm, moist breath against her skin. She felt his tongue, then his teeth, biting gently. For one crazy moment she thought of vampires and when no fangs punctured her jugular she was genuinely surprised.

‘Are you a good girl?’ he asked in a seductive whisper.

The question startled her and it took her a moment to realise how much it also excited her. ‘Yes,’ she managed to say, her voice barely a voice at all.

‘Are you going to do what I tell you to do?’

She shuddered. ‘Yes.’

He kissed her throat again, released her and stepped away. He stood smiling at her. ‘Take off your clothes.’

Although the command wasn’t exactly unexpected, it still made her stomach flutter. Alice blushed fiercely and lowered her head. She felt self-conscious about her cheap high-street suit but she felt even more so about what was underneath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d undressed for a man but it had been a while.

Her fingers trembled as she unfastened the buttons of her jacket and slipped it off. He nodded towards a chair and she laid the jacket gently over one curled mahogany arm. Her blouse proved more of a challenge, the tiny buttons tripping up her nervous fingers. The man offered no assistance; he merely stood calmly by. Watching, waiting.

She unzipped her skirt and slipped it down over her hips, wondering fretfully if he would like what he saw. But his lips parted in a smile as she stepped out of the skirt to reveal her girlish underwear. Flirty white cotton panties with a butterfly pattern and a matching bra. White lace-top holdups. She kicked off her low heels and then felt a sudden rush of panic at the thought of removing the rest. She kept herself in good shape but that hardly mattered; there wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t feel insecure in her position. However, the fear only paralysed her for a moment and she was reassured by the growing bulge in her companion’s trousers.

‘Alice,’ he said, his voice edged with firmness.

Her knees trembled with fear and desire and she felt her sex moistening in response, just as it had on the train when she’d first heard his voice. Quickly, so as not to lose her nerve, she reached behind to unhook her bra and slipped it off, exposing her breasts. She stepped out of her panties and tossed them onto the chair with the rest of her clothes. The riot of butterflies looked out of place in the elegant room, like childhood fairies that had lost their way and suddenly found themselves in the scary grown-up world.

Swallowing her fear, Alice peeled off her holdups before she had to be told. Her legs tingled as they were released from the constricting nylon and she curled her toes into the soft pile of the carpet, hoping he wouldn’t notice the chipped polish. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror, standing naked before this stranger. It was all she could do to resist the urge to cover herself but she was too frightened of his disapproval. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. They hung by her sides, her fingers plucking nervously at the gooseflesh on her thighs.

‘Are you cold?’

She shook her head. Just nervous, she thought but didn’t say. It wasn’t necessary; he could see she was terrified. He also seemed to be relishing her fear.

‘Hold out your hands,’ he said.

She obeyed at once, both the command and her instant compliance sending hot little pulses through her body.

When she saw the ropes she gasped and took one hesitant step back, but she didn’t lower her hands. She saw his eyes register her moment of fright and then his lips curled in a smile that was both sexy and sinister. His erection grew.

‘I asked you if you were a good girl, Alice, and you told me you were.’

Her face burned at the gentle chastisement. She swallowed audibly. ‘I am,’ she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry what?’

Blood rushed so violently to her head that for a moment she thought she might faint. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘That’s better.’

He pushed her wrists together and then wrapped the coil of rope around them. Tight enough to hold without being painful. He knotted the rope and then wound the free ends up between her wrists, tying them off to create a pair of coiled manacles.

Alice didn’t need to test whether they would hold her. She wouldn’t have tried to escape for anything. There was no question of his control. Her sex was throbbing so intensely it was almost painful.

The man led her to the bed and Alice followed like an obedient puppy on a lead. All her senses felt heightened, overwhelmed. She caught the scent of his cologne, something spicy and mysterious. It mingled with the polished wood of the furniture and the sharp smell of the wrought-iron bedstead. She imagined she could still smell the blood from her finger, the blood he had tasted.

When he lifted her and set her down on the bed she sagged with relief. She didn’t think her legs could have supported her much longer.

He withdrew another length of rope from his pocket and watched her expectantly. Alice writhed against the velvety duvet, understanding the silent instruction. She raised her arms above her head and he smiled his approval as he bound her wrists to the cold iron of the bedstead. Then he slowly circled the bed like a predator, looking down at her from every angle.

It was only after he was satisfied that he began to undress himself. He took his time removing his jacket, his shirt, his trousers and, finally, his underpants. Alice watched, spellbound, as bit by bit he revealed his lean, athletic body, his broad chest and muscular thighs. When his cock sprang free at last she began to tremble uncontrollably. Tears blurred her vision and a lump formed in her throat.

She was baffled by her response. She wanted him desperately. She’d been attracted to him from the very first moment. Now she was here, stripped and bound in his hotel room, and he was about to fuck her. She was exhilarated and frightened and she could feel her sex dampening with nearly unbearable desire. Why on earth was she crying?

Her companion was eyeing her curiously, as though amused by her emotional display. At last he sat beside her and placed one warm hand against her chest.

‘I can feel your little hummingbird heart,’ he said softly. ‘Are you really so afraid?’

‘Not afraid,’ she managed to choke out, ‘it’s just … I don’t know. It’s …’

‘Intense?’

She nodded, grateful to him for supplying the word for her. ‘Very intense. I’ve never –’

He stopped her words with a kiss and she melted into the taste of him. His tongue entered her mouth, warm and velvety. When he drew away at last, she was calmer. Her heart no longer felt like it would leap from her chest and her trembling had subsided. Now she merely felt foolish, like a child unprepared for grown-up games.

He leaned his head down to her ear and whispered, ‘Let go.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, eager to obey, eager to be taken wherever he would take her.

‘Was that a yes?’

‘Yes,’ she echoed, her voice a hoarse croak. And when his brow furrowed slightly she added, ‘sir.’

‘Good girl.’

He kissed her again and she closed her eyes. Every show of dominance made her sex throb with longing. And now, as his hands began to explore her naked flesh, she gave herself over to him completely. She was his. His to use as he saw fit, his to play with however he wished.

She moaned as he kneaded her breasts, tweaking the nipples into stiffness before placing tingling little kisses on them. He drew his fingers down the length of her body and she writhed as he gently parted her thighs. A flush of embarrassment burned her face as he peered closely at her, inspecting her. For a moment she became fretful, wondering whether she had shaved closely enough, whether he was pleased with what he saw, wondering how she must measure up to others. Then he touched her and banished all her worries.

His fingers stroked her plump pink lips, slipping easily over their eager wetness before entering her. She gasped and threw back her head, straining against the ropes. The expert knots made her feel both trapped and secure. She wasn’t going anywhere; she couldn’t. He could do anything he liked to her and even if she could have resisted, she knew she wouldn’t. His absolute control freed her from both guilt and responsibility.

Her hips seemed to move independently as he pushed his fingers deep inside. She clenched around him, urging him deeper, begging him with her body for more. When he manipulated her cervix she whimpered softly at the strange sensation but she didn’t want him to stop. To her surprise she realised that she wanted even more. She wanted him to penetrate her so roughly and deeply that she would feel it for days. She wanted the ropes so tight her hands went numb.

It was almost impossible to believe she was here like this, burning with hunger for this dark stranger. It wasn’t like her at all. She had never been a particularly passionate lover; nor was she what anyone would call reckless. But this man had awakened something in her. Something lustful and primal and yet shockingly submissive.

An image sprang into her mind then. She saw herself kneeling naked at his feet, her face resting lovingly against his polished black boot, her back scored with welts from a lash, her hip branded with his initials. His slave. His plaything. His property to do with however he saw fit. The strange fantasy startled her as much as it excited her and she moaned hungrily as she pushed her hips forward, a wordless plea for him to take her, fuck her. She had never felt so aroused in her life.

At last he withdrew his fingers and positioned himself above her. She met his eyes and her breath caught in her throat. It was finally going to happen. Without prompting she murmured a single word and felt his cock harden even more against her sex.

‘Master.’

She expected him to enter her in a single violent thrust but he surprised her again by taking his time. His eyes gleamed with sensuous cruelty as he made her wait, teasing her by putting himself in a bit at a time, inch by slow inch.

Alice had never known such overwhelming desire, had never even known it was possible. Without the ropes she would have been clutching him, driving him deeper inside her, demanding that he fuck her harder. But he was the one in control and it was more intoxicating than anything she had ever experienced.

After what seemed an eternity of teasing he finally buried himself inside her, slamming into her and making her cry out with complete abandon. His powerful thrusts awakened every nerve in her body and she thrashed in her bonds, further stimulated by the knowledge that she couldn’t escape. She hooked her legs around his, pressing herself as tightly into him as she could while he filled her, engulfed her, transported her.

Soon she was screaming, with no thought about who might hear her. Nothing mattered but this moment and the incredible pleasure she had never dreamed possible. She yanked at the ropes to heighten the sensation of helplessness as she drowned in the waves of a devastating climax.

His own followed soon after and he growled her name as he stiffened and quivered and emptied himself into her.

Afterwards they both slept, but he did not untie the ropes.

* * *

Her bondage became a ritual. Days passed and she found she couldn’t sleep without being tied. If she needed the toilet in the night she had to wake him so he could untie her. As soon as she was done he restrained her again.

Sometimes he woke her in the night to fuck her and sometimes she would lie awake hoping he would. She would turn onto her side and angle her bottom against him, writhing against his cock until she felt it harden. Sometimes he indulged her, sometimes not.

She never dared to ask his name. He was only ‘Master’. And each night she gave herself to him, completely and utterly.

* * *

Alice blinks herself awake as the spray of the shower draws her reluctantly out of her memories. She feels his absence like a wound, one that only heals while he is with her and reopens each time he leaves. The hot water burns where her skin has been bruised or scratched and she imagines that he is here, washing her clean so that he may dirty her again. Her body is his canvas.

Her soapy hands stray down between her legs, but her fingers can never make her feel the way his do. His seem capable of tearing her apart.

She is reminded of the night he piled the pillows up in the middle of the bed and draped a towel over them. He had tied her arms in front and spread her buttocks. She moaned with the delicious sense of shame as he lubricated the tight opening of her arse and then took her. A virgin there, Alice had bled. Afterwards she felt reborn. She was sore for days but the pain had been a comfort to her while he was away, a reminder of his touch, of his complete ownership of her.

She has no idea where he goes during the day or what he does. He leaves her each morning with instructions not to go anywhere. She is allowed to sit in the hotel lobby while the maid makes up the room but she must return once it is done. She is not to watch the news or read the paper.

Time has lost its meaning for her. There is only the night, when she is alive, and the awful aching yearning during the day when he is gone.

Occasionally it occurs to her to wonder at his secrecy. He might be a criminal for all she knows. A gangster or a serial killer. But the thought is strangely abstract, something so far removed from the bliss of her cloistered existence that it has no relevance to her at all.

She steps out of the shower and dries herself, gingerly patting her small injuries, the little cuts and bruises that prove to her she isn’t dreaming. She cherishes each one. When she is dry she puts on the fluffy hotel robe and makes herself a cup of tea. Each sip reminds her how he first tasted her blood on the train. Her sex pulses in response as she curls up in the chair by the window.

Outside are the vibrant, noisy streets of London. She sees the endless stream of traffic. People, taxis, big red buses. Everyone has somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Destinations, appointments, assignations. But the bustle may as well be on another planet for all it affects Alice. Her world is here, in this room. When her master is here, she is his. And when he is gone, she waits. That is all she knows, all she wants to know.