AMÉLIE
Amélie entered the Honey and she did it with a carefully modulated gait, concealing her anticipation and impatience.
She greeted the front desk staff, giving them her purse to stow, forcing her words not to be perfunctory, but also not lingering.
She then moved to the left, from the close, warm confines of the foyer with its muted classical music playing, into the hunting ground.
This was where she should linger. Get a drink. See who was there. Chat with friends.
But it was just after ten. Olivier would have been waiting for her now for over half an hour. She knew how he’d be waiting. And she couldn’t wait to see.
It said a good deal to all who were watching when she moved casually, but unerringly, toward the door to the playrooms.
She did glance around, though, offering nods, a curve of her lips, to Felicia, Romy, and Stellan, who, when she caught his eye, she found his attention on her in a focused way she’d only ever noticed he gave his subs.
She did not contemplate this. She simply lifted a hand to her lips, touching the side of her index finger there, and sending it slightly his way, like she was not quite blowing him a modified kiss.
He didn’t grin at her like he normally would have done. Just kept his gaze steady on her as she moved through the room.
She had no idea what that meant and she had less interest.
She wished to get to her steed.
Moving through the playrooms, the only thing that caught her attention was Mirabelle working Trey.
He was naked, sitting on a plug screwed into the floor, his face stuffed by her hand clenched into his hair into the juncture of her thighs, where she’d completely zipped down the skintight, black catsuit she wore, clearly all the way to the back of her crotch. Her head was back and her beautiful face was flushed and close to coming.
Since texting with her Wednesday night, Amélie had called her friend, mentioning the situation casually, only to receive a quick, uninformative update. But Amélie now knew Trey had not asked Mira out to do something in the ordinary world.
She also knew Mirabelle still held hope.
Amélie would give this some time and attention, keeping her finger on the pulse and hoping her friend’s heart didn’t get broken.
It bit into her admittedly vast reserves of control not to hurry through the passageways to her special room.
But when she finally turned the corner that would lead her to the door, she couldn’t stop a quiet coo of delight from floating up her throat.
There were a number of people, Doms and subs, standing (or kneeling) at the windows, looking in.
Of course, the sight would be one to see.
When her approach was noted, she got attention and gave nods, ignored subs, and walked right to the door.
She opened it, stepped through, and didn’t bother flipping the switch to send the signal the room was in use as it had been now for some time and the employee who’d seen to Olivier would have done it for her.
The truth of it was, Amélie might not have even remembered to do it, for she’d been correct.
Olivier was a sight to see.
She closed the door, eyes to him, and walked on the spike heels of her red pumps to stand two feet in front of him, the wide legs of her cuffed-hem black slacks swaying along her legs, the snug fit of them at her hips suddenly seeming constricting, the choice of a light, loose, black silk blouse becoming a godsend.
His eyes were on her, too, dark as night, and they hit her the instant she entered, never leaving.
Her eyes roved over him, her magnificent beast.
“Hello, Olivier,” she greeted quietly.
“Mistress,” he bit out.
She felt one side of her mouth snag up.
But she took in his tone and studied him far more closely, honing in with keen eyes, seeing his distress.
She’d ordered him collared and bound, straps at ankles and wrists tied to each other at the back, a strap through the catch at the back of the wide band of black leather that circled his thick neck leading all the way down to his ankles. He was on his knees on the floor, thighs resting on calves splayed wide. As tied, he was forced back at a slight angle, but nothing too constricting.
This the staff would have done.
What was happening between his legs, he’d have been ordered to do before he was bound because no one touched her toy’s privates but her.
His cock was ringed, the gold of it gleaming in the hairs at the root. His balls were harnessed, stretched apart by their strap, stretched from his body by another at the base. There was a long strap leading from the back of the ball harness that an employee would have had to deal with and would have been able to do so without touching what was only Amélie’s.
This was tied tight, tethering him by his sac to the ring in the floor.
This meant he was strung back and tethered only at one point in his body, but still unable to move an inch.
He was being very good, his legs spread wide as she’d commanded.
The distress came from the cock ring. She’d worried it wouldn’t fit without more than the pain she’d wish. She’d worried the same about the collar, which she didn’t wish to add even a single twinge.
She wanted his attention between his legs.
It appeared the collar fit.
The ring, although the fit was not dangerous, visibly did not.
And his enormous cock was hard, weighted heavy. Regardless of the slight arch of his body forced with his bindings, it was so large, it was brushing the strap and the tip even hit the floor, the tight fit of the ring meaning in all likelihood he could think of nothing but his dick.
There was a sheen of sweat all over his body, including his thighs, as he struggled to control the pain and as he battled his reaction to his obvious pleasure.
He was beautiful.
She bent over him.
“How are you, my chevalier?” she asked.
Eyes flashed with ire and something else.
Both she liked.
“Peachy,” he gritted.
Oh, how she liked his cheek. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t allow it. Most Mistresses wouldn’t.
But she liked it and she absolutely was not most Mistresses.
So she did.
And furthermore, she could play with it.
She tipped her head to the side. “I may be wrong, but you seem impatient with me.”
“Impatient is a good word,” he agreed.
“My poor steed,” she whispered, letting her gaze trail down his sweat-slickened chest to the spectacular bound meat between his legs. She looked back at his face. “He needs to come.”
“Yeah.” It came as an exhalation. “That’d be good.”
“First,” she began.
Impatient frustration at the obvious delay her word conveyed saturating his hard features, she didn’t fight the curve of her mouth.
When he spotted her smile, that brought more ire.
She smiled bigger and went on, “I think it important to share with you that I came three times after I left you Tuesday night.”
His body suddenly surged up, yanked down by his rein, a suppressed rumble sounded like it came from trapped in his chest rather than forced between his tight lips.
She watched as he slid his knees farther out to give as much slack to the ball tether as he could while his chest expanded and contracted as he pulled in deep breaths through his teeth.
God, could he get any more beautiful?
She shifted closer.
His lips tightened so much, his body beginning to quiver with the effort to remain in place, those lips nearly bared his lovely, strong white teeth.
“Three times hard, chevalier. Very hard,” she said softly, dipping even closer, coming toward his face, veering to his left at the last moment to say in his ear, “I haven’t come that often that quickly in such a swift succession and so hard in years, my beast. Even during sessions, I have not received such pleasure. Just thinking of you, it seemed I couldn’t stop.”
“Amélie.”
That was also forced out, but the grit of it wasn’t anger or frustration.
It was need.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
Oh yes. Stark. Amazing.
Need.
“Yes, Olivier?” she asked.
“Jack my dick, Mistress, fuckin’ please.”
She held his eyes. “Since you asked so sweetly, once I get you in position to perform for me, we’ll begin. Now, if you would, rest into your bounds, chevalier. Your palms against the ties at your ankles.”
He didn’t delay. He leaned back, which arched his torso even farther. The flinch at the pull at his cock was such she reached out and quickly untied it from the ring.
He blew out an audible puff of breath, his thighs visibly trembling.
She watched and commanded, “Now arch more for me, please. Up on your knees. Round your back and push out your hips. Keep your hands to your ankles. Offer that big brute to your Mistress.”
There came hesitation and she moved her avid contemplation of his body to his face.
As she did, Amélie was worried he’d indicate he was aware of, and was uncomfortable with, the onlookers.
He wasn’t.
He was with her and his battle was within. He knew what she wanted. Hands to ankles, if he lifted to his knees, those knees wide, the position would be one of vulnerability, some discomfort, strain … and full-on display.
“Olivier,” she said gently but warningly.
As he regarded her, she noted a wild to his eyes so early in their acquaintance that she had not yet seen.
It answered her earlier question.
He could get more beautiful.
Before she could open her mouth to reproach his lack of movement, he did as commanded.
It took a good deal to give him the comfort of her close proximity rather than step back and take in the fullness of the spectacle of Olivier lifting, arching, and offering his Mistress his big, hard cock.
“Thank you, my beast,” she said, soft words that drifted around them, words only for them (not that anyone could hear anything unless she flipped on audio), words for him, words that settled the wild in his eyes.
When he gave her that gift, she reached out and took tight hold of his cock.
He grunted and the wild swept back.
“Do not thrust unless you’re told to, Olivier,” she warned. “This cock is my cock. As was my wont, you’ve sweetly offered it to me. Now I’ll do with it as I will.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he hissed out, not anger, his breaths coming fast and uneven as he held back what she knew was an overwhelming desire to fuck her fist.
But it was more.
It was the first time she’d touched him in any real, direct way.
And she’d done it by claiming a man’s most precious possession.
And he’d done very well. He was so very beautiful. And she’d looked forward to this all week.
She’d experienced more than a persistent anticipation all day, and the day before, and the day before that (and so on), knowing she was coming to the club.
As the time drew nearer, it was a want that kept her panties relentlessly wet.
So as her steed had performed very well so far, it was time for his reward.
She stroked him and did not go easy. She wanted to see the pull arch that powerhouse of a body to her will. She continued to fist him tight, tugging hard at the root and the tip, jerking his body into a deeper arc of offering to his Mistress.
His head dropped back and he fought it. Not the pull, the relinquishing of himself. She saw the tenseness that caused his muscles, all of them, already standing out in relief, to start straining.
With relentless and swiftly increasing tugs, she didn’t give up.
It took time, long, glorious minutes before he cracked and she knew precisely when as he gave her some of what he was holding back, the grunts that grated up his chest and filled the room like explosions, pounding against her clit.
There was so much of him, so much she wanted to see, it was impossible to take it all in as she kept working him, harder, tighter, the pull more brutal.
She knew his ass was clenching, she was forcing it from her manipulation but more, he needed to do it to stop himself from taking over.
Her focus remained on his cock, his harnessed balls restrained but so fucking big, they still rocked with her pulls. But her mind was on his ass and how she intended to have him again, just like this, but fill him, perhaps with something special that would spread out on the floor around his calves and feet, swaying with her movements.
On this thought and the one that chased it, the one that made it difficult not to press her hand between her legs, it happened.
He broke.
The tenseness of his body vanished. He was hers to work at will.
He was hers.
He gave himself over to her, and if the sight of it etched in every line of his frame wasn’t enough, he gave her more.
Lifting his head, she caught her breath and felt the gush of wet between her legs at the burn in his eyes, the look on his face so dark with need, she fancied it cast a shadow on them both.
“Yeah, Amélie … Mistress,” he ground out. “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Jack my dick. Jack my fuckin’ dick.” His words so affecting, her strokes came faster, rougher, testing his flexibility as he fully capitulated and gave it all to her. “Jack your dick. Jack your dick, Amélie.”
Her voice was husky in a way she could not hide when she allowed, “You can meet my strokes with your thrusts, Olivier. Give my cock to me. Fuck my hand with that brute.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice, thrusting into her fist, forcing his own body into an impossibly beautiful arc. His head fell back again, the column of his throat convulsing with each grunt that came with each thrust, his jawline hard.
She felt the tension gather, shifted her grip from wrist up to wrist below, and ordered, “Offer your seed to me.”
“Fuck yeah,” he groaned and convulsed, his body staying arched, only his hips powered into her hand, the movements fluid yet spasmodic, coming in rapid succession, like an animal rutting.
And then on a muted roar, he spewed his seed, the milky jet of it soaring up his chest, wetting him from belly to nipple.
And it kept coming.
“Beautiful,” she breathed.
She held him tightly throughout, even as his drives weakened, his back slightly relaxed, and his head began to loll on his shoulders.
“Stay in position,” she ordered when he stopped thrusting altogether and she took over, gently milking out the last of his seed. “Stay offered to me, Olivier,” she repeated.
Reaching her other hand out, she cupped his harnessed balls.
And carefully squeezed.
A final gush of milky cum splashed on his flat belly as his hips juddered violently.
“Jesus,” he murmured, the tone one of stunned surprise, a shudder lightly shaking his body.
She stroked down and held him at the base, feeling the coolness of the ring.
“If you must, you may relax,” she started and his head came up, that sated look on his handsome face one she could get dangerously addicted to, soft around his mouth and eyes, lips parted.
Hers.
In that moment, all hers.
“But I’d prefer, mon chou, if you’d keep yourself presented to your Mistress while I go about the task of cleaning you up and preparing you for more play.”
He blinked.
He wasn’t expecting more.
She fought a smile.
“You came very hard. It was stunning,” she continued. “So I’d understand if you feel the need to relax. But as I said…” she trailed off, held his gaze, and then slowly released him before she straightened and moved to her bag on the table.
When she got what she needed and turned back, she could have wept with joy to see his head up, turned, and his body still arched for her.
She wanted to command him to sit back on his calves, straddle him on the floor, and kiss him so deeply, he’d wonder if their mouths had fused.
This before she rode that cock to another climax for him … and for her.
She didn’t do either.
She moved to him, giving him a look that she hoped shared her gratitude as she took the wet wipes she’d gathered and swabbed the cum from his chest.
She felt him watching her as she walked to the unobtrusive bin and threw away the spent wipes.
Ignoring the shadows at the windows indicating they did indeed have an audience, a large one, coming back to him, she crouched between his knees.
He was still semi-hard but had reduced in size enough that she could slide off the ring without causing him pain or harm.
He was clearly sensitized for he allowed a long groan to roll up his throat, and in a lovely gesture of submissive gratitude, he followed his ring (and her fingers) with his hips like he didn’t want to lose either.
“Seems I need to go shopping. My beast exceeds the size of my equipment,” she noted.
She looked to his face and saw a small smile playing at his mouth—cocky, a bit—amused, mostly.
“That might be a good idea,” he agreed.
“You’ll stay harnessed, chevalier,” she shared. “And you’ve greatly pleased me. Greatly. You can relax now.”
Instantly, he settled ass to his ankles and came up as far as the slack would let him at his collar.
She straightened and went down again at his back, effortlessly releasing the knots that bound him, relieving him of ties and collar, dropping them to the floor.
“Sit forward, Olivier,” she ordered from behind him. “You’re at ease. You may need to do some stretches to get the blood running to your arms and legs. But when you feel you can take your feet, please do so and go display yourself for me on the vault. On your back, ass back enough your legs fall open at the sides, but close to the edge so I have access to your cock and balls.”
He twisted his neck to look at her.
There was minor apprehension creeping in. He’d come. The experience was enough to sweep his mind free so he could give himself to her.
Rational thought, or irrational, however you looked at it (and Amélie considered it irrational), was intruding.
“As I said, my beast, you’ve pleased me greatly,” she continued soothingly. “When a toy pleases me, I give rewards. I’m not done with you yet.”
The last peaked enough interest he battled the beast and looked away from her, stretching his arms in front of him.
She left it at that, and moved to the table, lifting her hands to her hair at the nape of her neck.
She deftly pulled the pins out that fastened the soft twists of the chignon she’d curled there. She set them in a neat pile on the table, her back to the room and Olivier, her hands up, fingers moving through her hair.
When she turned, she was pleased to see she’d given him enough time. And he’d followed instructions. He was reclined on the vault, the old fashioned kind that was used in gymnastics competitions.
He was back far enough his powerful legs were spread off the sides, not quite dangling for they were too long. His feet rested on the ground but his legs were relaxed and falling wider open.
Next time, she’d have to remember to have the beam raised.
And, as well as the rest of him stretched across the vault, his cock and balls were exposed for touch and on display.
Yes, very much yes, he could get more beautiful.
She walked to his side, doing so seeing his head was up, chin in his neck, eyes on her in a way that was so deliberate, she knew he was focusing on her instead of the fact his beauty was exhibited to all in the club who wished to see.
It was crucial to focus him again.
She stopped close and looked down at him. His hands were up, resting on his chest.
She took one wrist and pulled it to her, flattening the palm against her breastbone above the opened neck of her button-up blouse.
Skin against skin.
His nostrils flared and his focus shifted.
Oh my.
She liked that.
There were no onlookers now. Just a touch from her and they’d melted away. It was Amélie and Olivier and his first touch of her, which he appeared to take as the gift it was.
“I’d like this, and the other one, chevalier, lifted over your head and holding on to the end of the vault, please,” she ordered.
He lifted his other hand to comply but she held the one to her chest for a longer moment, giving him that nuance more.
When she let him go, his hand lingered only a beat before he did as he’d been told.
“Now, Olivier, I’ve inspected you but I’d like to take that multisensory tonight. You’ve been so sweet for me I’d like you to feel free to stroke your cock as leisurely or rough as you wish when it starts hardening again.”
She swung back in surprise as the right arm whose hand she’d just laid against her chest came down and went right to his cock.
She looked that way and stared, fighting back an astonished blink.
He was not fully hard but he was getting there.
She turned back to him. “You seem to have a good deal of stamina.”
“Amélie … Mistress, I don’t think you’re gettin’ that I seriously find you not hard on the eyes.”
She bent closer, as intended for this part of their session, some of her hair falling on his chest in another caress. She did this letting her amusement show, if not all of the emotion she felt at his compliment.
“I wonder, mon chou, if you think you can butter me up with compliments.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Though not sure why I’d bother since I didn’t give you one and you just made me shoot a huge-ass load the likes that have never come from my cock.”
“And he gives another compliment,” she said through a smile.
“You earn it, I’ll say it,” he replied, his lips twitching. “That is, if I’m physically capable of speech.”
She was still smiling when she reached out a hand and delicately traced circles around his nipple.
His eyes darkened.
Her good humor increased.
“You’re of course aware I should do something about you being so audaciously cheeky.”
Another darkness crossed his face. “What?”
“I shouldn’t allow you to be cheeky with me.”
“Cheeky?”
“Impudent,” she explained.
The look fled. “You mean, in uppity, hot-chick speak, a wise-ass.”
Amélie couldn’t help it, she laughed softly.
“She’s got a pretty laugh, too, to go with that pretty accent,” he murmured and she saw his eyes on her lips.
I could get lost in this one, she thought. Lost and never found.
She had the thought with no fear.
The fear she felt was at the hope that struggled to break through. The hope that their future held something outside of a playroom.
“Just sayin’, Mistress,” he stated her title like it was a nickname, something forbidden at the same time immensely alluring, “you don’t want me to be a wise-ass, might be best not to invite me back to your barn. Think it’s a part of me you can’t get rid of by paddling my ass.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, smiling at him with her eyes.
“Amélie, I’m totally hard and shit is getting serious down there,” he whispered.
She looked that way.
He did not lie.
She turned her attention back to his face and swept the hair off his forehead, running the tips of her nails down his hairline.
Obviously in a certain mood, a giving one, an acquiescent one, one she liked a great deal, he turned his head and kissed her palm.
This tender gesture came as a pleasant surprise and it made her bend farther to him. He held still as she ran the tip of her nose down the length of his.
That bump at the bridge, God, it was insane but she could fall in love with it.
Controlling the movement so it wasn’t jerky at her growing-more-intense-by-the-second reaction to him, she pulled back.
“I ask you not to come, please,” she ordered. “If you need to take a break, do. I’ll let you know when you can give me your seed.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She gave him another smile and then set about the serious business, for her, of this session.
That was touch.
And taste.
In an epic journey of discovery, she lavished his body with attention. Touches as light as a feather. Scrapes of her nails. The whisper of lips. The sweep of her hair. Nibbles.
She mixed this randomly with rougher handling, the dig of her thumbs in his biceps, the scratch of her nails, the light twist of a nipple, sinking her teeth in his flesh enough he could feel the bite, but it wouldn’t leave a mark.
It was with delight that she discovered him exceptionally responsive.
She found he had the usual sensitivity behind his ears and along the vulnerable strain of muscles down the sides of his neck, but farther, in the dip of his collarbone.
He also liked to have the lobes of his ears nipped.
His nipples responded to touch, but she discovered she’d need further exploration during sessions for they didn’t elicit the response she’d expected. They’d need rougher play, pulled, twisted, clamped.
He had quite a lovely reaction to her digging her nail in the thick line of hair that led to his shaft just above and below his navel.
He was unsurprisingly, but deliciously more than normal, sensitive at the juncture of his thighs, her attention there with fingers, nails, and tongue taking his fisting of his cock to extremes before he’d stop, puffing out rapid exhalations of breath.
Inner and back thighs charmingly responsive, as were the backs of his knees. The fronts, not as much.
Tugs on his pubic hair brought a hiss that drowned a groan.
He liked that.
As did she.
She’d take that monster of a cock in her mouth on another, special occasion.
But when she’d noticed his body was taut with his increasing need for release, she finished her discovery, saving the best for last.
Laving his harnessed balls, sucking one, then the other, gently into her mouth, caused his hips to buck.
She watched, building her own need, the pull of his fist stretching the root of his cock as she relentlessly focused her attention on his sac.
As she did this, she found she liked his musk.
He wore aftershave and she liked that too.
But here, down here, the seat of his meat, he smelled divine.
“Amélie.”
There it was. The need.
She took one firm, final suckle of his ball sac, hearing his hushed explosion of, “Fuck me,” before she lifted away from him but came to his left side.
“Do you need to come, mon chou?” she asked, staring (she knew because she didn’t hide it) affectionately into his sweltering eyes and his dark, hard face.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“Keep stroking, Olivier,” she ordered, reaching for his hand that was still over his head, now clutching the edge of the vault.
She took it and watched with great fascination the myriad of lovely expressions shift across his face as she moved it so he could comfortably accept what she was offering. Then she pressed his hand into the damp crotch at her center.
Unable to stop himself, he took what she gave him and beyond. Long fingers strong, he curled them in, shoving her panties into her pussy, palming her clit.
Right, he knew what he was doing down there.
That was good to know.
She drew in a sharp, delicate breath and whispered, “Very nice, Olivier.”
“Let me fuck you,” he begged.
She shook her head slightly, bracing her legs against the sensations and modulating her voice as his strong fingers forced themselves up and out, again and again. “Not this time, my chevalier.”
His hand curled into her roughly.
Possessively.
Her alpha.
She clenched her teeth to bite back a cry of pleasure.
“I need this,” he growled, tugging on her, swaying her hips toward him, like she wouldn’t know to what he was referring.
“You have it,” she pointed out, slightly breathlessly.
“Need it, Mistress.”
That was a plea.
“You have what I’m giving you tonight, Olivier,” she informed him.
His hand shifted, middle finger finding her clit through her pants, up and circling, pressing hard.
Her lips parted.
“Fuck, Amélie,” he whispered. “Please.”
“You’ll take what I give you, Olivier.”
“Put me on the floor. Sit on my face,” he demanded, his fist jacking his cock brutally. “I want my cock in you, but right now, the minute you took me, I’d shoot.”
“When I ride your face, you’ll be restrained and at my mercy.” His face darkened with more need. He wanted her to give him that too. “Olivier, you have what you’re going to get. Now, take care of it, please.”
The order registered and his focus intensified on what he was doing with his finger.
And he proved further he knew what he was doing.
All he’d given her that night, with delicate breaths whispering through her lips, she held his eyes and allowed his magic to work.
It took very little time.
Slowly closing her eyes, her hand coming to land on his chest, her fingers curling in, nails scraping through his hair, she trembled against his hand as she gave into the sweet release. Letting it wash over her, Olivier behind her eyes, his strength between her legs and evident under her hand on his chest, exquisitely elusive shivers slithered over her skin as she pressed her hips into his hand.
“Jesus, baby,” Olivier whispered through her orgasm. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”
At his words, still climaxing, she felt her mouth curve up.
“Jesus.” He was still whispering, now almost reverently.
She opened heavy lids and cast her gaze on him.
“Give me your seed,” she demanded.
His face registered the order and then registered surprise, like he’d never been ordered to come on demand before and was shocked it could happen, before his head dug into the vault as his cum streamed up his belly.
He was milking his dick, his legs still prone to the sides, that outstanding display likely to be just as the first he’d provided that night, used mentally by whoever was watching to get them off later … and spectacularly.
She bent over him, reaching out a hand to his cheek.
He was still in the aftermath of his climax but that made it perfect when she bent deeper and took his mouth in their first kiss.
She added tongue, stroking his, and there was an enticing musk to his taste as well.
She lifted away and asked, “Is my beast appeased?”
Humor lit his gaze as he muttered, “Your beast got his rocks off twice in a big fuckin’ way, Amélie. So yeah. Definitely.”
“Cheeky.”
His gaze stayed lit even as it grew slightly sober.
“Nice kiss,” he whispered.
God, on his back on a vault with his cum on his belly, his orgasm witnessed probably by more than a dozen people, and he was flirting.
“Now you’re a flirt.”
The grin hit his mouth.
“Sit up, Olivier. On the edge of the vault, mon chou. I’ll clean you.”
She bent forward and brushed her mouth to his. Contrary to what he’d been taught, he pressed up to deepen the contact, but relaxed back before she could take him to task for it.
She moved away and found him sitting up when she came back to him.
She positioned between his legs, cleaned his cum from his belly, and then walked back to the bin.
She returned to her steed, again between his legs.
“You may hold me loosely,” she allowed.
His lips quirked but he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her loosely. Arms that were so long, they crossed at the back and his hands rested at her front hipbones.
“Something funny?” she asked.
“You’re cute when you’re bossy.”
She opened her mouth but he lifted his chin in a “shut up” gesture and kept going before she could get a word in.
“Cute but hot. When you’re workin’ me, it’s just hot, Amélie. So don’t get pissy.”
“I decide when to get pissy.”
Fucking hell.
That came out petulantly.
She never broke role. She never slipped. She never did because she wasn’t in role.
This was her.
So she certainly never came across petulantly.
Wisely, Olivier caught it, she knew it by the flicker of hilarity she saw hit his gaze, but he kept his mouth shut.
Damn, but if he didn’t let up, that hope this could become something more wouldn’t break through.
It’d explode.
“I want you here Wednesday night,” she demanded. “Nine sharp. I’ll call you to my table or to a playroom when I arrive.”
As she spoke, she saw his expression shift strangely.
“Olivier?” she called his name as a command for an explanation.
“Wednesday? Amélie … Mistress, that’s four days away.”
He wanted to see her sooner.
Oh God.
“Four very long days for you,” she stated tartly. “Since you’re not allowed to touch yourself until I have you again.”
His brows went up before they relaxed but the instant they did, he blinked.
“Come again?”
“You may not touch yourself, jack off, shoot a load, masturbate, while you’re away from me.”
“Okay,” he stated immediately. “Due respect and all, Mistress, but are you crazy?”
She couldn’t fathom why he asked that and she had to tamp down her need to burst out laughing at the way he did.
“Explain why you think I’m crazy,” she commanded.
“Right, well, I jacked off Tuesday night, and that was after the colossal orgasm you gave me and, Amélie, not sure you saw it but the slick you forced out of me onto the floor was so big, you could freeze it and make an ice rink.”
She felt her body begin to tremble as she continued to fight back laughing.
“And, just sayin’, that shit worked on me, as you know. So I jacked off in the shower Wednesday morning, when I got home from work Wednesday night, when I hit the sack, when I got up the next day … I need to go on?”
Powerless to fight it, and luckily being a Domme she could do what she fucking pleased, she melted into him.
And since she could also allow what she damn well pleased, after she did and his arms tightened around her, she let him do that too.
That said, there was a great deal he was saying, it was funny as well as gratifying, but it was also a little disconcerting.
“You’ve never had a Master or Mistress order you not to touch yourself between sessions before?” she asked.
“I’ve never had a Master, one. Mistresses only. And straight up, never had one jack my shit as good as you. So that question is moot since it’s about the good you give which I can’t get out of my head that makes that command, Mistress Amélie, damn near impossible.”
Very nice.
Very.
“Then, my steed, you will please me greatly, which will mean I’ll please you greatly, when you best that impossibility.”
He stared into her eyes.
Then he gusted out the word, “Fuck,” to the ceiling.
“Olivier,” she called, again grinning.
He looked back to her.
“Wednesday, mon chou. Be here at nine. Yes?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
So good. So beautiful. Her magnificent beast.
He deserved one last reward.
She gave it to him, a long, carnal, wet kiss that included her allowing him to grope her ass while she ran her hands along his back and then fisted them as best she could in his hair.
She gave a light tug and he lifted away.
“Get dressed, my chevalier.”
He bent and touched the tip of that extraordinary nose to hers before he drew away.
She shifted from between his legs and assumed a position of side of her hip to the vault to watch as he put on his clothes.
A thought occurred to her as he moved away, his fingers going directly to the straps still harnessing his balls.
And she made a decision.
“Oh no, Olivier,” she called. He stopped moving, twisted his torso, fingers still to his sac, and looked to her. “I want you to wear the harness home. You may take it off to sleep. You may leave it off except when you’re alone at home. There, I want you to strap yourself so you can be reminded who owns those fabulous balls, who owns that big, gorgeous cock. Leave it on at least an hour. And wear it again when you come back to see me.”
She watched, enjoying the show, but did so with bated breath, hope and fear fighting their own battle in her belly, as he waged internal war.
With jaw tight, the look in his eyes a mix of hunger and uncertainty, he nodded.
“Thank you, mon chou,” she said, her words weighty with feeling, those words holding meaning he knew.
By allowing her to play with him out of the club, this meant their play had expanded significantly.
This utterly thrilled her.
And with terrifying honesty, she had to admit, it scared the hell out of her.
He went to his clothes on the hooks.
Her eyes moved to the windows only to assess that their audience had disappeared after the show was obviously over.
Only one onlooker remained.
Stellan.
He again was not watching Olivier. His attention was on Amélie.
And when he got hers, his handsome, dark head tipped slightly to the side and his gaze slid to Olivier briefly.
Then he pushed away from where he was resting his shoulders against the windows of the darkened playroom across from hers, turned, and with the loose-limbed grace of that long, lean body that for years she’d desired to have under her command, he sauntered away.