Melted and Whipped (11 page)

Porter groans. The hard muscles of his thighs become even more taut as his cock jerks, pumping come into my mouth and throat.

I swallow, then swallow again, and when Porter lets me sit up, I can’t help but smile.

“Put on your seatbelt,” he orders as he tucks himself away.

I snap it in place, and Porter steps on the gas just before the light turns yellow. I twist in my seat. “They’re pissed at us,” I say.

“Next time you’ll have to be faster, then.” Porter looks at me, his expression satisfied.

“Where’s this torture room of yours?” I ask suddenly. “Is it in the city?”

“It’s in my penthouse.”

“I’d like to see it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. I fold my hands in my lap and wonder why he doesn’t want to take me there. Finally I say, “It’s not a big deal. I’m curious, is all.”

Porter glances at me. “I’d like to show you, but I have a rule that I don’t take a woman there unless we’ve played together at least three times.”

“Why?”

“Because it can be overwhelming.”

“What if she’s experienced with the BDSM stuff?” I ask, thinking I’ve understood the real problem; Porter doesn’t want to scare me away.

His lips manage a tight grin. “Overwhelming for me,” he says.

That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “I understand,” I say.

“You can’t understand.” He shakes his head. “My dungeon is something very private.” His brow hardens into a frown. “You don’t have much in your apartment, but for some people, personal space is an extension of ourselves.”

“You’re worried I’ll judge you?”

“Well… Yes, I guess I am. You don’t know all the things I’m into.” It’s clear from the way he says this that he wants to drop the conversation right now.

“An example, please,” I say, refusing to give up. “Tell me one thing in your dungeon.”

“A brick wall.”

“I’d hope it has at least four.”

Porter’s frown deepens.

“That’s a joke,” I say, trying to be light enough for both of us. It’s not working, and I sigh. “Obviously I don’t know what a wall is.”

“It’s just that. A wall.”

“What does it have sticking out of it?” I ask, imagining spikes or some kind of medieval fortified castle.

“Cuffs,” he says. “For your legs, for your wrists.”

Heat curls around my body and sinks into my middle. “That sounds sexy.”

“Whips,” he says. “Twenty-four of them.”

“On the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Porter, I… I really want to see. Please.” I know I shouldn’t be pressuring him after all the things he’s done for me, but I suddenly feel like if I don’t get to see his dungeon, touch the whips, press my body against the wall, I’ll die. And he’s already confessed that he likes it when I beg. “Please, Porter.”

Then I realize something. I clear my throat. This will either work or it will fail spectacularly. I don’t think there’s any middle ground. “I have a confession,” I say.

Porter is already smiling. “Go ahead.”

“When we were in college, I saw you and your… girlfriend outside a movie theater. You were spanking her.”

For a moment there’s silence. “That was you,” he says. It’s not really a question. “I always wondered. Wow.”

“I’ve wanted that ever since. So whatever’s in your secret room, I want to see it.”

He flips on the turn signal and shoots me a look.

“What?” I ask as he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the road.

“You’re making me hard again.”

Twenty minutes later, Porter takes my coat and leaves me waiting in the gorgeous vestibule. The carpet is cream colored, the walls a soft beige to display the collection of abstract art to its greatest advantage.

“Would you like something to drink?” Porter asks. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, the fabric tight over his shoulders, clinging to the muscles of his chest and arms.

“If I drink, that means you won’t play with me,” I say. “So, no. I’m fine.”

He smiles. “I’ll bring water later.” Taking my elbow, he steers me through a long hallway. As we walk, lights in sconces flicker on.

Porter stops in front of a door that looks like all the others. He pushes it open. “This is where we’ll sleep tonight.”

I peer in and see an enormous bed. The room itself smells faintly of wood smoke. I spot the fireplace.

“This way,” Porter says, then escorts me down the hall again until we reach a set of double doors. “My dungeon.”

There’s tension in his voice, enough to make me worry about what I’m about to see.

He flings the doors open, steps into the room and flips on light switches.

I almost gasp as I take it all in. There might be twenty-four whips, but there are other things, too: paddles with spikes, cruel canes, and rows and rows of what look like torture devices.

There’s another wall, one with cuffs hanging. I see there are plenty of knobs, starting at the floor and going all the way to the ceiling.

“They’re adjustable,” Porter says from right behind me. “The possibilities are endless.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll walk you through it.” He heads for the wall, and I nervously follow.

He turns, and we’re close, sharing the same space, the same air, really, and as his golden eyes stare down at me, I realize again how easy it would be to fall completely in love with him.

He captures my wrists and slowly raises them over my head. “You’re more beautiful than you were in college,” he says. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

He turns me away from him.

“I could cuff your hands like this, together,” he muses, keeping my arms over my head. “Or like this.” He pulls them to either side, like I’m on a cross. “Kneel.”

I look up, the back of my head rubbing against his hard chest. “Right here?”

“Right here.”

Awkwardly, I drop into a kneeling position.

“Spread your knees apart,” he says, and I slide them on the floor, which I notice is immaculate. “I could cuff you like this, whip you, fuck you, cane you… and you’d be helpless to get away.”

Helpless.

“Stand.” When I do, he says, “Some dominants like to put their submissives into uncomfortable positions. One leg stretched out, so they can punish the insides of the thighs.”

I feel myself begin to tremble at the thought of being naked, one of my legs lifted so that my pussy is completely exposed, and cuffed in that position.

Porter leans down to slowly nibble his way down my throat. “You like that,” he says.

“Yes,” I admit. His lips are soft, but his teeth pinch and punish. The combination is making me wetter, making me want him. If I beg for sex, I think he’ll probably give it to me, but I want to know more about his dungeon.

Looking across the room at a series of benches, I ask, “What are those?”

“A torture rack,” he says. “A table to conduct examinations. A spanking bench.” He names them as casually as if he’s reading off a menu.

“What kinds of examinations?”

“I dated a woman who was into doctor play,” he says.

“Like the gynecologist?”

“Exactly. After we broke up, I gave her the equipment, but she never did come back for the table. That’s fine. It’s nice and soft and just the right height for sex. I made some modifications.” He takes a step back.

Fighting the fidgets, I try to look like someone who isn’t going to get scared and freak out on him.

Finally Porter walks to the wall and contemplates the implements hanging on it. He turns back to look at me.

I don’t know what he’ll choose, but I know I’ll enjoy it.

“Strip.”

I remove my clothes—everything. Who needs panties?

Finally he takes a whip from the wall. It’s black and looks lethal.

As he walks toward me, I begin to tremble.

“Hold out your hands,” Porter says. His face is mask-like, serious.

I thrust my hands forward, palms down. Porter turns them, then hands me the whip.

“Feel it,” he says.

The long strap is flexible, but the edges aren’t sharp. That’s good, I think.

Porter adjusts the cuffs on the wall. “I’m only going to restrain your hands for now,” he says.

My heart rate speeds up. “Why?” I ask. “Is it less painful that way?”

“No. It’s because we haven’t played together much, and you’re new to this. I don’t want to chain your legs only to discover halfway through that it’s too intense for you. I know you can handle having your wrists restrained and, just as importantly, you know it, too.”

When he has everything to his liking, he takes the whip away.

He cuffs my arms over my head. I test the restraints, and the chain clinks. My hands are close together but not so close that my fingers can touch. The position is fairly comfortable.

Porter carefully arranges my hair over my left shoulder.

He traces down my back with the whip.

A shudder runs down my spine.

“Here is where I’ll hit you,” he says, caressing a section of my upper back. “I think you should know that I’m very experienced with this, and I’m going to go slow.”

I appreciate both those points, but the bit about his tons of experience does make me feel a little insecure, so I say nothing.

“If you need me to stop…”

“Red,” I say.

“Good girl.”

I hear him moving away, and while I want to turn and watch what he’s doing, I remember his lesson when I was made to bend over the bed, about how important it is to develop good habits.

If I turn now, I’ll want to turn a million times. I could also get hurt.

The whip cracks, but not on my skin. Still, I flinch.

It snaps again, and I see it in my peripheral vision. It’s like a lick of black fire. I’m both attracted to and frightened of it.

My legs are trembling now, and I’m happy my arms are pulled over my head. The position helps me stay in place.

The whip cracks a few more times, then a stinging lash lands on the right side of my back.

I cry out. Before the room is even silent again, Porter lands the second lash.

My entire body jerks, and the chain snaps taut.

Porter walks to me and runs his fingertips over my aching, smarting flesh. Air hisses between my lips, but when he reaches around to thrust two fingers into my pussy, I orgasm immediately. Porter’s thumb massages my clit, and his broad chest presses into my sore back.

He’s got perfect control: on the slopes, with the whip, when he touches me. It’s bliss and agony all melted together, and I come again, nearly screaming his name.

My body goes limp when he steps away, and only the chain keeps me upright.

“Do you like that, beautiful?” he asks.

“Yes,” I murmur.

“Would you like more?”

“Please, yes.”

He presses a kiss onto my shoulder, then moves away. The whip cracks in warning, and this time I’m disappointed when I don’t receive its fiery touch.

“Four more,” he says. “That will be enough for tonight.”

Flames rake down my back. Moaning, I arch and jerk. I feel it between my legs, on my lips. I want more, but I’m glad there’s only three left.

Being whipped hurts, but it feels amazing. I gnaw my lip, trying to endure it, but something changes.

Warmth settles over me, and I sway gently. I still feel the whip, but it doesn’t hurt, like the pain is wrapped in the most acute, intense pleasure I’ve ever felt.

Then Porter is close to me, soothing his hands over my back. There’s some kind of ointment on his fingers, and he spreads it over me.

“Wow,” I murmur. “I feel drugged.”

“That’s normal,” he says. “You want that feeling. It makes the whip easier to endure.” He frees my wrists. “Now I’m going to take you into the bedroom, and you’re going to tell me about how the physical and the emotional mesh when I’m dominating you.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because,” Porter says, turning me to face him. “I want to know you, Emily. Isn’t that obvious?”

I know I’m blushing furiously.

Porter takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. Even though I’m naked and he’s wearing jeans and a tee, I feel like we’re equals. My hand feels right in his.

The enormous bed is definitely the most interesting part of the room, which is decorated in a mix of modern minimalist furniture with Japanese accents. It’s as large as the bed we shared last night. The sturdy wood frame catches my attention. Images of skiers are carved into the sides.

Porter pulls back the comforter to reveal yellow satiny sheets. He puts me on my stomach, then climbs into bed next to me.

His hands continue to soothe my back, and his touch is even better than the warm happy feeling. “Talk to me, lover,” he says. “Tell me what you like, what you don’t like.”

It’s that word,
lover
, which gets to me, or maybe it’s the blissful feeling, but I suddenly want to tell him everything.

I take a moment to compose my thoughts, to figure out how I’ll explain about trust. But I can’t quite get it sorted in my mind.

What comes out of my mouth is, “I was in love with you.”

Where that came from, I don’t know, but once it’s out there, I realize I don’t want to take it back. It’s true, and even though it’s belated, it needed to be said.

Porter turns me toward him. I tremble as the edge of a pillow slides against my back. It’s most definitely sore, but in a good way.

“Say that again,” he says. His expression is very serious.

Now I’m not so certain. “I…”

But really, what am I afraid of? I trust Porter not to hurt me, and that means trusting him not to ask me questions that he doesn’t want to know the answers to.

I lick my lips. “In college, I was in love with you.”

“But you grew out of it,” he says neutrally.

The memory of the day I asked him out springs to the front of my mind, but I’m not brave enough to bring it up. “I don’t know.”

“This is killing me,” Porter groans. “You’re blaming yourself. Don’t shake your head; I can see it. But the truth is, it’s my fault. You had a boyfriend, but I knew where we were heading.” He traces his finger over my lips, then dips to taste me.

Although I’m anxious to know what he’s about to say, his kiss is so good that I give myself over to it. His tongue explores my mouth like we have all the time in the world, and maybe we do.