Page 42 of At Her Pleasure

She chuckled and moved back to the light panel. As much as she loved the pillory and what she could do with it, it wasn’t her ultimate destination for him.

She switched on another spotlight. The St. Andrew’s cross had been her first piece of equipment. She’d built it herself, with Jon’s guidance. She’d made it with pallet wood, three glued plank layers for each crosspiece. The center bolt and floor anchoring hardware made it overbuilt, but she’d known the strength of the men she’d put on it. It wasn’t about being pretty.

Over time, the unpainted, unfinished top planks had been seasoned and smoothed with sweat and blood, but a sub could still find splinters when his fingers clawed at the wood, seeking a purchase to bear what she was doing to him.

While she was building it, the cop—Mick—had been the first she’d fantasized about putting on it.

The way Mick gazed at the cross confirmed this was where she wanted him for the bulk of this session.

She pressed the switch to draw back the bolts and raise the top, releasing him. “Go to the cross. Put your hands and feet where the cuffs are.”

He complied. As he moved in that direction, he didn’t keep his pants from sliding lower. She’d unfastened them, so he wouldn’t touch them. By the time he was there, she could see the upper rise of his buttocks and a tempting hint of the seam between them.

She closed the distance between them again. “Take off the shoes and socks. Still no hands.”

He used his toes with smooth agility and a lot of muscle movement. When she came closer and tugged his slacks all the way down, she noted a slight shudder as the zipper scratched against his erection. Unintentional discomfort or pain was a bonus that pulled her deeper into the things she wanted to do.

He kicked it all to the side, getting it out of her way. “I assume you don’t pick up clothes,” he noted.

“Do I look like your fucking maid?” she asked pleasantly.

A grim chuckle as he glanced at her. “No. She wears a frilly black and white number.”

“How cliché.”

“I’m a man. When it comes to sex, there’s no such thing as too many clichés.”

“Look straight ahead.”

Stepping behind him, she took a deliberate step back, no physical contact and taking away his ability to see her. While she silently studied the view, every enjoyable inch, she monitored his reaction. As the moments stretched out, his tension increased. He wasn’t comfortable with someone out of view behind him. Just like most cops. Or seasoned criminals.

He’d learned to adapt to it and contain the reaction, but he was as alert and aware of his surroundings, of potential threats, as a wild animal. Being close to that kind of energy stirred her blood. Like she’d found a mate.

In a purely temporary way.

“What do you see?” His voice had gotten throatier, deeper. She wanted to take that sound, turn it into something physical and stroke herself with it. Climax around it, with it vibrating through her tissues.

“A canvas.” His lifted arms and spread legs, shoulder width. His back, broad between the shoulders, rib cage narrowing to waist, the flare of buttocks and hip. His hands flexed. He kept his palms and wrists pressed to the wood like he was bound. Eventually, she might command him to dig his nails into it, see if he could find splinters.

She cupped his ass with one hand. Drawing closer, she reached between his thighs and feathered her fingers over his testicle sac, the heavy weight of it hanging between his braced legs.

A brief tensing, because he didn’t know if she’d use the claw. That uncertainty made her shiver, a man’s apprehension combined with his determination to accept what she wanted to do to him, without knowing what that would be.

The wood could break, if the man was strong enough and what she did to him spiked an adrenaline surge that high. Mick looked capable of it. She loved that cross, but the possibility was a pleasant charge.

Memories were the only thing that lasted, and the good ones embellished themselves over time.

“I’ve taken pictures of my canvases, before and after,” she murmured. “I’ve thought about making cards out of them. Like charity organizations send out, paintings done by tiger paws or the sweep of a dog’s tail.”

The sweep of a flogger, the red patterns it left behind.

His half chuckle was tight. “What goes through your mind, while you’re doing it? Hurting someone like that?” His muscles quivered under her hand, his head resting on his stretched arm.

These are my marks. It happened. They’re there, even when they disappear. On you, in you. With you.

All that went through her head, but she only said, “‘I was here. I did that.’” A weird smile twisted her lips. “Do you think they’d keep that card, like they would a birthday greeting from their grandmother? Or congratulations for a wedding or a new job?”

“I would.” He dipped his head, momentarily forgetting her command and trying to look behind him. Then he remembered. “Actually,” he mused, “I’d probably throw the others away. Except from my grandmother. She’d curse me from Heaven.” He paused. “Do any of them…your canvases, ever ask you what you see when you look at the pictures?”