Page 48 of At Her Pleasure

She liked pushing a man to pure wild animal, everything gone except his awareness of that taut leash, her will. She wanted it to be the only thing that had any meaning in the universe, as he waited for her permission. And when she gave it, she wanted him to do what a wild animal did. Consume, tear, devour.

Somehow Mick was still there among all that. His breath rasped in and out, in and out. The words took effort to form, so much they were hard to make out, but she heard him. “That’s up to you…Mistress.”

He pressed his head against hers, a sudden move that reminded her of when he’d put his head against her stomach. What he needed from her went further than the spurting of his cock or a Mistress’s control in a negotiated setting. He ached for something he didn’t know how to ask for. Maybe he didn’t even know the shape of it.

It created a similar reaction in her, but she’d choose the simplest route for it. For now.

“Come for me,” she said. “Without moving.”

Impossible, of course, but she gave him full marks for trying. He fought like a lion against the involuntary need to flex, thrust, jerk and buck as his cock spurted. A strangled moan told her the effort it took.

It made her do what she rarely did. Grant him mercy.

She began to rise and fall again, stroke him with her body, the clench of her sex, offering the friction she wouldn’t allow him to seek for himself. It all came from her. She thought she heard a whispered thank you, Mistress, but she suspected it wasn’t a thank you for giving him release.

Just the opposite.

It was for taking him all the way home with the leash still taut in her hand. Not letting it go.

* * *

When he was done, she slid to the ground. “Put your arms behind you again.” Once he did, she moved away and donned her underwear, socks, boots, slacks and bra, letting him hear what she was going to deny him. Mostly. She left the shirt off, though she pulled her necklaces from the pocket where she’d tucked them and put them on again.

His lips tightened, but he remained still. Until she reached up to remove the mask. He jerked his head away, so violently he struck his cheek on the cross. He froze. Mumbled.

“Sorry.”

He’d been almost equally resistant to her putting it on him, but she understood his reaction. “Don’t want me to see your face, Mick? See what’s there right now?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

So she removed it, as she was sure he expected after saying that. Running her hand through his rumpled hair, to kindly get rid of the hat-head feel, she then touched her fingertips to his jaw. He wouldn’t let her lift his face, locking his neck and shoulder muscles against the pressure. He was staring at the ground off to her left, not even allowing himself a view of her breasts sitting on the demi-bra shelf.

“You’re not looking for that,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s in my eyes. That’s not what you want in a session. Like cleaning the snot or spit off my face. No reason for you to have to handle it.” A tinge of humor threaded into his voice, like her curved needle stabbing into his skin, pulling the open edges of the wound together. “Remember? I can get myself to the ER while you have that congratulatory beer.”

The words pierced her heart, and she rarely reacted well to deceptively softer forms of pain. “If you make me bend my knees so I can look up into your face, I swear to God I will cut a spiral around your dick with a razor blade and pour another gallon of saltwater on it. You won’t be able to fuck a woman until Christmas. More importantly, you won’t be able to fuck me again while you’re here.”

It was a whole body struggle, tension, uneven vibration, the drawing of an erratic breath, but at last he lifted his gaze.

Weariness, anguish, rage, bitterness. Pits in hell held more light.

“Oh, Mick.” Tenderness wasn’t part of her sessions, but he wasn’t “one of her subs,” the ones she held at arm’s length even as she cared for and protected them. He was Mick. As significantly connected to her as Cissy had been.

But the Mistress in her saw the fear an indomitable man had, that she would make him pull the pin on the grenade of his subconscious. He was white-knuckling it now, afraid she’d broken him open such that he couldn’t stop himself from doing it.

They’d gone deep enough for one day. Both of them. Time to ease back.

She returned to her table, picked up a towel and came back to wipe around his nose and mouth, gripping his hair when he tried to duck his head away. “Stop it,” she chided. “Maybe I like cleaning up snot and saliva. How often have you served a Mistress, Mick?”

“A few times. I mostly do primal play.”

“Oh.” She quelled her disagreeable feelings about that, ignoring what it meant. But he’d picked up on her reaction, or wanted to assure her for his own reasons.

“We fight it out until we’re both tired of it. Not like…I don’t kneel once I win. She’ll do some light bondage or impact play with me if that’s what she likes. I’ve always kept it high level, easy. Nothing too intense.”