He nodded, his eyes on mine. “Tell me, Jenny, how should you be punished?”
I blinked, confused. “I don’t know, Sir.” Surely it wasn’t my place to tell him how to punish me. I was the submissive. I had to endure what he wanted.
“Get up,” he ordered. I complied and he led me to the dressing room. I’d barely noticed it as I walked out from the bathroom, but I paid better attention now. It had a large mirror on one wall and two upholstered chairs on either side of a small table.
Alexander flicked every light on and positioned a chair so that it faced the mirror. He sat down on it and patted his lap. “Come sit down,” he instructed. I bit my lip and obeyed. My eyes met his gaze in the mirror. “Keep looking in the mirror, Jenny,” he purred. “Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch.”
Watch what? “Yes, Sir.”
“Part your legs.” He didn’t attempt to hide his desire; his voice was raspy with lust. I spread my legs and he put his hands on my thighs, holding me open. “I’m going to punish you now, Jenny.” He sounded amused. “I want you to touch your nipples. Run your fingertips all over them.”
I bit my lip. I rarely touched myself anymore. When I was a teenager, before Dylan, I sometimes caress myself in the dark, lying on my bed. I’d imagine that one of the men in the books I’d read was in the room with me and I’d pet myself the way I’d imagine they would touch me. Gently at first and gradually getting more insistent, as their desire for me overwhelmed them.
Then Dylan happened and I realized what really happened when desire overwhelmed some men.
After the night in Paris with Alexander, who had told me his name was Marc, I’d played with myself a few times, trying to recreate his touch. Now he was here and I was sitting on his lap. I was flushed with embarrassment at performing this so-intimate act in front of him, yet I almost wept with frustration that he wasn’t doing it himself.
My fingertips moved over my breasts, barely making contact with my nipples. The buds engorged in response and Alexander’s mouth descended on the back of my neck, brushing my hair out of the way. “Good girl,” he praised me. “Run your fingernails over them.”
My nails scraped my tender flesh and I hissed at the sensations that rose in me. “Sir,” I groaned. “Please, touch me.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.” His hands gently traced circles on my parted thighs. In the mirror, his eyes burned into me. “Now, pinch your nipples between your thumb and forefinger.”
I lifted both hands to do as he asked, throwing my head back and closing my eyes as a shaft of lust pierced through me. A sharp smack on my thighs jolted my eyes open. “Keep your eyes open, Jenny,” he said mildly.
“Sorry Sir.” My apology was sincere. He was so calm and so controlled and it was such a turn-on. I wanted to please him.
“Resume,” he urged. His nails scraped my thighs, moving closer to my wet, dripping cunt.
My fingers pinched and I looked in the mirror, meeting his gaze. In my mind, I pretended it was his hands on my nipples. I kneaded the nubs between my fingertips and I whimpered softly as pinpricks of pleasure spiked all over me.
“Harder,” he ordered and I increased the pressure. My cunt clenched in response, as shuddering lust ran through my body. “Now, touch your cunt.”
I blushed but I didn’t protest. My hands obediently trailed down my body, over the swell of my breasts, past the clenched muscles of my abdomen, down to the soft mound.
“Spread your lips open for me,” he whispered in my ear, nibbling at my flesh as he spoke.
He didn’t mean the lips of my mouth. He meant the puffy, swollen lips of my cunt.
“Alexander,” I groaned.
“Should you be protesting, Jenny?” His voice was politely interested, but his rebuke came across, loud and clear.
“No Sir.” I flushed in shame.
He kissed my neck again. “What should you be doing, Jenny?” This time, his voice sounded warmer.
“I should be obeying you,” I said. I met his gaze in the mirror. I didn’t take my eyes off his as I parted my cunt lips for him.
He inhaled sharply as my folds opened and the pink flesh within peeked into view. His fingers reached towards me. My gaze stayed locked onto the mirror as one of his fingers dipped into my slit, coming out wet with my juices. He kept looking at me as he brought that finger to his mouth, tasting me. “Such a treat,” he said. He grinned. “Breakfast of champions.”
I laughed aloud, though my laugh was bitten off as his hands moved from my thighs and cupped my breasts. I watched my reflection, fascinated by the way his large hands enveloped them, by the way my dusky-rose nipples perked up in response.
“Now, make yourself come for me.”