“There you go. Keep doing that. I’d keep doing it until you were rocking forward in a f*cking rhythm against my touch, because your body is gravitating toward what it wants. To be spread on my bed, those legs wide open for my cock. Your breasts tilted up, offering themselves to my mouth. Or maybe you’d like me in your mouth, straddling your neck while your p-ssy weeps for me. And when I came, I’d move down, clasp those heavy, gorgeous tits around my cock, f*ck them as I came, spilling myself on your chest.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Her gaze flickered up, just a quick look, to see blue fire. Then back down, to receive more direction. “Your nipples are nice and stiff now. Move down your stomach, wash everything else, but not your p-ssy or between your buttocks. Not until I say you can.”
She obeyed. He had to remind her twice to keep her pace slow, lingering. As a result, for the first time in a long while she was aware of the feel of her own flesh, the length of thigh, the softness of her skin, the curve of hip. The line of her ribs. Back up to her throat. The sensitivity of that area made her close her eyes briefly, and she could tell his attention sharpened on her reaction. She shaved her legs, bracing herself against the wall as he continued to watch. His gaze lingered between her legs as she had to brace her foot against the porcelain rest provided in the corner.
At that angle, he could see her pink, flushed sex. In the shower, it might look moist and ready, whatever its true state was. She wanted to find out, but he’d told her she couldn’t touch herself there. Plus, she was afraid she would find what she usually found. A bare hint of true lubrication, but something dammed up inside her, holding the natural fluids back.
Uneasy now, she placed the razor back in its cradle. She’d done her pubic area and armpits, which had brought her self-consciousness back, since those areas required less elegant contortions than the legs. He’d noted every shift of her muscles, the creamy track of soap, the water pattering down upon her. Five minutes had passed since he’d said anything. His focus was unnerving, yet also captivating. Then she was rinsed and clean, all of her but those two parts he’d specifically forbidden her to wash.
“Soap.” When he put his hand out for it, she hesitated. She hadn’t showered in two days, after all.
“Maybe I should—”
When those three words left her lips, something changed. Like the strike of a cobra, it wasn’t something she saw happen. His countenance, the arrangement of muscles in his face, the posture of his powerful, shamelessly naked body, all told her she would obey him in this. The weak protest died in her throat.
She remembered those Internet sites she’d visited, with Doms who came down on any show of resistance or disagreement like a snarling tantrum, making her wonder if that was what most submissives craved. Or oddly, if they were truly Doms or just pretending, because somehow it felt forced, even on their side.
Even more oddly, it had made her think of a section of one of her favorite childhood books, Black Beauty. How some humans thought, to make a horse do their bidding, they had to jerk his mouth, dig their heels into his sides so hard. In reality, if the horse was trained correctly, he would respond to the lightest guidance of the leg and rein without question, because he wanted to serve his Master, was eager to do so.
She placed the soap in his hand.
Curving his other hand under her hair, he turned her toward the wall. “Lean forward and take hold of the safety bar. Spread your feet out shoulder width, and lift your ass toward me.”
The quivering was back in full force, but she managed to obey. She was partially under the spray, but she still felt the pressure of his fingers, sliding over her shoulder blades, gathering up her hair and twisting it so it fell over her right shoulder. Then he smoothed his palm down the curve of her back. As he did, he picked up the long-handled scrubbing brush she kept in the shower for cleaning it once a week.
“Eyes forward, Rachel.”
She obeyed, imagining all sorts of things, not so sure now, but then—
Thwack!
She yelped as the flat of that brush hit her with precision at the most generous portion of her right buttock. It stung, but it didn’t overwhelm her with pain. Instead, something rocketed through her, head to toes, making the latter dig into the wet tile.
“That’s a reminder,” he said, his voice enhanced by the water’s rush. “Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Y-yes.” Why couldn’t she say anything to him without stammering?
“Be still now. Feel.”
From the change in water flow, she knew he’d directed the spigot away from them. In the blurry reflection on the glossy tile, she knew he was lathering his hands, setting the soap aside. Then he put his hands on her waist, lingering there. The gesture made her feel feminine, an hourglass cinched in the middle by those long, elegant fingers and large palms. As he moved downward, the soap made his passage slippery, heated. He braced one of those palms on her left buttock as the other slid between her spread legs.
She jumped, she couldn’t help it. Cursing herself, she went rigid, trying to hold the posture, fighting the panic that leaped into her throat at such an unwelcome reaction. “I-I’m sorry.”
“Rachel.” He continued his movements, his knuckles brushing the delicate crease between labia and thigh, and then his palm sealed itself over her p-ssy, his fingers settling with possessive skill on either side of her *, applying the lightest of pressure.
A convulsion—no other word for it—vibrated from the soles of her feet, all the way to her stiffly held neck. “Oh…” The word was a strangled syllable, echoing in the enclosed space. “Oh God…”
It wasn’t a climax of course, but something as intense. A need that held her prisoner in its grip.
“Rachel.” He repeated himself, patient, but there was a thickness to his voice that told her he wasn’t unaffected by her reaction.
“Y-yes.” Thank heavens he’d known her for a while, or he really would think she had a stutter.
“Don’t apologize for anything again, unless I demand an apology from you. The fact a man has not touched and pleasured you in such a long time that it’s strange to you,” his palm moved, an easy movement that sent his soapy fingers gliding over the petals of her sex, and then an intimate dip inside, rubbing, cleaning, “is nothing to apologize for. That’s for damn sure.”
The last four words were spoken with visceral male satisfaction. It helped, because she couldn’t stop making those gasps and whimpers as he stroked and probed, cleaning her. It felt…maybe, like she was slippery, but that could be the soap. When he removed his touch from that area, he kept his palm curved over her mound as an anchor point as he used the other hand to clean between her buttocks. It kept fountains of glittering sensation shooting up into her body.
She’d thought a lot about anal play, had explored herself there and been startled by how erogenous a zone the rim area was, but to have it actually massaged by a male hand, her bottom still smarting from the strike with the brush, was stunningly different. With his other hand still stimulating her p-ssy, it was automatic to moan and lift her ass even higher to his touch, taking herself to her toes, hands clutching the safety bar.
“None of that now.” He pressed on her lower back, putting her flat on her feet again. “You stay in the position I’ve put you. No begging for more. That’s for me to say.”