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She sat in an armchair, a paperback in her hands, distracting herself by reading while listening to music.
". . . give the devil his due," the lyrics ran into her head. "And I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you."
She can't stop thinking about it. She had never in her life been more turned on, more molten.
To have him standing before her, his hands behind his head, body stretched, shoulders back, was possibly the hottest thing she had ever imagined. Her discomfort at being in control warred with her body's need to watch him burn. Could she overcome her natural subservience to answer a different need?
She wanted to slap him across the face, watch his neck snap back, hope to see him control his anger. She thought about how he tied her, with words and silken scarves. She wanted to put him in chains.
Her imagination put his cock in her mouth, hot and hard, as she teased him toward an orgasm over and over. She wanted to twist his nipples and make him cry out. To have his body arch toward her, seeking relief.
She could command him to please her, make him moan and sweat. All she had to do was say the words.
She let her mind go back to a week ago when he left her, bound to a discreet hook in the ceiling, for more than three hours while he worked, never even turning to look at her. She boiled in her need for him, squirming to keep the pain in her arms from overwhelming her. When he eventually turned his attention to her, slapping her until she was on fire, he ended up giving her the strongest orgasm she had ever experienced.
But to her a week was a long time ago. Was he tired of her? Bored with her? Why didn't he reach for her more? Did they need some new excitement? Maybe he wasn't in love with her any more.
She sighed to herself. Did she have the courage to try something new? Something that felt wrong . . . backward? Glancing up, she looked at him, working on his laptop at the oak desk. His lean body filled out his clothes in the way she loved. She always used to wonder when she read about people who would stop whatever they were doing to respond to their lovers. Now she understood. She was always ready for him and would never dream of turning his advances away, wasting an opportunity. But he wasn't paying her any attention.
She sighed again, flopping the book down on her belly.
"I have an idea," she said, looking to see if he would acknowledge her words.
He lifted his head from the screen and turned, raising his eyebrows in a question.
She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts and stared directly at him.
"I want to be in charge," she said slowly. Then, losing her resolve, she continued faster. "I want to hit you. To tie you. To tell you what to do."
"Do you?" he asked, quietly curious.
"I can't hear you," he said stiffly. "You want what? You can't even answer me." He laughed coldly. "There is no halfway."
She stood up, the book dropping to the floor, and faced him. She felt hurt . . . maybe he didn't want her. Then she felt angry . . . he was laughing at her?
"You heard me," she said, matching his icy tone. "I want to do to you what you do to me. My way." She lifted her chin.
Holding her gaze for a long minute, he nodded. "Fine. Do it."
She felt herself move outside her body. She was burning with desire and pulsing with anger.
"Stand up," she said. He rose from his chair and faced her.
"Move over here." She motioned him away from the desk. "Take off all your clothes, everything. I want you naked." She leaned against the edge of his desk and watched him unbutton his shirt and remove it, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. He unzipped his pants and stepped out of them before adding them to the pile. His watch, rings and underwear joined the other items, and he stood before her, arms at his side.
She caught her breath.
"Put your hands behind your neck," she ordered. "Shoulders down, elbows back." He moved at her demand. "Chin up. Spread your legs apart."
She turned away from him and reached onto the desk, picking up a long, heavy wood ruler with a thin metal edge. Turning back, she tapped it against her palm and looked at him.
"Stand straight," she said, and he moved his eyes to hers. "Do it!" She snapped. She could feel how wet she was, how incredibly excited, that she could make him do what she wanted. He followed her directions, presenting himself to her, open and exposed, waiting for her next move.
She stepped directly in front of him, the heat from her body pulsing between them. "Very nice," she purred. "Remember, there are consequences if you don't do what I tell you. And the most important thing is to look at me. Always." He raised his eyebrows, not answering her. "Are you doubting me already?" she asked. He said nothing. "Answer me."
He still said nothing. Without giving herself time to think, she snapped the ruler across the front of his thighs. He didn't move or react, and she smiled to herself. "Are you doubting me already?" she repeated.
"No," he said, with a totally flat tone.
She felt the most incredible surge of power overtake her anger. Tilting her head back, she lifted her lips to him. She always loved kissing him; could lose herself in the touch of his lips to hers.
"Kiss me," she said. "But don't touch me anywhere else." He bent his head to hers and gave her a light kiss. Before he had fully straightened up, she brought the ruler down across the inside of his thigh, hard. If she hadn't been watching him so intently, she would never have noticed the quick clenching of his jaw, or heard the soft intake of breath.
"Try that again," she said coldly.
He bent his head, and kissed her deeply, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, biting, giving her what she loved. She stepped back. "Better. Do it again." He followed her order, leaning toward her and running his tongue along hers, pushing against her cheek with his, bending her head, rubbing his evening roughness along her smooth skin, making her gasp.
She put her palms on his chest and bent her head, taking one of his nipples into her mouth. She bit, lightly, then harder, and she reached her hand down to his cock and felt it start to harden. Smiling to herself, she moved to the other nipple.
She backed away from him again and slowly removed her clothes, adding them to the pile with his. She stood before him, holding his gaze, and leaned so her nipples brushed his chest. They hardened immediately and she wanted more. "Pinch my nipples," she said. "Play with my breasts. Touch me like I like to be touched." She felt a little embarrassed. "Put your fingers inside me and make me cum."
Instantly he complied, moving his arms from behind his head and grabbing her nipples, squeezing and pulling them. She gasped, and closed her eyes, reeling in the sensation. He moved a hand down her body and reached between her legs, shoving two fingers deep into her pussy and curling them, moving them against her, pulsing in and out. She felt herself moving away, she felt an orgasm building. And then the feelings stopped, even though he continued his movements.
She opened her eyes and looked at him, tilting her head in a questioning manner. He was doing everything she had asked him to do. He was following her instructions. He was obeying. Why wasn't she enjoying herself?
She knew he would never break. She could probably cut his foot off and he would never use their safe word. But doing this was a kind of punishment for her, she realized, since she thrived on never knowing what was going to happen next, and now whatever happened was up to her.
This felt wrong. He was in control, not the other way around. She needed his strength to feel whole. She came fully alive when he told her what to do and just expected her to do it. There was no connection between them now, no emotion. He was just following her orders. When she obeyed him, it answered a deep need and let her emotions free. But she had made such a big deal out of trading places . . . how would he react if she backed down? She took a ragged breath and spoke.
He immediately placed his arms back behind his head, and assumed the position she had originally commanded. Or had she requested? Her head was spinning.
"Put your arms down," she said, and stepped back from him, her head hanging, eyes on the floor. "I can't do this." She looked up at him. He held her gaze, waiting.
"You're not here," she said. "You never were."
He said nothing.
"Please," she whispered. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't know." She stopped and waited. After a moment she went to her knees at his feet and bowed her head.
All was quiet for a moment, and then he reached down and gently lifted her up. Taking her tear-stained face into his hands, he raised her chin and kissed her deeply, feeling her relax into his arms, responding to him, coming alive.
Without warning, he pushed her away and slapped her, hard, across the face. She gasped as her hand flew to her cheek. This was against all the rules, all the trust. He had never hit her in the face before. Before she could react further, he grabbed her hands in his and pulled her arms back over her shoulders, keeping her body tight to his. He kissed her again, hard
"This is why you answer to me," he whispered, pulling her tighter into his body. "I own you, body and soul. I know when you're happy and when you're sad. You are a part of me." He spoke each word clearly, like he was speaking to a child. "You are part of me like an extra limb. I control you the same way I control my arms or legs. It's as natural for me to do this," he pushed her arms back harder, and she winced, "as it is for me to walk. I am the master of my mind and body as well as yours."
He released his hold on her and she staggered back.
"Now go sit in that chair," he said, nodding his head toward a simple chair with arms next to his desk. She sat down, looking up at him with a question in her eyes.
He walked over to her and knelt at her feet, reaching into a drawer and taking out several silk scarves. He wrapped one around each ankle, binding her to the front legs of the chair.
"Slide forward," he said. She obeyed him, and wanted to squirm with embarrassment at her wide exposure. Her thighs burned at the unaccustomed stretch.
Her discomfort increased when he sat on the floor directly in front of her, level with her pussy.
"Play with your clit," he ordered. When she hesitated for a second, he slapped the inside of her thigh. In the same moment, he grabbed the arms of the chair and, pulled himself up, putting his face directly in front of hers. "Do you think this is a game?" he asked harshly.
A sense of panic rose in her, and she reached her hand down and touched herself. He sat back and watched as she moved her fingers alongside her clit, rubbing gently and teasing herself. The sensation was pleasant, but not pleasurable. She felt none of the intense desire and need that came when he touched her.
Still, she followed his command, and continued to move her fingers through her smooth wetness. She closed her eyes, and heard another drawer open and close. She felt something being pushed into her hand.
"Take this," he said. "Use it."
He had given her a double-pronged dildo. She flushed with embarrassment.
"This will help," he said, and she felt him spreading lubricant around her ass. She gasped with the pleasure of having him touch her, and held her breath as he worked a finger deep within her. But he wasn't trying to give her pleasure, and she knew it.
"Use it," he repeated. "Do it now."
She tried to tilt her body up, feeling the burn as her muscles stretched and her ankles pulled against their ties. She put the dildo where it belonged and pushed, slowly, feeling its fullness enter her.
"Move it in and out," he said.
She had forgotten for a moment that he was watching, and she felt a crashing return to reality.
She complied with his command and felt pleasure in a distant way. Sighing to herself, she tried to give herself over to the sensations. She moved the dildo in and out slowly, her wetness spreading.
"Faster," he ordered. "Like this." He took the dildo in his own hand and began to pump it rapidly in and out of her. The second he took control, her body arched and she felt an orgasm gathering.
He stopped. "Do it yourself. Make yourself cum."
She began to work the dildo faster.
"Pinch your nipples," he ordered. She moved her other hand, and did as he commanded. The sensation in her thighs was becoming unbearable, and she squirmed in a combination of pain and pleasure. She moved the dildo faster, feeling her body respond despite itself.
She opened her eyes, and realized he was standing, sliding his hand over his hard cock, working it back and forth. The sight shot desire through her. She wanted to take his cock in her mouth and make him cum. She wanted to be the cause of his pleasure, to have him need her.
But he wasn't stopping. He was simply watching her work the dildo in and out. The most important thing she did was to put his pleasure before hers, always, and now she couldn't because he wasn't letting her. She would rather be slapped in the face again, breaking the rules and taking the momentary pain, than not be able to please him and facing a deeper, more primal agony.
Knowing at least that watching her masturbate was pleasing him, she worked harder to bring herself to an orgasm.
He stared down at her. "Cum for me. Now." Her body obeyed, and she arched forward in a spasm as he came onto her chest. Without pausing, he said, Get up and go clean off," and turned away.
She bent down and untied her ankles, rising and walking out of the room. When she returned, he was dressed and sitting at his desk, working on his laptop, as if nothing had happened.
And the radio played, "You can be the captain and I will draw the charts . . . sailing into destiny, closer to the heart."
End of Story