“I told you I’d make you come again,” he replied, rubbing her gently.
She squirmed against him. “You . . . mmm . . . don’t have to.”
“I do,” he insisted. “I want to. I wanna watch your face this time when you come.”
He rubbed her rhythmically, finding a pressure she liked, feeling impossibly drowsy and excited at the same time. She moaned and arched her back, and he knew she was close. She shook her head, even begged him to stop, but he continued touching her, shooting the first sparks up her legs. And then she burst with pleasure all over again. He watched the contortions of her face, that sweet intensity as her body rocked and spasmed around his finger—his one finger on one tiny part of her body. Amazing, he thought, muffling her screams with his mouth.
“You never answered my question,” he cooed in my ear.
It was early morning, and I lay blindfolded in bed, hands tied to the headboard with scarves Reece found in my closet. He hovered over me—his breath warm and moist against my skin—waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t know.
I shook my head.
“How do I be a better boyfriend to you with your OCD?” he asked.
“Well, you can go down on me again like you did last night,” I giggled.
“So cute,” he replied, and slipped his finger inside me.
I gasped and squirmed.
“Lie still,” he ordered. “And answer me for real.”
“We’ll kill the mood if we talk about it,” I whined.
“Answer me,” he demanded, stroking me slowly.
I moaned. “Umm, don’t take my pens at work.”
“I got that one. Tell me why.” He continued stroking me, then dipped his head between my legs and teased my clit with his tongue.
“Ohhh!”
“Tell me why. I wanna understand,” he said against my tender flesh.
“It makes it worse!” I cried. “If . . . if someone k-keeps you from performing a . . . a tic or giving into an urge, it j-just makes it w-worse! Oh my God!”
“Mmhmm,” Reece replied. “And then what happens?” He swirled his tongue over me, and I screamed.
“I don’t know!”
He popped his head up. I couldn’t see him looking at me, but I could feel it.
“Yes, you do, and I need to understand, so tell me,” he said.
“Get your face back down there!”
“After you tell me,” he replied, tickling me with his fingers. He slid his finger inside the slightest bit, then pulled it out.
“You’re mean!”
“Tell me,” he said, ignoring my insult.
I huffed. “It’s like regressing. People with OCD make progress when they ignore or distract themselves from their compulsions. But when someone forces them to refrain from indulging an urge, it just makes them want to do it more. And then they regress. And start up that ritual all over again, like no progress was ever made.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Indulge you?”
“Exactly. Get down there and eat my *.”
Reece chuckled. “You know what I mean.”
“No. You aren’t supposed to indulge me or include yourself in my rituals. You’re supposed to encourage me and celebrate when I’ve made improvements. It sounds so stupid. Can we talk about this another time?”
Reece buried his face between my legs, and I sighed.
“So I should reward you for throwing your shirt on the floor last night?”
I’d forgotten all about my shirt. And yeah, I threw it on the kitchen floor! Very un-Bailey-like. What was this man doing to me? He made me forget that I was tic-bound, schedule-bound, urge-bound. He made me feel like I was breaking free, even as my hands were securely fastened to the headboard.
“So you deserve a reward for throwing your shirt.” This time he didn’t state it as a question.
He slid his tongue in me, then replaced it with his fingers. He sucked and licked my clit just the way I liked, then pulled back abruptly.
“Why?!” I yelled.
“Because you deserve a punishment for folding your bra,” he replied.
Oh, shit. I’d forgotten about the bra folding. I tried to think up an excuse, then squealed as I was promptly flipped over onto my stomach. I adjusted my bound hands as best I could.
“Reece!” I screamed.
“I’m gonna make your ass red,” he replied.
“REECE!”
“Okay fine. I won’t spank it. I’ll just fuck it.”
I had no words. My body tensed as I felt his hands go to my cheeks, spreading them apart.
“NO!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
“I just want to look,” he said, removing his hands.
“I . . . no one’s ever . . . I can’t . . .”
“Relax, Bailey. I would never do something you didn’t want me to,” Reece said. “You want me to untie you?”
How was I supposed to answer that question? Obviously I liked the mild kink, and I kind of wanted to see where else he planned to take it, but if I said, “No, don’t untie me,” it would give him way too much satisfaction. He’d goad me relentlessly about how much I loved being his little sex toy.
I remained quiet. I could feel him swelling back there like a damn peacock. My plan failed, although I suspect he would have gained the satisfaction either way—whether I said yes or no.
He was on top of me in a flash, leaning into my ear.
“Okay, baby love. You have a choice. You’re not leaving this room until you’re punished for folding your bra, so it can go one of two ways: Either you let me spank that sweet little ass, or you let me fuck it.”
“Reece!” I twisted against him.
“Your choice,” he said.
“Neither!”
“That’s not a choice.”
“You ass!”
“That’s fitting,” he said, and I screamed all over again. “Pick one, Bailey.”
Obviously I was going to choose the spanking. It would hurt, but at least it wouldn’t be a total violation of my body.
“Go on,” he urged.
That bastard wanted to hear me say it. It was humiliating, and every Nazi feminist on the planet would let me have it for playing his game, but here’s the thing: I wanted to play his game. I wanted him to keep controlling me. When he controlled me, I was liberated from my OCD. Liberated from my compulsions. Liberated from me.
“Spanking,” I mumbled.
“Come again?”