Chapter 51

51

June

His gaze widens, those blue eyes I know so well turn into polar flares. Need leaps off of his body. The very air between us is saturated with a dense, thick, syrupy lust that threatens to knock my knees together and squeeze every last bit of moisture from my pussy. Then he schools his features into an expression of disdain. A curtain seems to drop in front of his eyes, blocking off the fierce passion that swirls below. His lips thin, and his jaw hardens. The very air about him turns from warm savannah to an arctic breeze. In seconds, he's changed from passionate, loving husband to cold-hearted, sadistic master. I know both. Love one and revere the other. He continues to glare at me, and the force of his gaze is too much.

I'm not worth this attention. I haven't earned his recognition in this encounter yet. I lower my eyes; then, because it only seems correct, I lower myself to my knees. I keep my head lowered, my fingers locked together in front of me, as I looked down at his sneakers. I've come a long way from the first time I kneeled at his feet and took in his polished Italian dress shoes. Today, instead of wearing a suit, he's wearing jeans and a T-shirt. We're both dressed in informal clothes. But we're married, and he's my master in every way, and I—I live to serve him. To please him. So, he'll reward me with the most delicious orgasms only he can bestow on me.

"You will stay in this position until I'm ready for you." Without a second's pause, he walks away. My knees dig into the wooden floor. There isn't even a rug under me. It's not particularly comfortable. In fact, as the seconds pass, my knees begin to hurt. I shift my weight from side to side, but it doesn't get easier. The sun's rays' slant through the window. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I wipe it away, hear him moving around behind me. I hear the sound of a zipper and realize he's unpacking the suitcases. Then, his footsteps thud across the floor. Is he putting away our clothes? This continues for a few minutes, and the entire time, the discomfort in my knees grows.

"You okay?" he calls out.

I nod.

"If you'd rather stand…"

He's testing me. He thinks I'm going to give in and admit I can't do this. But I can. He's pushing my limits, and I can take it. I can.

"Whatever you wish, Sir," I say without turning around.

I sense satisfaction radiating off of him. He goes back to whatever he's doing.

I stay kneeling, trying to ignore the way the bones in my knees are digging into the floor. I have to keep moving around to try to ease the pain. My thigh muscles tighten. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. I keep my gaze trained on the floor in front of me. I can do this. I can. Footsteps approach. He walks around to stand in front of me. Once more, I see his sneakers. Then he reaches down and cups my cheek. "You can stand up now."

Relief rushes through my body. I try to straighten my legs, but my legs have gone to sleep. I begin to topple over, but he catches me and scoops me up in his arms. I sigh in relief to have the weight taken off my legs. I turn my head into his chest and draw in lungfuls of my Sir. That scent of rich tobacco and leather, laced with sandalwood, washes over me.

My heart calms, and my pussy stutters like it's been struck. Damn, I so hope he'll do that. And I also don't want him to. It's a shock to my system when he spanks me in that tender spot and yet, the rush of sensations that follow it turn me into a horny, mindless slave whose only desire is to gratify her master. He reaches the bed and lays me down. He stands near my feet, pulls off my low-heeled boots and socks, and drops them on the floor. Then, he sits down on the bed next to me and reaches for the zipper on my jeans. He pulls it down, and I raise my hips and allow him to slide them off my legs. Next, he reaches for a hand towel and dips it in a bowl of water I hadn't noticed on the nightstand—it's next to a wooden box I'm also seeing for the first time. So, this is what he was doing earlier when I heard him walking about the room? I don't see our bags by the door anymore, so maybe, he did that, too.

He presses the wet towel to my knee. The slight throbbing there recedes, and I sigh. He does the same with my other knee. His head is bent, and he's focused on what he's doing. I have his complete attention, and a thrill courses through me. This is what I love. This is what I've wanted since I first met him. And now, I have him, and it's incredible. All those years I bounced around from foster home to foster home and felt unwelcome. And the fact that I was given up for adoption meant there was a part of me that felt rejected. And now, having him so tuned into my needs fills that emptiness inside of me. It makes me feel loved, cherished, and so very needed.

He looks up to meet my eyes. "Does it hurt?"

I shake my head.

"Good girl." He drops the wet cloth on the bedside table, then places his big hand on my naked thigh. "You realize, I did it because I know how much it means to you to be punished. I know how important it is for you to explore this sexual intensity, this emotional connection you feel toward me. I know what it means to give yourself completely to me. You're asking for the freedom to explore your own identity."

I swallow.

"To go places you cannot go yourself. To have experiences you cannot ask for. You're depending on me, your master, to lead you into the place beyond any resistance you might encounter."

A soft moan spills from my lips. His words cut me to the core. How have I been seen this easily? How can he look at me and know what I want? It's more intimate than the sex we've hand. More personal than even being married to him. This, him telling me what I want, is tender and erotic, and it's unconditional. This is unconditional love. The liberty to reveal myself to him completely and not feel judged feels like I've been set free.

His support makes me feel safe enough to explore the depths of my own perversity. This is what I sensed when I first saw him in his office. As he helps me open up my body to him, my mind and heart follow. I've never been this vulnerable to anyone else… And yet, in that, there's also a strength. A faith. A trust that my master recognizes what I want, and he'll give it to me. When he decides the time is right.

The feelings course through my legs and my chest to coalesce in my lower belly. Every part of me feels like it's waking up. My blood thrums in my veins. My pulse thuds at my ankles, my wrists, and in the hollow at the base of my throat. Emotions squeeze my chest and well up my throat. It's so intense, a tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye. "Sir. Please, sir," I whisper.

His lips twitch, then he bends and kisses my forehead. So soft. So tender. I feel like I've been reborn and that he's touching me for the first time.

"Move over to the center of the bed." He straightens, and I wriggle over toward the middle. "Show me your wrists."

I extend my arms as he's asked.

He reaches down and pulls off his belt, and the sound of the leather against the fabric of his jeans sets off sensations across my nerve-endings. Then, he knots it around my wrists, testing it before he pulls my arms up and ties me to the headboard. He tugs on it and the pull sends a shiver down my spine. My toes curl. My thighs shiver. He hasn't even started, and I'm already so aroused. He slides off the bed, walks into the closet and returns with three scarves. He uses them to tie one of my ankles to the side of the bed, then the other, so I'm spreadeagled. Then he moves over to straddle my waist without putting any weight on me. "I'm going to blindfold you."