Comfort Object (14 page)

I said, “Look at me,” but she already was. She gasped almost inaudibly as each unforgiving clamp closed on her nipple, and she blinked at the sudden intense and stringent pain. I studied my submissive—corseted, bound, whipped, marked, clamped. Subjugated.

“How do you feel?” There was no need to tell her not to lie; she knew I would know.

“I feel desperate, Jeremy.”

“Desperate for what?”

“Desperate to come.”

I put my fingers between her legs to find her wonderfully, spectacularly, copiously wet. She was well trained. She didn't dance around or try to grind her clit against my fingers. She stood still and watched me, breathless and aroused.

“You're not allowed to come without my permission,” I reminded her, fingering her mercilessly. “Not ever. Not even in the privacy of your room. Not even if we're five thousand miles away from each other, should that situation ever arise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Jeremy.”

I removed my hand and pointed at the floor at my feet, then started to unbutton my pants.

“Normally I would have you undo me yourself, but since you're restrained, I'll do it this time.”

“Thank you, Jeremy.” She knelt before me in a practiced way that brought her mouth to the perfect angle to receive my cock. Impressive, but the object of tonight wasn't flattery and praise.

“Hush. Enough talking. I have another use for that lovely mouth of yours.” I rolled on the condom. “And Nell, I'm the only one who's going to be coming tonight, just to drive the lesson home that you belong to me, and that your desire and sexual satisfaction belong to me too.”

She looked up from her knees in silent resignation. I tweaked one of the clamps and used my other hand to guide her lips to the jutting cock I offered.

“I'm sure your skills aren't nearly up to my exacting standards, but all I ask for now is that you do your best. Open up.”

I held her head and thrust into her mouth quickly and deeply, seating myself all the way in her throat. She gagged, surprised and unbalanced, just as I'd expected her to. There was no use letting your submissive think she was already talented enough as she was. I let her flounder a little, throwing her off her rhythm every time she found one, gagging her purposely and aggressively a few more times. While Nell tried hard and obviously knew the basics of fellatio, she was far from a pro. Well, there had been a “no sex” clause at her work. It was nothing a whole lot of practice wouldn't fix. Practice was good. And for all I knew, it was the first time she'd done a blowjob without the use of her hands, which were still firmly fixed behind her back.

I purposely took a long time, as long as I could. I was in no hurry to leave her hot, eager mouth. She never gave up; she never flagged. I knew she was tired, so her effort touched me all the more. I watched her, spellbound by her drive to please me, until tears began to squeeze from her eyes. I put my hand under her chin.

“Look up.” Her eyes popped open, and she gazed up at me, never stopping. I fell in love a little. A couple of tears overflowed and meandered down her cheeks. My cock swelled, and I tightened my hands on her head. I purposely thrust deep and choked her. She pulled away, an instinctive impulse, and immediately apologized, her voice low and raspy.

“Okay,” I said. “Again.” Slowly this time, I eased into her throat. She tensed. I felt the impulse to escape again, a tiny jerk of her head, but this time she subdued it. “Good girl.” I gave one clamped nipple a hard pull. She moaned against my rigid flesh. “Now finish me off.”

I let go of her head, let her take over. She devoured me. She bobbed her face up and down on my cock. She was hot; she wanted it. She was hungry. I stared down at her reddened ass and the hands clenched above it, trying to pull loose. Did she want to touch me? Did she truly desire me? This felt like more than an act. I'd fucked girls who had an agenda. I recognized it. This felt like something else.

I watched her slender back, the muscles working as she sucked me in and out. A sound rose in my throat, shaken loose from some primal recess of my mind. She moaned in answer, and the vibration of her voice against my rigid dick sent shocks to my balls. I threw my head back and felt the release roll over me. I grabbed her head again and rode out the orgasm from deep inside her throat, jerking against her mouth. The sensation of her lips closing on me, the feel of her hair under my hands. The musky smell of her arousal mixed with mine. The red welts on her ass, the clenched fists trapped by a thin leather lace. I thought I would never forget any of it. Not even when she was gone.

My mind rebelled at that thought. I'd just acquired her; it was too soon to think of letting her go. I loosened my hands and drew away. I patted her hair, too spent to think of words. She knelt patiently in front of me. She was still tearful. Her back still rose up and down as she struggled to slow her breath. I left to take off the condom. When I returned I took her chin in my hand again, tilting her face up to mine. Her wide green eyes met mine, and I saw the question there.
Are you pleased?

“Good girl. Up now.”

I pulled her to her feet and held her arm just a moment longer than she probably needed to find her balance. I removed the first clamp gently, then licked and sucked her nipple to ease away the sting. I removed the other, giving that sore tit the same soothing treatment. She shuddered and pressed her legs together, made a small plaintive sound, almost too soft to hear. A
please…
An
I beg you…

But no. It would be better to make her wait.

I was soft on a lot of things other Doms were strict on, but orgasms were mine, always mine, to control, to dole out, to demand, to withhold. I would not let her come tonight. I kissed her deeply, then tugged and sucked her nipples again, then turned her around to undo the knotted leather tie around her wrists. After I unbound them, I turned her again so we were face-to-face.

“Show them to me,” I said.

She lifted her wrists. The lace had left some indentations but had not chafed or broken the skin. Just to be sure, I brought each wrist to my mouth. I kissed the fine, pale surface there, the tiny crisscross of veins. I caressed them with my tongue. She tasted of faint, cinnamony perfume and the more sexual scent of leather. She kept her eyes cast down, but her chest rose and fell as I licked her wrists and then right up into her lovely, soft palms. My tongue traced the three lines there. What were they called? Heart line? Head line? Life line?
Love line.

No, I didn't love her, but I could have licked her forever, every line, every curve, every vein under her skin, every soft hair on her forearms, every wet, hot, secret place. I would too, but not tonight. Instead I only kissed each of her trembling palms lightly, closed her little fists up tight, and said pointedly, “Good night.”

The First Time

I cried myself to sleep. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't stop the tears.

I tried to convince myself it was only frustration, the fact that he'd made me hotter than anyone had in my life and then decided, deliberately, not to let me come. But that wasn't really the reason, just one aching symptom of a much-more-encompassing pain.

I'd left his room and padded down the hall in my ivory heels, my most elegant silk corset absolutely untouched and unsoiled, but I felt like the world's dirtiest whore.

It's just an arrangement; you're just doing a job. Get your act together.

When I'd tried for twenty minutes to make myself feel clean again in the shower, I finally let the tears come. It wasn't that anything he'd done to me had been degrading or sordid. It was just the opposite. I had never participated in such an affecting scene.

This was a man I clearly should hate. A man who had trapped me, who was using me in the most selfish way, but instead of feeling hatred for him, when he'd licked my wrists before he dismissed me, I'd nearly cried tears, the same emotional tears that threatened to overwhelm me now. Tears of fearful, fascinated infatuation.

Yes, infatuation was all it was.

No, no, I wasn't falling in love with him; it was ridiculously inappropriate to even dream of feeling that way. Wasn't it?

He'd destroyed my life, my career, reduced me to a contractual comfort object, but all I could think was, I wish he hadn't sent me away.

I lay in his guest room, cold, lonely, horny. I could have reached between my legs and soothed some of the ache away. He never would have known, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. He'd told me it wasn't allowed, and I desperately wanted to obey him already. I was already hopelessly
his.

He had said “
You're mine
,” whispered it into the hollow of my earlobe. Did he really think of me as
his
, or did he think of me as Nell, his body for hire? Was he thinking of me right now, lying in bed, as I was thinking of him, or was it out of sight, out of mind for him?

Well, of course it was. He wouldn't go to the trouble of hiring someone to play his girlfriend in public and his sex toy in private if he wanted to get emotionally involved.

I would need to be so careful, so cautious here.

And I would definitely need to dry my tears.

* * *

Jeremy and I spent the next couple of days in a flurry of preparations. We went to the doctor first, or rather the doctor came to us, drew blood, put me through a very thorough and intimate physical to declare me free of disease and in good health.

Then we shopped, and shopped…and shopped. True to his word, he paid for everything I needed for the trip, and for some things I probably didn't even need. Luggage, clothes, gadgets to make traveling easier, and a durable wheeled leather valise for all my mythology books. Dresses, tops, jeans, cardigans, shoes, bathing suits, and cover-ups, even though it was early October. And lingerie, what had to be thousands of dollars worth.

Most of the practical items came to the doorstep already selected and paid for by some underling of Jeremy's, Kyle perhaps. The clothing he gave me a budget for, and I went out on my own to put together a nice little wardrobe. He insisted that I dress with my own sense of style, which he professed to like. But the lingerie—we went to buy that together in what amounted to one of the most arousing shopping excursions of my life.

We didn't just pop down to Victoria's Secret. He took me to a small, exclusive boutique I didn't even know existed, a boutique whose tissue paper was out of my price range, much less the fine garments they wrapped in it.

There was no discussion of price, or any visible price tags, only incredibly luxurious and detailed lingerie. I stared in wonder at the fine silk corsets and sighed over perfectly fitted bras. There were risqué garter belts and G-strings. And of course, piles and piles of cheeky, impossibly detailed panties. If he insisted my outward appearance be completely my own choices, it was clear my private appearance would be exclusively his.