James Douglass walked through the front door of his home and sighed with relief. “Thank Christ that’s over.”
Behind him, his wife let out a snorting laugh and shut the door. “You say that every year.”
“I mean it every year.” He turned to watch her slip out of her coat, the soft faux fur he’d given her for Christmas gleaming under the light of the foyer chandelier. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
Amanda smiled as she hung up her coat, then held out a hand for his. “I like your mother.”
He dropped the bags he held and shrugged out of his overcoat. “It’d just be nice to be able to spend one New Year’s somewhere else.”
“Well, that’s your fault for being born one minute past midnight on January first.” Laughter colored her voice, deepening the Texas accent that still lingered more than a decade after she’d left the Lone Star State. “If you’d stayed put for another week like you were supposed to…”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault for being born early?” He raised an eyebrow, wondering if his wife of twelve years would respond with sass or respect. He figured the odds were about seventy-thirty in favor of sass.
She took his coat with a wink. “Pretty much.”
“Insolent wench,” he muttered, and stifled a grin when she rolled her eyes. Sass it is, then.
“You could always tell your mom no when she invites us,” she pointed out.
He sighed and bent to pick up the bags. “No, I can’t.”
“I know.” She closed the closet with a snap and crossed to him, her bootheels clicking on the tile, and rose on her toes to plant a smacking kiss on his chin. “That’s because you’re a big old softie.”
The eyebrow went up again, almost of its own volition this time. “What was that?”
“Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all, her dimples popping out even as she lowered her eyes respectfully. “You’re a big old softie, sir.”
“Better,” he allowed, fighting a smile of his own. “But you’re lucky my hands are full.”
She glanced down at the bags he still held, then back up at him, her brown eyes dancing. “Oh, yes. Thank goodness for those two duffel bags, otherwise I’d be in so much trouble.”
James gave a bark of laughter. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one tired of being on his best behavior for the last couple of days. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for trouble.”
She walked past him, her dimples still winking. “Well, then it’s a good thing you know better, isn’t it? Besides,” she continued, her voice drifting back to him as she moved toward the curved staircase. “Even if I was, it’s not like you could do anything about it.”
She paused on the first stair, her hand resting lightly on the banister, and looked back at him. They’d been together fourteen years, and still she took his breath away. Soft dark hair, a little tousled from the nap she’d taken on the drive home. Sparkling dark eyes, full of mischief and promise and affection. Her dimples flashed again, pulling his attention to her soft, full lips, curved in the faintest of smiles. That mouth had given him a jolt at their first meeting all those years ago, and its impact hadn’t lessened over time. If anything, it had only grown stronger, because now he knew just what those lush lips were capable of. He knew just how swollen and red they grew from his kisses, how they looked wrapped around his cock. And how she bit them when she was in pain, or in pleasure.
Then those lips spread in an impish grin, bringing him back to the present, and the game she was trying to tempt him into playing. “It’s not like you could chase me up these stairs or catch me even if you did. You’re fifty-one now. An old man.”
He growled because he knew she wanted him to, and with a rollicking laugh, she ran up the stairs.
He stayed where he was, enjoying the view. The yoga pants she’d worn for comfort on the drive home curved over rounded hips and a rounder ass, the soft sweater in misty green—another Christmas gift—covering bouncing breasts. He’d seen her dress that morning in a pretty lacy bra, the kind built for maximum visual effect rather than physical activity, so there was a lot of bounce.
It was pretty fucking hot.
He stayed where he was until she hit the top of the stairs and turned to look down at him. Even from this distance, he could see she was surprised he hadn’t taken the bait. They’d been at his parents’ house for three days, unable to play or even fuck the way they liked with his mom and stepdad sleeping down the hall, and only a few thin walls between them. A flash of uncertainty crossed her face, then it was gone, replaced by smirking confidence.
“Not up for a chase, old man?” she called, the mocking and teasing in her tone calling to him so strongly that he had to force himself to stay put. “That’s fine. Why don’t you go ahead and take those bags of dirty clothes to the laundry? Feel free to start a load. I’ll just have a little reunion with my vibrator.”
That nearly got his feet moving, but he was enjoying the anticipation too much. “You know the rules, little girl,” he warned.
“Rules?” She smirked, leaning over the banister so her sweater gaped, giving him a tantalizing view of soft breasts and white lace. “Rules only count if you can enforce them.”
Anticipation sang in his blood. “You’re taking big chances.”
A flicker of unease crossed her face before she smoothed it away. “You don’t worry me,” she called back, and only he would’ve heard the nerves in it.
“Oh, yes I do.” He let his grin turn feral, loving the way her body tensed even as she sneered. “Because you know if I get up there and find you touching what’s mine without permission, there will be consequences.”
Her laugh was full of anticipation and apprehension, a heady mix that had him going rock hard in his jeans. “By the time you manage to drag your old bones up here, I’ll have had two orgasms, a shower, and will already be asleep.”
She gave a little toss of her head, sending her short sweep of dark hair flying. “Don’t forget to start the laundry,” she said, then disappeared down the hall.
James waited until the bedroom door slammed before he started up the stairs. He took his time, going first to the second-floor laundry room to drop off the bags. He set them on top of the washing machine where she couldn’t miss them, then continued on to his home office. He’d told his clients he was taking the week off for the holidays, so there was nothing pressing waiting for him. Still, he checked his voicemail, and glanced at a set of blueprints that had been delivered just before Christmas. He frowned over them for a moment, jotting down a few ideas for his meeting with the engineer next week and making a note to ask his assistant to check that the soil testing at the site had been completed.
Then he set down his pen, shut off the lights, and walked down the hall to the bedroom.
The double doors were shut, the room beyond silent. He thought about giving her a few more minutes, to make sure she’d had enough time to get started, then shrugged. If she hadn’t already begun to masturbate—strictly prohibited without permission, as she well knew—then he’d punish her for the threat of it.
Though their D/s dynamic was fairly flexible, and almost everything was open to negotiation, rules were rules. She liked to push from time to time, as though testing to make sure those rules were ironclad, and he liked to remind her that they were. He didn’t mind her pushing—in fact, he’d be disappointed if she didn’t. Just as she’d be disappointed if he didn’t hold to the line they’d agreed on and punish her appropriately for crossing it.
He did so hate to disappoint his wife.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, loosening muscles that had grown tight on the long drive. There was always a chance he’d have to wrestle her down, and Amanda was much stronger than she looked. After three days of enforced celibacy, he was almost hoping she’d run.
He pushed open the doors.
The room was brightly lit, both bedside lamps and the chandelier above the bed glowing, banishing the shadows of twilight to the far corners of the room and spotlighting the woman on the king-sized bed.
She’d propped herself up, a pile of pillows at her back so she sat almost upright. Her clothes were scattered across the foot of the bed and the floor beside it, leaving her bare against the bright blue of the duvet beneath her.
He took a moment to drink in the sight of her, his beloved. Soft breasts, their weight resting gently on her ribcage, her reclining position widening the space between them so he could clearly see the small scar over her breastbone. Her nipples were still soft, pale brown puffs that would pucker and tighten as her arousal grew, and looked their best, in his opinion, when they were pinched in a set of clamps and glowing bright red.
Her belly was a soft curve, round hips flowing to firm thighs that he loved to dig his fingers into when he fucked her. The harder the better, so she’d see the bruises left behind the next day and preen a little in the mirror.
She spread her legs, revealing the soft skin of her inner thighs with their pale stretch marks and the tuft of dark hair at the top of her sex. She would have preferred to completely wax her pubis, but he liked having something to get his fingers into, so they compromised. She left the hair on her mound alone, the dark curls a wild tangle for him to play with, but her pussy below was stripped bare of hair. The soft pink flesh glistened in the bright lights, already slick with her own arousal and probably some lube, because she likely wouldn’t have been able to get the huge purple dildo wedged all the way inside her cunt so quickly without it.
He stared at the offending object for a moment, to increase both her unease and his control, then raised his gaze to hers. She was biting her lip, nibbling at it the way she did when she was unsure but was trying hard not to be, and her nipples were already hardening.
Aroused, and a little scared. Perfect.
“I thought I told you not to touch what’s mine without permission.”
She shrugged, a smirk on her pretty face despite the growing anxiety in her eyes. “Oops.”
He had to fight to keep his lips from twitching. “Oops? You’re going with oops?”
He forced himself to frown. “Being cute won’t save you.”
“No?” She shrugged again, her tits bouncing enticingly with the movement. “I might as well enjoy myself, then.”
She lifted her hands to her breasts, her short red fingernails gleaming against her skin. Her breasts were delightfully responsive, the nipples puckering and lengthening at her touch. She pulled them with her fingertips, her breath hitching at the contact, and he grew even harder.
“This might take a while,” she said, her voice thin and tight with arousal. “I used the Velvet Swing.”
His gaze darted to the bedside table, and the distinctive bottle that sat there. Velvet Swing—or the good lube, as they sometimes called it—was a cannabis-based lubricant sold by their local pot shop. Infused with both THC and CBD, it increased blood flow and intensified arousal, and often triggered Amanda into multiple orgasms. They tended to save it for those times when they wanted a long play session, as it required about forty minutes after application to reach full potency.
Apparently, Amanda wanted to play hard tonight.
“You have until the count of three to stop touching my property, Amanda,” he warned her. “One.”
She brought one hand to her mouth, sucking two fingers inside with a noisy pop that had him grinding his teeth against the surge of desire. “Two.”
She pulled her fingers away from her mouth, sliding them down her throat and between her breasts, leaving a damp trail behind. She skimmed them across her belly, drifted past the thatch of pubic hair, to hover over her clit, out of its hood and clearly visible. He held his breath as she kept them there for a moment, teasing both of them, before she grabbed the wide base of the protruding dildo.
“Three,” he growled, the word mingling with her reflexive moan as she shoved the dildo deeper into her pussy, and he was moving before the sound faded.
He was beside the bed in a heartbeat, and surprise lit her eyes when he lifted her into the air. She flailed in his arms, the dildo falling to the bed, and her laughing squeal was cut off abruptly when he sat on the side of the bed and pushed her face down over his lap. He planted a hand on the back of her neck to counter her instinctive attempt to right herself.
“You asked for this,” he reminded her, and brought his hand down on her ass.
She squealed again, bucking against his hold, and he barely avoided a foot to the face. Fighting back a laugh, he shifted to wedge her legs between his, clenching his thighs to keep her in place, then shoved her face towards the floor. She grabbed his leg, digging her short nails in through his jeans as she pushed herself up.
He smacked her ass again, a short, sharp blow right on her sit spot. “Stay put,” he ordered, and grabbed the dildo off the bed to unceremoniously shove it back into her cunt.
Her choked “Oh, shit!” was accompanied by a hard buck of her hips that would have resulted in her getting free if he hadn’t had her legs trapped. He kept one hand firmly between her shoulder blades, holding her down, and worked the dildo with the other. Her pussy was tight, the way her legs were clamped together making for an even snugger fit than usual, so he took his time, pulling it out slightly, wiggling it a bit, pushing it back in. He thought about stopping for more lube, something slicker and more viscous than the cannabis cream she’d already applied, but he didn’t want to let go of her long enough to dig into the nightstand drawer. Instead he slowed down the process, drawing it out so that by the time he had the dildo fully seated in her cunt, her thighs were slick, and she was panting.
“That’s pretty,” he observed, and gave the wide base of the toy a firm pat that made her hips jerk. He grinned at her upturned ass and did it again, her strangled moan delighting him.
“Tell me what you’re getting a spanking for, Amanda.”
“Because you’re old?”
He tsked in mock disappointment and smacked the base of the toy again just to listen to her moan. “Try again.”
“Because you have no sense of humor?”
Smack. “You’re going to find out just where my sense of humor lives if you keep playing games. Last chance. Why are you getting a spanking?”
Her body tensed as she hesitated, and he knew she was weighing her options. She undoubtedly had another smart-ass remark dancing on the tip of her tongue, ready to launch, but she was also starting to realize the precariousness of her situation. They both enjoyed the punishment games that made up so much of their kink, but there were limits, and she knew it. She wanted to come, and knew that if she pushed him too far, he’d make his point by not letting her.
He waited for her to make her choice. If she chose obedience, he’d fuck her until they both came screaming. If she chose insolence, he’d put her smart mouth to good use for his own pleasure, then send her to bed, aching and wanting.
Either way would be fun for him, but he hoped she’d choose obedience. After three sexless days, he missed her, and he’d love nothing more than to give her as many orgasms as she could take before curling up to sleep with her wrapped around him, limp and satisfied.
But the choice was hers.
The seconds ticked by, and he was on the verge of reminding her there was a question on the table—via the forceful application of hand to ass—when she let out a resigned sigh. “Because I was masturbating without permission.”
Relief and desire flooded him in equal measure. “And why do you need permission to masturbate?”
“Because my orgasms belong to you.”
“That’s right,” he replied, and rewarded her by giving the base of the dildo a solid wiggle. “You put the lube on just before I came in?”
“A couple of minutes before, yes, Sir.”
“Hmmm.” He glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel across the room. “Then we’ve got about half an hour before it really starts to kick in, don’t we? Let’s see if we can spend our time wisely. Count.”
He lifted his hand, waited for her breathless “Yes, Sir,” then let it fall on the fullest part of her upturned ass, making sure to catch the edge of the protruding dildo.
She jerked, moaned out “One,” and he stroked his hand approvingly over the pink that had bloomed beneath his hand.
“Good girl,” he praised, and, seeing that the dildo had begun to slip out, nudged it back into place. She was even wetter, the column of silicone sliding back in much more easily than it had even just a few moments ago.
He glanced at the clock, calculating how many swats she could take and still be in the right head space for what he had in mind. One smack every two minutes should do it, he figured, and, drawn out over half an hour, wouldn’t be too taxing. And while he was counting down the seconds to the next spank, he could play.
Amanda had no idea how much time had passed. She knew it had been a while, because she was counting the spanks, and he’d just delivered number fourteen. James pulled her up by the hair every five smacks so some of the blood could drain out of her head. It also gave him the opportunity to play with her nipples, now clamped—he must have had the alligator clips on standby—for a few moments before he pushed her back down. But the lightheadedness wasn’t so bad, and at least while her pussy was in the air, he was paying attention to it. At this point the lube was kicking in, her pussy swollen and engorged, tingling on the verge of a hard orgasm, and God, she wanted it.
Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be interested in making her come. He kept his touch light, even careless, every move seemingly geared toward reducing her to a mindless puddle of helpless lust. And it was working.
In between smacks—which hurt, dammit, he wasn’t going easy at all—his fingers were busy, scraping over the heated skin of her ass, their calloused tips rough against the tenderized flesh. Gliding through the moisture that pooled between her thighs, drawing light circles around her clit and stroking over the stretched lips of her pussy, or tapping with a firmer touch on the slick pucker of her asshole. And slowly, too slowly to bring any relief whatsoever, fucking her with the dildo she’d so foolishly thought to tease him with.
If he didn’t let her come soon, she was going to start drooling.
Well, she was already drooling, but since she was chewing on the leg of his jeans to muffle her moans, at least he’d be the one to have to deal with it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this worked up. Her ass was raw, and little pulses of pain radiated from her clamped nipples. The chain that connected them was just heavy enough to act as a weight that pulled at them unceasingly—thanks for nothing, gravity—adding to both her distress and her arousal. Her pussy was on fire, pulsing and throbbing around the thick toy, and she’d swear she could feel her heartbeat in her swollen, aching clit.
The Velvet Swing might, in hindsight, have been a mistake. Sure, the orgasms she had with it were longer and stronger than the ones she achieved without it, and she could often count on having more than one, but none of that did her any good if he won’t let me come, something she should’ve considered before putting her tease James into a scene plan into action.
She could only hope he’d be horny enough to put an end to this torture soon, but she knew from experience he was capable of denying himself for hours to draw out a scene.
She was contemplating all the ways she could grovel her way into an orgasm when his hand landed on her ass again, and sent her thoughts scattering.
“Fifteen,” she managed, groaning out the count along with her frustration as need and pain burst through her. The blow was hard enough to rock her forward on his lap, making her breasts bounce and setting the chain connecting them swaying. Tension spiked, sharp and sweet, drawing another groan. Her hips rolled, a helpless, instinctive motion, her searching for relief. The dildo began to once again work its way out of her with the movement, and she flexed to help it along, needing the slick slide of the silicone against her swollen cunt. But instead of fucking her with it as he’d been doing for the last half hour, he pulled it free.
Surprised, she started to turn, and suddenly found herself being lifted up. The room spun for a moment as the blood rushed from her head, and by the time her vision cleared, she was flat on her back in the middle of the bed, almost in the same position she’d started in.
Oh, thank God, he’d decided to stop toying with her. No doubt the last half hour of play had aroused him, especially after three days at his mom’s house. She sent him a smile, sure she’d find him shedding his clothes, preparing to climb on top of her and give her the solid fucking they’d both been craving. Instead, he was fully dressed and frowning at the bench that sat at the foot of their bed.
She watched, confused, when he pushed it away from the footboard. “James? What are you doing?”
“Who?” he asked, his voice hard, giving the bench a solid nudge with his knee, not even looking at her, and she felt the first real twinge of uh-oh.
She swallowed. “Sir, what are you doing?”
“Setting up the spectator area, of course,” he replied. Apparently satisfied with its placement, he turned to face the bed and sat on the bench.
“Um.” She swallowed, eyeing him cautiously. He was leaning forward slightly, silver-streaked hair tousled, his hands resting on his thighs. He seemed relaxed, at ease, until she saw his eyes. She’d been looking into those eyes for nearly fifteen years, and she didn’t need the corresponding bulge in his jeans to tell her he was aroused. And she didn’t need to see the slightly mocking curl to his lips to understand that she was in trouble.
She wiggled a little on the bed, wincing when her tender butt scraped against what she’d always thought was their softest duvet cover. He hadn’t hit her much—fifteen was pretty light, actually—but the whacks he’d landed hadn’t been gentle. “Sir?”
He jerked his chin. “Pick up the dildo.”
She glanced down to see the purple dildo, still slick from her pussy, lying next to her. Heat seared her cheeks. She didn’t know why, but seeing the evidence of her arousal on it brought a wash of shame that made her grateful she wasn’t looking at him.
Confusingly, it also brought a flood of fresh desire.
Swallowing hard, she did as she was told, her cheeks burning hotter when she saw the damp stain left behind on the duvet. She glanced up again, forcing herself to meet her husband’s gaze, and awaited further instruction.
His eyes had narrowed slightly, and she knew he hadn’t missed her reaction. For a moment she thought he might question her about it, then he jerked his head. “Use it.”
The quick rush of relief at not being questioned quickly burned away as she realized what he was asking. “Sir?”
“Use it,” he repeated, relaxing even further on the bench, looking as though he was getting ready to watch a very boring, very predictable sporting event. “You were so eager to come that you decided to break the rules, so go ahead. Make yourself come.”
She stared at him, shocked and more than a little thrown by the order. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, no softness or give in his tone at all, pinning her with those unflinching, icy eyes. “Fuck yourself with the dildo and make yourself come. Or,” he continued in the same even tone, “don’t come at all.”
“Until when?” she blurted out, dismay making her voice squeak.
“Until you fuck yourself with the dildo and make yourself come.”