He reached past me to lock the closed door, and then he leaned down enough to press his forehead to mine. “Oh Corabel,” he breathed, his hands coming up to cradle my face. “When? When can we start?”
I should have said another time, another place. My apartment in a couple days. Or Persepolis next week. But I couldn’t. My body already glowed with heat at his nearness, the seam between my legs already felt heavy and swollen and slick. And I—whatever thing made up Corabel Dennis independent of her body, whether it was her mind or her heart—craved him even more. He was intelligent and strong and possibly the slightest bit cruel, and everything inside me wanted to tangle with him. To fight him and fuck him and best him and be bested by him.
“Now,” I managed, my throat dry with wanting him. “We can start now—”
I didn’t even have a chance to finish before his mouth crashed down against my own, before his warm hands were on my waist, on my ass, pulling me up against him so that my legs went around his hips and his hands supported me under my thighs with the casual ease of a strong male. And then his hips pressed into me, wedging a stout and lengthy erection against my cunt. I’d worn a skirt today—a skirt now hiked up around my upper thighs—and so the only thing separating his surging cock from my opening was a thin lace thong and his slacks.
I moaned.
A large hand clapped over my mouth, and another blue glare seared right through my soul. “You’ll be heard, Corabel,” the reverend said quietly. “If you want to stop or to wait, that’s one thing. But if you want to play right now, if you need a Sir’s hands on you before you can think straight, then I suggest silence. Got it?”
He lifted his hand but I was already nodding like the good little girl I could be in these situations. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered. “I’ll be quiet. Just please don’t stop.”
Please don’t ever stop. When was the last time I’d been this turned on? This lit up, this excited? When was the last time the Dom I’d chosen for the hour or for the night actually elicited my genuine respect? When was the last time he’d been a man worth getting to my knees for?
Too long.
Maybe there hadn’t even been a real last time. Not compared to this.
My whispered plea was all he needed to hear, apparently, and with abrupt and deliberate roughness, I found myself bent over his desk, my face on his sermon notes, my skirt up over my ass as his hands shaped the curves there with palpable appreciation.
“Fuck, you’re a treasure,” he said, squeezing and cupping me. When he turned to reach for something on his desk, I felt the fabric-covered bar of his cock brush against me, and I tried to push against it, wanting it, wanting him.
He made a noise at that—all arrogant amusement—and then I felt what he’d gotten from his desk against my hip. Scissors.
They kissed cold sensation all along my ass until they found the line of my thong and bit into the lace. Soon my pussy was bare and the scissors were on the table next to my face, and then he squatted behind me.
His thumbs ran parallel lines up my folds once or twice, making me shiver with anticipation, and then he spread my cheeks apart with his palms while his thumbs parted my secret place open for his viewing.
“So wet,” the reverend tsked. “Has it been too long? Too long since this little pussy was satisfied?”
I nodded against the papers under my face, my skin prickling with shame and delight—which to me are the same thing, at least when fucking is involved. “Please,” I moaned. It was agony to be held open and gazed at and not touched; it was agony to feel the heat of this prideful man behind me and not be made his. My entire body keened for it, for him, for him to take all the desire and all the dislike and all the destiny between us, and turn it into something sweaty and real.
And to be honest, I needed to come already, even though we hadn’t even gotten close to the kind of sex where coming was an option, but still. It felt like if I didn’t come, I’d die.
Even rough, uncaring fingers would get me off at this point.
Even the edge of the desk, if he’d let me rub against it, which I doubted. The Reverend Doctor Mark Trade did not seem like the kind of man who allowed those kinds of liberties from his submissives.
His fingers moved, testing me, sampling the wet and gauging how slick it had made me.
“You need fucked,” he decided aloud. “Badly.”
“Yes, please,” I said in a voice maybe a bit more irritated than it should have been, because the next thing I knew he was bent all the way over me, one hand fisted in my hair and the other covering my mouth.
“I’m not a sadist…necessarily,” he growled low in my ear. “But don’t think just because I won’t take a crop to your ass that I won’t gag that pretty mouth. That I won’t tie you to this desk and devote the next three hours to wringing some respect out of you. Got it?”
Oh God. Even just his low threats in my ear were enough to make my belly curl in a needy ache. I wanted to be good for him, but also holy fuck, those punishments sounded so hot—a classic submissive’s dilemma.
But I behaved—for now.
“I got it. Sir.”
A noise of approval, and then I was hauled up onto the desk on my back, no care whatsoever given to the papers and books underneath me, and then Mark crawled over me with glittering eyes.
“Next time,” he promised. “Next time, we’ll play for real. I want you in my ropes…you’ll look so pretty there, Corabel, all tied up and waiting for your Sir. Or perhaps I’ll tease this pretty pussy until you’re crying to come.”
“Yes,” I sighed up at him. “Yes to all those things.”
He traced my jaw with possessive fingers and then reached down to his zipper. “What else do you like, fiery girl? What else do you want to do?”
My cheeks heated bright red, but if there was any time to be honest, it was flat on my back on the preacher’s desk while he slowly unzipped himself. “S-servitude,” I managed to say.
His hand paused its work. “Servitude,” he repeated, tilting his head, as if he thought he’d misheard me. Which was fair, given that I’d snapped at him earlier about not being his servant. But sometimes the best kinks are the most contradictory.
My cheeks went from red to the deepest, hottest crimson, and humiliation crawled all over my skin. “You know,” I whispered. “Domestic stuff. Tending to you. You using me like furniture or a servant or…”
His own eyes fluttered closed, as if my words had a nearly painful effect on him. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice. “Yes, I do know.”
Do you like it? I was desperate to ask. Do you get off on it? Some men and women didn’t—for some it was too abstract, and for others, it wasn’t abstract enough. Nothing will make you confront your shame and anger like being told to bake a cake naked or to balance a glass of wine on your back while your Dom or Domme reads from a book in a comfortable chair next to you.
Nothing felt more forbidden, nothing felt more juicy and wrong than to be treated like that. To make myself a vessel of someone else’s least important needs.
I loved it. And God, how I wanted Mark to love it, I wanted it to be his kink as much as it was mine.
“Would you like it?” I finally gathered up the courage to ask. “If I came over and served you for the night? Cooked or cleaned or even just held things for you while you read or worked?”
He shuddered above me, opening his eyes to reveal troubled pools of blue lust. “Yes,” he ground out. “Yes, I would like that. Fuck, Corabel, I’d—I’d do anything for that.”
The answering smile on my fast was too big and too fast to stop, and he bent low with a growl, biting at the smile and then kissing it right off my face. His hand went back between us, and then he pulled out his cock for real this time. The head of it—hot, blunt, hard—fell against my thigh and then moved up, nudging right against the place that would squeeze him so very tightly if only he dared to take it.