The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (19 page)

Sunday evening, we returned to his dungeon, and once again,
the focus was on preparing me for full anal sex. This time, though, he changed
my position, added in distractions like nipple clamps and some other minor
torments.

He continued to demand that I hold off my orgasm, something
that paid off in the end with superior climaxes, but which was torturous in the
process of getting there.

At one point, when he was pushing my limits with a serious
spanking while a good-sized butt plug filled me, I saw that look in his eyes
again, the same one from Friday night, the intense one that both excited and
scared me.

I recalled other times when I’d seen that look. In the
Frederick Hotel, the second time we were together, for sure. In the condo,
definitely, more than once.

I didn’t know how far he would push me; all I knew was that
I was ready to let him. Was ready to fly with him.

But yet again, he pulled back at the moment when he seemed
most certain to forge ahead. His gaze simply calmed. He made me repeat my safe
words.

Then just like on Friday, he distracted me from my
disappointment by pouring on the stimulation in other areas, making me forget
I’d ever wanted anything other than what he was currently giving me. How,
exactly, was I to remember or ponder mysteries when I was being treated to some
of the most incredible climaxes of my life? No one could have.

Hours later, though, when I woke around 3:30 in the morning
and found myself alone in bed, I had plenty of time and attention to devote to
the puzzle of wandering lovers.

I got out of bed and was in the process of pulling on my
robe when I caught a movement outside. I looked toward the veranda, out the
glass doors and onto the rolling lawn. Something was moving down there.

I went over to the doors. A big, three-quarters October moon
filled the night sky, shedding loads of light over the ground. My gaze was
drawn to movement again. There, on one of the paths leading to the lake, a
figure was running. Jogging.

My first thought was that there was a thief on the loose,
but that was unlikely, considering the state-of-the-art security measures,
complete with a gatehouse manned by a guard who regularly patrolled the
perimeter.

And anyway, something about how the figure moved seemed
familiar. It was Gibson. Had to be.

Why in the hell was Gibson outside jogging? I opened the
doors and stepped onto the veranda to get a better look. The stone underneath
my feet was freezing and the air was more than nippy. I guessed the temp was in
the lower forties. Not exactly prime jogging weather.

I stepped up to the railing and strained my eyes to see
details in the dark. No use. But I was more certain than ever that it was
Gibson running on the path. I watched the shadowy form head to the lake, then
take a side path which I knew circled the shoreline. I watched until he
disappeared from view.

I returned to bed and shivered under the blankets, tucking
my feet underneath me to try to warm them up again. I was half frozen from my
short stint on the balcony, yet Gibson was out in the cold of his own free
will.

This was bizarre. No doubt about it. I had a sinking feeling
in my stomach, an “I should have known it was too perfect to be true”
premonition.

No. I wouldn’t think that way. There was a logical
explanation for his strange behavior. There had to be. I wouldn’t hide from
what was going on, either. I wanted answers. And there was only one way to get
them.

I had to be in class early the next morning, but finding out
what Gibson was up to was more important than school. I dug out the e-reader
Gibson had gotten me as a gift and began reading one of the novels I’d loaded
onto it but hadn’t had a chance to start yet.

I was well into the book and bleary-eyed when Gibson
returned to the room a little over an hour later. He looked freshly showered, I
guessed he used the facilities in the gym. He looked sexy as ever in his
flannel pj bottoms. He also looked surprised to see me awake and waiting for
him.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he quietly closed the bedroom door.
“Did I wake you?”

I laid the e-reader on the nightstand. “I’ve been awake a
while, waiting for you. Where have you been?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I’ve been taking care of some things.
I hate that you waited up for me.”

“I was worried.”

He crawled into bed beside me. “There’s nothing to be
worried about.”

“Don’t you think it’s an odd time to go running?”

“Oh, you saw me?”

“I did.”

“I guess it’s odd. I don’t know. I’ve lived alone a long
time, Nonnie. I probably have some strange habits.”

“It’s definitely strange to go running in the middle of a
cold night. And Friday you were in the gym.”

He smiled. “You’re keeping tabs on me.”

“No, I just woke up alone and wondered where you were.”

He put an arm around me and we scooted down to lie prone,
him pulling me snug against his soap-scented chest. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I
can be a fitful sleeper sometimes, that’s all.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me you won’t worry. And don’t wait up for me again.
You’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”

I didn’t want to promise, but I did anyway.

He snugged me closer and I tried hard to believe the
innocent explanation for his nighttime wandering. I even chided myself for
being overly suspicious.

Gibson simply wasn’t a great sleeper. Lots of people
weren’t. And was it all that strange for him to use the extra time to get in
some exercising? Maybe that’s why he was so fit. Leave it to Gibson to turn
insomnia into an advantage.

I fell asleep thinking that the situation was unusual, but
understandable. If there were more to the story, time would tell.

Chapter 16

I enjoyed school, appreciated the smells and sounds of it,
the bustle and noise and stillness. I had classes in art history, color theory,
drawing and computer aided design. Drawing, of course, was the most comfortable
class for me. Learning the computer programs was the most difficult.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays flew by with a speed that
only love of what you’re doing can effect. Tuesdays and Thursdays were
painfully slow in comparison, with the exception of the commute with Gibson and
our lunches together.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like working with Isabel. I enjoyed
her company. The work, however, wasn’t to my tastes. I thought mostly about my
art these days, and figuring out Isabel’s schedule or soothing someone who was
offended by her brusqueness, didn’t exactly challenge me intellectually or
artistically.

The job paid well, though, and it enabled me to spend more
time with Gibson, something I craved. I required the money, too, since I always
needed new clothes and shoes, all of a higher quality than I could have
afforded if I had to pay for my room and board.

My salary was like a teenager’s spending money, to be used
in whatever fashion I saw fit. Gibson refused any contribution to household
expenses, and I had to admit that I felt silly offering — as if I could afford
even a single day of the costs of running his estate.

So even though my job wasn’t all it might have been, it
provided me with a few benefits I required, and was therefore worth the effort
of continuing.

Days clicked by. Then a week. Then another. I felt more at
home in the mansion, more at ease with the luxurious life. School went well,
and I enjoyed the rhythm of my days.

My nights, too. With Gibson. Always with Gibson. More than a
few times I woke in the night to find the bed empty beside me, but I refused to
let it bother me. I wrapped the blankets around myself and returned to sleep,
knowing he’d return eventually.

His preparation of my body was progressing and I knew he’d
be making his claim any time. I was ready for him, yearned for it to happen,
wanted that something more which only his hard cock could supply.

Little more than two weeks from when he first revealed his
dungeon to me, he took me to our bedroom and stripped me naked. I was a little
lightheaded from the wine I had with dinner, but mostly I was giddy because I
sensed this was it. The night.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him remove his own
clothes. I adored his body, the muscular lines of it, the bulge of his thick
thighs, the flex of his biceps, the flat surface of his stomach. His powerful
cock stood out proud and hard as stone. My fingers ached to caress him.

But Gibson had other plans, as he so often did, and I never
gainsaid those plans, or at least almost never. He approached me, told me to
lie back, and when I did, he reached down, spread my legs and knelt on the
floor in front of me.

His tongue was hot and slick on my pussy as he took one
long, lingering lick over me. I sighed and spread my legs wider, unashamed to
show how I reveled in his touch. One of his big hands pressed on my lower
stomach while the other explored my slit, dipped into my wetness and spread it
to my ass.

Around and around his tongue circled my clit, and already my
body thrummed with desire. I never failed to wonder at how quickly he aroused
me, how even a few words from him could leave me panting, wanting whatever he
chose to do with me, to me.

His fingers entered my ass and I moaned, then his tongue
slipped inside my pussy. Ahh, this was perfect, so perfect I ached from it. I
squeezed my eyes shut.

I was struck with the beauty of what this remarkable lover
did for me, how he made me feel, and not just the pleasure of his touch, but
how he made me feel good in so many different ways. With Gibson I felt more
beautiful and sexy, yes, but also smarter, stronger, more capable. He made me
feel like I could do anything. Accomplish great things.

A few tears slipped down the sides of my face, and I arched
my head back so Gibson couldn’t see. I didn’t want him to misunderstand, to
stop what he was doing to attend to me.

No, never to stop what he was doing. My body sung his
praises, even when he devil-pinched my labia and made me gasp. No, not even
that, because it only increased the excitement, the greed.

He didn’t have to tell me when to come; I knew by the rhythm
of his strokes, the cadence of his breathing. Time to come, said his tongue and
fingers, and so I did, and I rode the magnificent wave, and soon after,
another, because he knew how to take me there again. It was easy for him, it
seemed, to take me there whenever he wanted.

It was exquisite, and a few more tears ran down the sides of
my face, and words, words I wasn’t known to say aloud, beat at the back of my
throat, threatened to spill out with my sighs and cries of release.

I love you.

I love you.

Love.

You.

I swallowed them down. Even though I was sure. Even though
those words were more true than anything I’d ever said in my life. I loved him.
Adored him. Anything. Everything. For him.

Real love. At last.

He rose up over me then, saw the tears on my face and
brushed them away with a gentle touch. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. Don’t make me speak, is what I would have said, if
I could have. But I couldn’t, because the only words that would have come out
... it wasn’t time for them yet. It was enough, for now, that I knew them. Not
time yet to share.

A few beats of time later, I spoke. “You make me happy.”

He made that growly sound in the back of his throat, the one
that let me know how much he wanted me. He kissed me then, a hard, open-mouthed
searing kiss, and his tongue danced with mine and he tasted of wine and me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him tight, folded
my legs around his waist and shoved myself against him. My breasts were crushed
against his chest while his fingers tangled in my hair and tilted my head back
where he wanted it.

When he lifted his mouth from mine I snatched some air into
my aching lungs.

“It’s now,” he said.

Yes. At last. When he pulled away, I crawled up the bed,
assumed the position he wanted. On my knees, ass in the air, head down,
shoulders pressed against the mattress. Full reveal and full submission to what
he wanted. To what I wanted him to take.

My head turned to the side, my cheek flush on the cool
sheet. I couldn’t see Gibson, only vaguely, peripherally, so I closed my eyes,
all the better to feel every touch, hear every sound. He opened the drawer in
his nightstand, I heard the sound of rollers and the thud of closure.

The bed shifted as he climbed behind me. I heard the
quickening of his breath as he took his position, as he took in the view,
warmed the lube in his hand before beginning the process of preparing me.

And that process took a while. The way he savored the
preparation was a ritual of desire and anticipation. There was a discernible
pace to it, pushing the lubricant inside me, twisting his fingers and sliding
in and out, massaging the slick stuff as far inside me as he could reach.

I quivered under him, beyond ready, beyond want. Yes, there
was fear, too, of how much it might hurt, that I might fail him. Mostly fear of
failure. To steady myself I concentrated on the sounds of him readying me, on
the tense restraint I felt in his hands.

Then he must have determined I was ready. One of his hands
moved to my hip and I felt the unmistakeable pressure of his cock pressed
against my asshole. I sucked in a big breath. It was now.

He pushed that huge head against my tight ring of muscles
and groaned. “Relax as much as you can,” he said, his voice harsh and guttural.

I did as he said, and took deep breaths.

He pushed harder, and I felt my muscles stretching, trying
to open for him. Harder. More stretch, and now it began to sting. I focused on
relaxing, but there was only so much that relaxation could do. His cock was
big. So big.

His fingers tightened on my hip, dug into me and he shoved
that huge head harder and harder against me. I whimpered. It hurt more now.
Obviously, as I had suspected, there was no preparation good enough to make it
not hurt.

And in more ways than one, I welcomed the pain. This was the
first time, and I was grateful it was Gibson doing it. It seemed that it should
hurt, the giving of this act. I welcomed the chance to sacrifice for him,
something he never let me do, it seemed, and something I longed for.

So I held myself as quiet as I could while he opened me
slowly, painfully, and I clenched my fists, concentrated on his satisfaction,
how it must feel to him. Even as the sharp sting turned into a fierce burn, my
clitoris twitched and my core contracted with the pleasure of giving him
pleasure.

He made a mmph sound, and I bit back my own, when with one
last hard shove, the head of his cock breached my defenses and entered me at
last. The burn subsided some then.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, my voice reedy and thin.

“You’re so beautiful. So tight. This will feel good for you,
too, eventually. I promise.”

I shook my head, but had nothing to say. I didn’t care if it
was ever good for me, though I believed him when he said it would be.

It took a long while for him to work his way completely
inside me. He was slow and careful and stopped several times to make sure I was
all right.

When at long last he was inside as far as he could go, I
felt a tremble in his thighs pressed up against mine. Restraint. Always
restraint.

But I wanted him to let go.

He’d done the right thing, and broken me in as gently as he
could. And now I wanted, needed him to unleash himself and take everything that
he wanted.

He began a slow pulling out, not removing his cock all the
way before beginning the push back in. Slow, steady. The burn. The sting. The
thud of my heart and the sound of his labored breaths.

This was good, yes, but I wanted it better.

“Fuck me,” I said, a surprisingly meek-sounding request
considering my intent.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re so tight. So hot. Incredible.”

“No. Fuck,” I said louder.

He only exhaled and pumped inside me, maybe a little faster.
Not enough.

I reached back, found his thigh and pulled him toward me.
“Fuck me. Harder. Faster.”

I shoved my ass back against him. “Please, Gibson. Take me.
Hard. I want it.”

He groaned, a long and low sound, a conversation with
himself, I guessed. One of his hands closed over my shoulder and the other
pressed against my lower back. “Yes,” he said.

And then, he truly began to fuck my ass. There was nothing
gentle about it when he pulled back and then shoved himself home, all the way
to the hilt, eliciting a loud cry from me, a call of pain and triumph. Yes.
Fuck me. Just like that.

He took me hard and fast, his cock pounding inside me. He
even removed it all the way a few times just to enjoy the wicked thrill of
cramming it past my tender asshole. I cried out and writhed under him, rocked
back to meet his violent thrusts. Mixed my gasps and grunts with his.

This was no pretty act, this taking. It was animal and pure
and ugly and exquisite. My muscles trembled and his hand was an immovable clamp
on my shoulder, pinning me down, nowhere to go. As if I might go. No chance of
that.

He took me as hard as he’d ever taken me before, and his
balls slapped against my pussy, his weight bore down on me with terrible
pressure.

I gloried in everything he did, in everything I felt, the
fire inside me, the ache in my belly. I reached for my clit and frantically
rubbed myself, seeking what I knew would lessen the fire, would turn it into
release.

“Yes!” He smacked my ass. “Good. I want to hear you scream
when you come.”

And he thundered into me, and soon I was coming, and I did
scream for him, because it was unlike any other release I’d had, from that
different place, but bigger. Because he was inside me. Fully inside me.
Finally. Claiming what was his.

Gibson went into overdrive then, pummeling against me, his
breath a ferocious rasp. I wailed every time he rammed home, and whimpered
every time he pulled back. Wave after rapturous wave washed over me.

Then Gibson cried out too, and began coming deep inside me,
my muscles undulating around him. Another hard shove. Then one more, as his
release hit its peak and then his hand relaxed on my shoulder and he groaned a
receding groan.

He slumped over, on and beside me. I lay there, welcoming
his weight settling on me, accepting his heaving chest against my back, his
half-hard cock still inside me. I reached for my own air and found it in
lengthy gasps and pulls.

“Beautiful,” he whispered near my ear.

I agreed.

Beautifully ugly.

Only a few minutes passed, maybe five, when I felt his cock
swelling inside me. He shifted me onto my side, my back pressed against his
chest, my legs and knees bent.

He nuzzled the side of my neck and placed warm kisses that
sent little thrills down my arms and spine. I took long slow breaths as he
began to fuck my ass again, a steady, controlled slide, patient and tender.

He asked if I was okay, and I said I was fine. My ass
burned, but I was fine. He wanted it again, so I wanted it again. Take me. As
much as you want. Take me.

And he fucked me like that, a smooth glide, his hand
stroking my side, my breasts, my stomach, seeking out my clit between my legs,
making me come one more time.

And then he went faster, but not greedily. He was simply
coming again. Filling me again. Taking what was his.

And for that, I was grateful. Honored that he wanted me.