I pay the driver handsomely for his discretion and speed. I ignore his 'way-to-go-bro' look as I ease Isabella and her gown out of the back seat.
The elevator bell announces our arrival on my floor, and I usher her out with a firm hand at the base of the zipper at her waist. The harsh light of the hallway does its best to break the spell that's been cast, but we're so far lost, there's no chance that a mere change in lighting or scenery will pull us back to reality.
I produce the key efficiently and open the door to 1912. "This is it, Princess," I warn, sweeping her swiftly off her feet and into my arms. Reflexively, she clasps her hands together around my neck. As we cross my threshold, I feel her heartbeat quicken in my arms, her breath increasing in similar fashion.
She nods quickly, affirmatively.
I respond by kissing her convincingly. "Relax, I promise, I'm not going to hurt you."
She shakes her head 'yes' this time, affirming that she's heard me. It's not quite enough.
"Isabella, I know it's asking a lot, everything really, but I need to know you trust me enough to get us started. The rest will come."
This time, when her eyes meet mine, I see her willingness to give me a chance. And it's all I need. For now.
I take a deep breath and forge ahead with my plans.
My eyes search his apartment for clues. Have I just come home with Jack the Ripper, or worse? Some modern day lunatic who calls himself a sexual dominant to lure susceptible girls to his lair? I sense nothing out of the ordinary from our surroundings. His space is adequate, not luxurious, not excessive. It's neat and orderly, clean, and smacks of a bachelor's solitary existence. Of course, all these judgments are made only from the foyer, because that's as far as we've gotten.
"Isabella, once I put you down, our scene begins. Are you ready?"
A jolt of sexual energy zips through my body, decimating every erogenous zone in its path. I nod solemnly.
"Answer please, with words."
"I'm ready…Sir?" Fuck. What are the rules on this? I only know what I've read and invented myself.
I catch the smile on his face before he clears it away to answer. "'Sir' will be fine for tonight. We'll work our way up to 'Master.'"
The word forces a shiver through me that he must feel in his arms.
"I'm ready, Sir," I force out, my first true submissive affirmation causing a cataclysmic event in my girly parts.
"Good." He sets me on my feet and I attempt to remain upright, despite the gelatinous feeling in my joints. "I trust you remember your safe word?"
I nod. And the irony of using Boggle threatens to bring on a giggle, but the weight of this moment, one that I've waited for since my earliest sexual fantasies, crowds out any chance for levity.
"Okay. So we're clear, if you say 'Boggle', it's like hitting the pause button on the remote. We take a time out from the scene, step outside our roles as dom and sub, and you tell me what's going on that has you scared, confused, or uncomfortable. I promise you there will never be backlash for safewording, either physical or emotional. It is absolutely essential that I can trust you to safeword if you need to. It's the only way I can feel comfortable pushing your limits and trying new things. By the way, if I feel I need to, I'll use the safeword, too. Does that make sense?"
Wow! The dom invoking the safe word. His need to trust me in order to perform his role. It's as Black Velvet advised. 'The dominant has nothing at all without the submissive's acquiescence.' And that acquiescence apparently comes with an iron-clad promise to put a halt to things when necessary.
"Yes, Sir. I understand what you're saying."
"Excellent," he smiles warmly, and I see a flash of relieved Edward beneath the surface of the Dark Prince. But just as quickly, he becomes stern and serious again.
"Here are the rules. Nice and simple tonight. You are to stand completely still until I command otherwise, and you are to vocalize your pleasure freely and loudly. Are you with me?"
"Yes, Sir," I answer, the title once again creating a new wave of moisture between my legs.
He moves around behind me and grabs the shoulders of his tuxedo jacket. Lifting up and away, he removes my security blanket, my warmth, my modesty. I gasp as the black silk slinks down my bare skin and passes over my fingertips. My skin is on fire and chilled at once. He sets the jacket gingerly across one arm of the couch, drawing out my anticipation, elongating the already unbearable tension between us.
Seconds later, he's behind me once again, his lips are on my bare shoulder. He takes his time kissing and licking and nipping his way across to the other side, coaxing pants and moans from me as he goes.
"That's it Isabella. I want to hear everything you're feeling."
Running a lone finger from my ear down my neck, then forward to my décolletage, he teases, hoping to draw my whimper. It's not even a contest. I sing like a guilty mobster, throwing my fellow bad guys under the bus. Anything to get more of the feel of his touch. I'm giddy with need, delirious to do whatever it takes to earn more of this. More of him.
"Do you like that, Isabella?" he asks from behind, drawing his fingertip dangerously close to a nipple inside my bustline.
"Yes, Sir." I pant.
"Do you remember what your Dark Prince did to the Princess's gown?"
I gasp and shudder, recalling my own kinky demands, as spoken through the Dark Prince of my own making. "Yes, Sir." I couldn't forget those words with a full lobotomy.
"Turn around for me," he orders, and now we're face to face. He's impossibly handsome, even more so now that he's in total command of the situation. His confidence radiates straight from his eyes into mine, and I know he's not missing a scintilla of my rapidly building lust. He reaches around to my back and slowly draws down the zipper, challenging me without words to keep my position. It takes all my self-control to override my instinct to reach up and grab the bodice before the cups slide down, but somehow I manage to hold my arms by my sides and allow the slinky material to slip uselessly down my chest. His satisfied grin tells me he's pleased with both my compliance and my exposed breasts. My chest heaves in rapid, visible waves, and I curse my tits for making themselves that much more prominent. He steps back to proudly admire his work, having created a piece of functional art, a breathing sculpture perfectly depicting unbridled desire.
"You should feel grateful, I think. I was much kinder than your Prince, exposing his Princess for all the world to see. Hmmm, I wonder if you have a little exhibitionist in you, Isabella. We'll have to explore that avenue another time. Tonight, I'm the only one who's going to be enjoying this view."
I eye him warily, my naked breasts bobbing obscenely between us. As if to let me know how genuinely pleased he is, he reaches behind my neck and pulls me in for a kiss. My nipples beg to press against the ridges of his tuxedo shirt, or maybe even to chafe uncomfortably against the cool, hard, onyx studs, but he makes sure not to touch me other than where our lips are joined. My body cries out for something more, any kind of contact, to soothe the ache he's creating inside me.
"Cross your wrists behind you at the small of your back so I can see you better," he says, highlighting my vulnerability and his control. I comply immediately, and see the corners of his lips turn up slightly at my willingness to please him so completely and so immediately.
"Oh yeah, that is much better," he comments, untying the black velvet at his neck, leaving the ends to hang where they lie. He unfastens the neck button and the first stud, but no more, as if in doing so, communicating that he is still completely covered, where I am wantonly exposed.
Then, not without a significant amount of feeling, he eyeballs my chest and adds, "Damn, you're even more beautiful than I'd imagined."
I wait, standing still with my clasped hands, as he requires. I know he's objectifying me on purpose and despite myself, his words serve as fresh fuel atop the burning passion inside me. With every glance and dirty word, I'm sucked further into his vortex, longing with my entire being to become that which he desires as insanely as I desire him.
I crouch down by her feet. She's watching, waiting, panting, and I wouldn't be one bit surprised if whatever excuse for an undergarment she's wearing is holding its maximum dosage of moisture by this point. But I'm not nearly finished with her yet.
I grasp the hem of her floor-length gown and roll it slowly up, past her four-inch stilettos, her shapely ankles, her perfectly waxed calves, knees, and finally up to her thighs. I stop a few inches short of my ultimate target, letting her stew in her own juices a while longer.
Holding her dress oh-so-helpfully for her, I command, "Take off your panties and hand them to me."
"Unnggh," she sighs, lost in a pool of wetness and lust. Her hands immediately unclasp and set to work at rolling her lacy gold thong from her hips. She steps out, one spike at a time, from her thong and holds it out to me obediently.
"Take your dress from me and hold it just like I am." In trading places with her, I accept her soaked garment, rubbing it through my fingers and making sure she understands that I'm examining the evidence of her unmistakable desire.
I stand to my full height in front of her, my half bare Princess, whose desperate response has now been completely illuminated to both of us. Her expression is the very picture of want, and she no longer cares who knows it. She's practically begging me with her eyes to be released from her unbearable tension. My own desire presses stiffly against my silk boxers and flat front tuxedo pants, and I chuckle to myself as I remind my body for the thousandth time since Isabella's presence in my life that supreme patience is required.
"Spread your legs apart, Isabella."
She complies, but modesty still prevails, and she hasn't given me near what I want from her. "Wider, princess." With my shoe-clad foot, I gently but firmly coax apart her sandals, prodding until her legs are as far apart as her gown will allow.
"That's better. When I say 'spread', that means open as wide as you can. I'm going to give you another chance to show me how well you can do this. Lift the dress two more inches and spread again."
She knows anything less than full compliance will earn her my disapproval. She raises the hem to the top of her thighs and widens her stance quickly, this time with a blush.
"You're a quick study, princess. That's certainly going to make things easier on you in the long run."
And easier on me. I won't have to be correcting her all the time, a process that can sometimes get tedious if a new sub isn't picking up commands quickly enough.
"Hold your stance just like that. I'll be back in a flash." Normally, I wouldn't give my sub that particular reassurance. Making them wait an indeterminate length of time is one of the best ways to build anticipation and heighten their need for my return. But right now, it would be cruel for her to be left alone.
Less than ten seconds later, I've returned from my desk with a fluffy blue twelve-inch feather in my hand.
Christmas has come early this year. The exact feather from my most perverted imaginings appears before me, in the most capable hands of the sex god who is claiming ownership of every bit of me.
Though I'm still partially hidden below, I fear that my arousal may soon escape the yawning gap he's demanded between my legs. And if I were writing this scene and were forced to describe my heroine's nipples right now, I'd be tempted to use the tired cliché about their ability to slice through glass. I'd go as far as to say that she is a plump and juicy peach at that moment of perfect ripeness where one single touch will release that fruit from the branch where it hangs so precariously.
Standing fully clothed in front of me, he has me pinned with his knowing, glinty eyes. He hasn't said one word since his return with the feather. He's teasing me merrily, by doing nothing more than allowing the wispy blue fronds to flutter slightly as the air circulates gently around the two of us. After an eternity, he speaks.
"I critiqued your Millionaire Master. Do you remember, Isabella?" He must know I've memorized every word that Black Velvet wrote to OnMyKnees about her stories.
"Yes, Sir," I answer promptly.
"And what was my suggestion?" he questions patiently.
"You said that the Master was too harsh and that the heiress would've come at the first touch of the feather, if she'd been yours." As I say the word 'yours', my heart skips a beat or two. His.
Which version will he act out; his own, resulting in sweet release, or omk's, causing me to live out the cruel denial I rained down on my fictional heiress?
"A-plus, princess! Just for that, I'm going to give you a little reward." At his words, I stifle the desperate whimper threatening to escape, but I can't contain the drizzle of moisture that starts its path down my inner thigh. A slight breeze would trigger my orgasm right now.
"Now, here's how this is going to go. On my count, you're going to lift your dress up to your waist, and I'm going to brush your sweet, soaking wet pussy with this tickly feather just one time, and you are going to have the most thunderous orgasm of your life. And it's going to be all mine. Understand?"
He holds the feather under my chin and chuckles at my eagerness, but reprimands me swiftly. "Use your words, Princess."
"Good girl," he praises. "Now don't forget, I want to hear you. Loud and clear. Ready?"
"Yes, Sir," I articulate clearly, doing my part to get this show on the road as quickly as possible.
"Oh, wait," he teases. "Did I remind you to keep your dress up the whole time?"
"Yes, Sir," I answer promptly.
"Okay, good. Here we go now. Five…four…three…two…ONE!"
Without regard to whatever shreds of modesty I might have thought I'd retain tonight, I lift my dress and bare my entire private area to this Adonis commanding me. He looks at my clean-shaven pussy with surprise and delight. I'm so addled with need right now, I'm pretty sure I could come from his eye fucking alone.
Thankfully, he doesn't test me with that particular challenge, but slowly, torturously, barely touching me, he tickles the fluffy feather back and forth across my pussy, one sweet inch at a time, from back to front. I feel just the whisper of a caress where I could really use a bulldozer, but it's everything I need from him.
The moment he waves the ticklish wisp across my clit, the genie is out of the bottle. I've got nothing to hold on to but my useless gown as I shake and shudder and wail and moan, singing and crying and praying to the god that stands in front of me right now. I somehow manage to hold my position and my dress exactly as he requested as I completely fall apart for him.
Somewhere in the middle of the tornado that crashes all around me, pulling houses and cows and tractors up into the sheer force of my release, I feel a warm pair of hands on mine, opening my hands to release my dress and encircling me completely with his arms. Riveting me to the here and now.
"Let it all go, Isabella," he coaches. "Just feel it. You have no idea how goddamn perfect you are right now."
The first few minutes after this scene will be critical. She cannot feel remorse or shame. And it's my job to make sure she has nothing to regret.
As she spins back into the gravitational pull of the earth, I continue to reassure her that she's pleased me very much, which indeed she has. She followed every command to the finest detail, and even came on command in our very first session. I've certainly worked with compliant subs before, but no girl before Isabella has ever radiated such an intense desire to please me at every turn.
I glide her zipper back into place, effectively covering her bare breasts. She drops her face to my chest and I feel wet tears penetrate the pleats at the front of my shirt. I continue my soothing talk and praise, rubbing her back in small circles and rocking us gently from side to side. As she comes down from her high, her body quivers and her sobbing increases in intensity.
I'm not surprised, with all she's been through tonight, that her powerful sexual release has triggered this emotional torrent. And I'm not one of those guys who can't handle the tears, though I strongly suspect the waterworks would've sent the last guy running for the hills. I push Prince Milquetoast from my mind and tighten my grip on the vulnerable girl in my arms.
"Sh-sh-sh-shhhh," I repeat, over and over again. "Easy, girl. I've got you."
After a while longer, she chokes out, "Sorry," into my chest.
"Don't apologize for your feelings, Isabella. And don't ever be afraid to share them with me," I say to the chestnut hair twined into a complicated pattern atop her head.
When she finally lifts her face to mine, I cup her chin and kiss her gently. "The scene's over now, sweetheart."
Her expression turns to surprise and confusion. "But what about…um, can I ask you something…Sir?"
"Sure, but no more 'Sir.'"
Brown eyes search mine for permission. "What about you? I mean…don't you want anything?"
I hold her stare and without hesitation answer, "Don't you realize, you just gave me everything?"
Her smile is so brilliant I have to kiss her again.