Page 82 of At Her Pleasure
He might be fucking with her, but Mick knew this world. He was a goddamn kink event planner. He was also a strong-willed, complicated man.
Let me be your demon.
Demons were called while inside a circle, and if nothing was allowed to break through the boundary, they stayed locked in it. Everything outside of it blurred.
Picking up a box cutter, she approached Mick from behind. “Hope this was expensive,” she commented. “And your favorite.”
She’d slept in his black shirt the other night. She wasn’t giving it back.
Grasping the collar of the blue shirt, she shredded it with several slices. When she pushed the fabric away, scraps draped over his raised arms, club air movement making them flutter. While she’d mostly avoided skin contact, she’d sliced a thin trail between two bullet scars.
She was more precise with his slacks, a straight cut from the waist to the ankle of each leg. As she pulled the garment from his body, she revealed dark red jersey boxers. As she cut those off, she let the razor tip punch through and dig into the meat of his buttock. He tensed, hands clenching above the cuffs, but otherwise he didn’t move.
As she kicked the ruined clothes aside, he stood before her naked, except for the fluttering shirt and his footwear. “Get rid of the shoes and socks.”
It was awkward, since he couldn’t move his feet more than a few inches from the post. The concentrated twitches of buttock and torso muscles were absorbing to watch. Though she’d mentally noise-cancelled the audience, Cyn expected they would appreciate that, too.
When he finished, she used her boot to shove those into the pile of ruined clothes, getting all of it out of her way. She put her hand on the back of his neck. “Turn your cheek toward the cross.”
When he did, she cupped his skull and leaned into the contact. “Keep your head turned like this. Nowhere to hide.”
His eyes sparked, his mouth tight. “Good.”
“I suggest you not push me, Mick.”
“You don’t suggest anything, Mistress. You fucking tell me.”
He’d had an issue earlier in the night. It would be part of this, no way to get around it, but it wasn’t the first session she’d done with a sub in a pissy mood. Usually she enjoyed getting what she wanted out of him and, as a side benefit for him, it dealt with the mood.
She found herself wanting to give Mick that solace, but it would only happen if she focused on what she wanted. The worst thing she could do to him was make him feel she’d put his needs before her own.
He wanted the selfish bitch. Needed her, to cut him open and drain the poison. It was an impossible-to-explain give and take, a dotted line between narcissism and generosity. Impenetrable indifference and heartfelt care.
Cyn donned black latex gloves and chose an ointment. When she returned to him, she paused.
She wasn’t an elaborate scene planner. She followed her inclinations, her compulsions, feeding off his reactions and her own desires. Even so, what she did now was something she rarely did. She asked for additional confirmation. “Tell me you’re okay, Mick. You want to stop this, we do it now. I’m not your mommy. I’m not going to ask again.”
With his cheek to the cross, she saw the faint, derisive smile. She couldn’t see his eyes because he’d closed them.
“I’m fine, Mistress. You’re so sweet to ask.”
She didn’t move. As the moments ticked, his eyes finally opened. Message received. Nothing was happening until he stopped fucking with her.
His expression was unreadable, but his voice held genuine regret, painful courtesy. The energy coming off of him had the pressure of a brick wall. “I apologize, Mistress. Yes, I’m okay. I’m ready for whatever you want.”
Don’t cancel it. On the patio, he’d forgotten himself—or who she was—enough to ask her for what he wanted. Or maybe not. What was between them lived outside her normal session play dynamics. He’d spoken to Cyn as much as her Mistress self, and revealed his needs.
Yes, something was off, but her knowledge of him gave her confidence to see where this would go. If he was starting in a bad place, she could take him to a better one.
After dropping generous dollops of the ointment on his shoulders, she began to rub it into his flesh. Back, upper thighs, then his ass. She pushed her fingers into the crevice, working it into his rectum.
When she finished, she stripped off the gloves, tossing them into a trash can beneath the table. She fitted two claw rings onto her forefingers. Words were etched on the decorative bases over her knuckles. Blood on the right. Pain on the left.
Positioning herself behind him, Cyn ran them down the inside of his spread legs. While she used all her nails, those two led the way, biting into skin. Not enough to break it yet, but they left a red mark.
“Sometimes I do a session with nothing but these,” she told him. Moving past the thighs, drawing circles. “They can drag. Puncture or slice. On a man’s back, front, his balls or cock. The palms of his hands, or the backs of his knees.” She moved over that area and he twitched. It was ticklish as well as uncomfortable. “The soles of his feet.”
She’d reached his ankle and raked the claw over his right arch. Another red line. “Men expect a woman’s touch to be soft. Even when it’s rough, they don’t expect it to be as painful as what a man could do to them. Though men like you know better.”