By Appointment Only (12 page)

She felt and heard him return to where she was standing. He put his hands on her shoulders. His palms were big, warm, slightly calloused.

He kissed the shell of her ear, tracing it with his tongue. “Are you ready?”

She nodded jerkily. “Will you tell me what you’re going to do?” Her words came out in an embarrassing whisper. She felt totally vulnerable.

He rubbed her arms. “I’m supposed to whip you.”

The guttural note in his voice sounded a lot like excitement. Despite herself, her thighs tightened and her sex responded to his blunt assertion with a trickle of moisture. She cleared her throat. “And then?”

He pressed his large, hard frame to her back, bringing their bodies in contact from head to toe. His erection nestled between her ass cheeks, rubbing suggestively. “And then fuck you.”

Her head drooped, her forehead resting against the pole. “Oh.”

His arms slid around her, and he palmed her breasts. “I’ve looked at the whip, my love. It’s made of thin strips of soft rubber. It will sting, but it’s not meant to do any real damage.”

“Oh, goody.”

He chuckled at her surly tone. “We’re supposed to play out this fantasy to the best of our ability. So that means you’re not my fiancée. I’m not your sweetheart. Can you do that?”

She sniffed dismissively, but the arrogant expression lost something given her current position. “When I was nineteen I played the lead in a dinner theater production of
Oklahoma
. I’m a natural.”

His chuckle sent a warm breath of air against the nape of her neck. “Okay, then. Duly noted.” He tweaked her nipples and released her. “I’ll finish getting ready, and then we’ll get this show on the road.”

Before she could protest, he slipped a gag between her teeth and knotted it firmly behind her head. She struggled instinctively, and this time he offered no comfort, verbal or otherwise.

As she gasped for breath, almost hyperventilating, she sensed his physical absence, and her heartbeat sped up as nervous energy and a completely understandable feeling of anxiety filtered into her bloodstream. Already her arms were tired, and her legs were shaky.

The first strike of the whip took her completely by surprise. She cried out, more from shock than actual pain. She braced herself and managed to remain mute for the next lashes. The thin strips stung, but she could tell they weren’t breaking the skin.

Morgan’s voice, slightly breathless, came out as a rough growl. “You deserve fifty lashes. You tease men and make them want you, but you refuse to let them have your body. So you’ll pay.”

Blindfolded, bound and gagged, she had no choice but to submit. Encased in darkness, she reached for a port in the storm. She concentrated fiercely on Morgan. His scent. The sound of his labored breathing. The image of his tough, nude body.

Gradually her pulse slowed. She was safe. Morgan would protect her, even from himself. But no matter how many times she repeated the reassuring litany, her mind refused to settle. She hated feeling helpless. She’d spent her adult life making sure she was in control of every situation. Now that need to hold the reins was deeply ingrained.

As though Morgan sensed her distraction, his next blow landed with more force. She inhaled sharply and choked as dust and tiny cloth fibers clogged her throat. Tears stung her eyes. And in the midst of her total capitulation, a sudden and completely unexpected arousal began to build. It was as if someone flipped a switch and her libido came alive, pushing aside all other concerns.

Was she insane? Getting turned on by this pseudodomination? The longer the punishment went on, the more she wanted Morgan. Fantasies bloomed inside her head. And in her mind, their roles were reversed. The thought of lashing Morgan with the whip—of having him completely at her mercy—made her wild with hunger.

She wanted to taunt him, to provoke him into prolonging her penalty. But she was helpless as a babe.

At long last, the final strike marked her butt, and her tormentor moved away. She waited for him to free her so she could pounce on him and ravage him with her sudden, urgent appetite for sex.

But her test was not over.

Morgan returned. His hands roved over her buttocks, smoothing, stroking, testing the irritated flesh. And then she felt him probe between her legs and separate her labia. She started to struggle in earnest. She tried to speak, but her words came out as nothing more than strangled, garbled syllables.

He ignored her. He pulled her backward so that she was awkwardly bent at the waist, and then he positioned his cock and surged upward, possessing her with one firm stroke. She groaned in pleasure.

Her physical discomfort faded as her body zeroed in on the thick, firm, erect cock that was screwing her so forcefully and so well. Again she struggled for control, and again she was forced to accept her total helplessness.

He fucked her for what seemed like hours. Every time she thought he was about to come, he withdrew, got himself reined in, and started all over again. It was as frustrating as it was wonderful. Her unnatural position and the ache in her arms, shoulders, and legs made it difficult to relax. And that tension, coupled with the lack of direct contact to her clitoris made it impossible for her to come.

Her body strained for the peak, getting close time and again, only to fall short of the prize.

Time ceased to have meaning. Ordinarily she would have been checking her watch, cautioning Morgan about their need to finish without overstaying their appointment. But she was barely able to process a coherent thought.

She was hanging, literally in limbo, as the man she loved controlled her body thoroughly and masterfully.

His mighty thrusts shook her, smashing her breasts against the pole. His hands gripped her hips and lifted her into his strokes, so that her toes barely touched the floor. She was a puppet for his pleasure.

At last he shouted and went rigid as he finally let himself go, climaxing with an urgent pistoning of his hips that went on and on.

In the aftermath, the only sound was his labored breathing.

He left her then, and she slumped against her bonds, exhausted and unfulfilled. Images whirled in her brain. She had a good imagination, and despite the blindfold, she could see the two of them locked in a carnal embrace.

At long last he returned, and she felt him lift her wrists and free them from the hook. But he left her bound, gagged, and blindfolded. He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all and carried her a few steps. Then he lowered her onto her back.

She realized with dull awareness that he had laid her on the narrow wooden bench. Her feet rested awkwardly on the floor. Her hands curled on her belly.

And then she felt his hair brush the insides of her thighs and he kissed her poor, aching sex. The touch of his tongue on her swollen flesh sent lightning flashing through her abdomen. She gasped and tried to close her legs.

But he was determined and strong and of course, in control. He ran the tip of his tongue ever so gently across her clit, and she screamed inside as liquid pleasure tightened her pelvis.

He rubbed his thumbs over her hip bones, suckled at her opening, and buried his face in her sex as she climaxed with a muffled cry.

When it was over, she was boneless, exhausted, completely unable to function. Even when he untied her wrists and removed the blindfold and gag, she lay on the bench unmoving, waiting for her heart to stop running the Indy 500.

She licked her dry lips, and moments later felt her head lifted as Morgan held a bottle of water to her mouth. She drank thirstily, letting him take care of her.

But sooner or later she had to look at him. When she opened her eyes, the lights overhead were harsh and almost painful. He was crouched at her side, his eyes watchful. She sensed he was waiting for some response from her, but she had no clue what he wanted her to say or even if she had it in her to be coherent at the moment.

Finally, she managed a weak smile. “What time is it?” That wasn’t what she had intended to say, but the words popped out.

He glanced at his watch, the only item that kept him from being completely nude. “Six ten.”

He touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”

She thought about it. “I think so.”

“You want to get dressed?”

She struggled to sit up. “I’d say I don’t have much choice. The receptionist leaves at six forty-five, and we still have to fill out our postsession forms.”

Morgan helped her to her feet. “Shit.”

She nodded. “My feelings exactly.”

They dressed in silence. She tried to analyze her feelings at the moment, and the one foremost emotion she came up with was embarrassment. What did
she
have to be embarrassed about? She’d been the helpless victim in all this.

When Morgan opened the door, it was all she could do to walk through it. They traversed the short hallway and entered the waiting room. Thankfully, it was empty, and the woman behind the counter was on the phone.

Two envelopes labeled with their names stood just inside the window. Morgan retrieved them and handed one to Hannah, along with a pencil. Then they retreated to opposite sides of the room and began their debriefing task.

Hannah stared at the first question blankly.
Did you enjoy this session with your fiancé?
There was a box to mark
yes
and one to mark
no.
Her pencil hovered over the choices. It should have been an easy answer.

She started to tick
no
, but then she remembered the climax that had racked her body with long minutes of frantic release. Maybe
yes
, then.

But what about the helplessness? The loss of control? What about the aching limbs, dry mouth, and shivering uncertainty? Okay, perhaps
no
.

She dithered for another thirty seconds and decided to skip that question for the moment. On to number two.
Did you feel safe with your fiancé?
That was easy.
Yes
.

Would you have enjoyed the situation if you and Morgan had been in opposite roles? Yes
.

More or less?
That was a stumper. Sure, she would have gotten a kick out of having her macho boyfriend at her mercy. But more than she enjoyed today? She picked the second answer. It was as honest as she knew how to be.

Which was more difficult to concede—physical or mental control?
Skip that one, too.

At any time did you feel in danger of being hurt? No
.

At any time were you angry with your partner?
She winced. Yes, but only briefly. She wrote the explanation in the margin.

Did you feel dominated sexually? Yes
.

Did you feel dominated mentally or emotionally? Yes
.

Which was more difficult to endure?
Again her pencil hovered.
The mental
.

Do you think your partner enjoyed today’s session?
She remembered the look on Morgan’s face when she opened her eyes.
I don’t know
.

Do you think men are capable of monogamy?
The out-of-context question threw her. Where had that come from? And what did it have to do with today? She thought of Morgan, dear, dependable, loving Morgan. The man who had proposed to her and given her a lovely ring. She bit her lip and wrote
I don’t know
.

After that there was a series of questions about the room, its effect on her libido, how she felt during the act of intercourse, etc. Those were all easy questions.

Finally she was finished except for the two she skipped near the top. She went back to them.
Did you enjoy this session with your fiancé?
She cheated. Instead of marking
yes
or
no
, she wrote in the margin
not entirely
.

And the last blank . . .
Which was more difficult to concede— physical or mental control?
She nibbled her eraser. The fact that she’d thought about the closet incident with her mother said volumes. She hated ceding physical control. But what about the feeling of utter helplessness, unable to speak, unable to direct the course of events?

But it was the physical situation that impacted her mental control, so she wrote
physical
.

With a sigh, she slipped her questionnaire into the envelope and sealed it. When she looked up, Morgan was already standing by the door, waiting patiently.

He took her arm as they left. “Let’s leave your car here for the moment. We can have a nice, quiet dinner together, and then we’ll fetch the car and I’ll follow you home.”

It sounded like a great plan to her. Her stomach was growling, and they were around the corner from one of their favorite haunts, a French bistro with intimate candlelit tables and food to die for.

Morgan watched her as she ate, his gaze so intent that she finally put down her fork and glared at him. “What are you doing?”

A corner of his mouth curled in a grin. “Remembering.”

Her face flamed red, and she buried her nose in her water glass, drinking thirstily. Even now, the dry taste of the gag lingered. “Well, stop it.”

He chuckled and cut into his chicken. “You’re blushing.” He said it mildly, but she bristled.

“It’s hot in here.”

“If you say so. But on the other hand, it might be the memory of me striping your ass.”

“Morgan, for heaven’s sake.” Her gaze darted wildly from side to side, trying to see if anyone had overheard his outrageous remark.

She shook her fork at him. “Behave.” She twirled her fork in a slender piece of pasta and put it to her mouth. As she opened her lips, chewed, and swallowed, his eyes followed every move.

She moved restlessly in her seat. “Stop it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He sucked at portraying innocence. “You know what.” She gulped a mouthful of wine and felt her nipples harden beneath the sheer fabric of her bra. And Morgan noticed . . . of course. She leaned forward, hoping to catch him off guard. “Tell me about some of your questions.”