Page 12 of Obey

How do the people feel who sit on the throne? What do they wear? What things do they do?

I’ve read a few BDSM books but none of them have a throne. What’s the goal of the chair? To make people feel strong, empowered, beautiful? I have to admit, I’m surprised at the royal vibes the room is giving off. If I had to guess before coming down the stairs I’d say these rooms would have been used to degrade people, make them subjects, not queens.

And yet.

“Want to sit in it?” Grumpy Smurf’s voice is so close to my ear it skates across my skin leaving gooseflesh blooming in its wake. I can’t fight the shiver, or the sharp intake of breath, I can’t fight the tilt of my head to the side as my bones ache for him to do it again.

“No.” My breathy voice communicates my lie. Curiosity burns my insides. It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? To sit on the throne wearing a crown? I can’t see how it would, as long as this man understands it wasn’t an invitation to do anything. Maybe just for a moment?

“Liar.” The single word falls from his lips caressing the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck.

I don’t move. But every time I breathe, my back grazes his chest. The rise-and-fall of my body gliding against his rock-hard chest makes me feel things I’m not qualified to feel.

“What’s it going to be, Half-Pint?” That challenge in his voice might be my undoing. I’m deciding right here right now I don’t want to know his name, it makes him mysterious and even more intense, and if I know his name, it might ruin whatever this experience could be for me.

His words skim my skin again, making me shiver, and the rest of my higher brain function and ability to rationalize, falls away.

Maybe it’s being snowed in a s-e-x dungeon with a beautiful devil man that provokes the next words threatening to fall from my lips. Or it could be the fact I can be whoever I want to be in this moment. I don’t have to be heartbroken Talia whose boyfriend cheated on her. I can be this new blue haired, punk-esque spitfire who sits on thrones in dungeons while wearing a crown.

“Okay.”

Chapter Five

JAGGER

I didn’t think she’d do it.

I have no idea what I thought would happen when I challenged the sunshiny tigress into sitting on the throne in one of my favorite rooms in the damn building. But here we are.

Well, she hasn’t actually sat on the thing yet, she’s staring it down like it might bite her in the ass. It’s okay, though, we have time. We aren’t going anywhere fast. I’m glad we stopped for food on the way here. This place is well stocked with high energy snacks for after intense sessions in the rooms, but there’s nothing like a greasy burger in a snow storm, with a gorgeous woman, even if she’s probably terrified of you.

Or something.

Half-Pint tentatively reaches a hand toward the dark, ornate wooden chair. Her fingers flinch. I expect her arm to recoil, but a shiver rolls through her when she skims the wooden finish. She steps to the side so she can walk around the seat. Eyes closed, she explores with her fingers as she moves around the throne.

Is this how she always is? Or is she internally freaking out at the idea of sitting on a sex seat in front of me, and she needs an out?

The gruff clearing of my throat in the otherwise silent room makes her start. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Consent can always be revoked. That’s one of the cornerstones of kink, and while some people get off on non-consensual sexual activities, I’m not one of them. If the woman doesn’t want to sit on the throne, she doesn’t have to. No skin off my nose.

And nothing she should be ashamed about either. I’m not going to gloat or be smug that she didn’t rise to my challenge. Disappointed, maybe, but only because I know there’s fire in that tiny belly of hers.

I’m not sure if my declaration helped or hindered Half-Pint’s decision. She’s rounded the chair and now faces me, her fingers still on the shiny wooden arm, blue eyes wide open. I can’t read her, and something about that bothers me.

I shouldn’t be surprised when she plops down on the purple velvet seat, but I am. And a deep satisfaction claws through my chest and into my veins. Now thatissurprising.

Now, what?

Your move, shortcake.

She closes her eyes again as she tips her head back against the cushioned headrest. I can’t tell if she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the experience, or to avoid having to look at me. No reason it can’t be both.

Her feet don’t touch the floor, which is probably to be expected. She swings her legs a little, and my hand twitches. The restraints around the legs are adjustable. If she was my woman, she’d already be cuffed.

Turning away from her, I shake my head. The close quarters are getting to me. I’m not used to having people in my space, especially balls of bright, bubbly energy like this one. The fact she’s a blank canvas calls to my inner educator. A stunning piece of clay to be shaped into a timeless piece of art.

Ugh.