Ladder 54: Five Firefighter Romances Page 8

  “I’ll turn the heat on in a minute,” he promised, and waited.

  Her fingers plucked at the stitching along the pale pink hem, but she was only wasting time and she knew it. Deep breath. She closed her eyes, but not being able to see him really didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He was and he was watching the whole time while she worked up the courage to pull off her shirt and hand that over as well. Then she stood before him in nothing but her bra and her panties, and a shit-ton of anxiety that was only getting worse the longer he spent folding her shirt before dropping it onto her pants.

  Was she really going to do this? Her hands went behind her, plucking at the hooks on her bra with the ease of a woman who’d been putting the damn things on every single day since she was thirteen. Her boobs were too small. She shrugged out of it, but it was all she could do not to apologize. His eyes were locked on her, but it was not the stare of a man underwhelmed by what he was seeing. Heat flushed her, fed by the naked wanting that flickered in the smoky depths of his stare, especially when he licked his lips.

  “Panties too,” he reminded, his voice unexpectedly husky.

  Don’t think about it. Hooking her thumbs into the elastic of her underwear, she took them down. Was he looking down her back to her ass as she bent, stepping out of each leg hole before wadding the silly thing up and trying to hide it in her hands? He didn’t even let her keep them. Taking the wad away, he folded her underwear along with her bra and set those on top of the neat stack of discarded clothing.

  “We’ve got a long night ahead of us,” Walker said, as he straightened slowly, “and we’re both new to one another.”

  She flushed hot all over again, finding it so very hard to keep his eye contact as she stammered out a shaky laugh and shook her head. “You’re not new to me.”

  “We’ve never played.” A glint of warning lit the backs of his eyes. “Just because you’ve seen me scene at the parties, that doesn’t mean you know me. This isn’t going to be like the parties. We’re not going to do the same things.”

  A little drop of cold plopped into the pit of her stomach, which flipped and quivered. A tangle of nervous energy.

  “I know what you want,” he assured. “And you know what you have to do if you want to get it. Until you do, we’re going to do other things. Things you haven’t seen me do. Things I’m going to do just for you.”

  A week’s worth of constant nervousness left her feeling frayed. Without the cover of clothes, she wasn’t just exposed, but now she had nothing left with which to occupy her fidgety fingers. “Like what?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She wanted to say ‘yes’ because, weirdly, she did trust him. She’d known him a very long time, even if he didn’t know her. She’d seen what he was capable of. Not once had she ever witnessed him doing anything she could identify as unsafe or nonconsensual. She wanted to say ‘yes,’ but when she opened her mouth no sound came out.

  A corner of his lips curled. “I can read you like a book, Rylee. Something very specific brought you to me. You’ve been a bad girl, I think. Not the way sexy submissives like to be in order to receive the sexy punishments that go along with it, but I think perhaps you really have done something you feel deserving of correction.”

  Her chest tightened. Was she still breathing? She pressed a hand between her breasts, honestly unable to tell, but the next she knew, she wasn’t pressing anymore. She was pinching, rolling the needy tip between her own fingers. The budded tips ached, they were so tight and hard, but she hadn’t meant to do that and didn’t realize that she was… until he noticed. His smoky gray eyes sharpened and he smiled. Folding her arms over her breasts, her face flaming, Rylee tried to pretend she hadn’t just done that.

  “No.” Taking hold of her wrists, Walker forcibly unfolded her arms. “You don’t get to hide from me. Do that again.”

  A low thump of arousal throbbed its wanton melody between her clenching thighs, the music already spreading up to fill her heavy breasts.

  “Both hands,” Walker said. “Go on now. Play with your nipples while I watch.”

  Her every nerve was vibrating, half torn between panic and the strangest mix of arousal and anxiety. She’d never touched herself in front of anyone before. She hadn’t even touched herself in front of a mirror, and Walker wanted her to tweak her own nipples. That low arousal thumped harder, becoming a heady pulse that consumed her clit and brought with it a molten rush of fluid, spilling down through her folds in tickling movements.

  “Go on,” he said again, patience personified as he waited for her to obey.

  Her eyes were huge, and her shaky hands were definitely not taking direction from her brain. They moved independent of her scattered thoughts, pulling free of his loose grip and drifting back to the budded tips of her nipples. Her fingers plucked, a tentative obedience that sent shocks of pleasure jolting from her breasts straight to her clit. Her nipples tightened all over again, growing taut under his steady gaze.

  His breathing quickened, which made her own breaths quicken in time.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” He moved to take her hands at last. “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. It may not be what you want, but it will be what you need.”

  Such a vow should have been comforting. Instead, he’d made it sound like a threat, and still she melted. And followed him, meek as a kitten when he took her hand and slung his play bag over his shoulder. He headed to the kitchen, pausing at the thermostat to adjust the cabin’s temperature and switch on the heated floor tiles.

  So her feet would not get cold. She melted all over again.

  Setting his play bag on a marble countertop, Walker gestured for her to sit on one of the stools. “Have you been hydrating like I asked?”

  “All day yesterday and today,” she replied. She watched him unzip his bag—a massive black and red sports duffel that was fat and fully packed—with no small amount of trepidation. It was amazing how fast a girl could forget about the little things (like total nudity) when confronted by more important things, like the two-gallon Ziploc baggie full of neatly coiled bondage ropes in a rainbow array of colors—black, red, purple, green, and blue. All right, a rainbow array of bruise-like colors. Nipple clamps came next, along with wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, and a hair tie.

  “Put that on,” he said, handing her that last item. “If you need the bathroom, now would be the time. I’ll be right back, and then we’re going to get started.”

  “Doing what?” she asked, knowing full well. It was spanking time. A shiver ran through her.

  “You’re going to be a table,” Walker said instead, and left the kitchen. He went downstairs, into the play dungeon.

  A table? Surely, she’d heard that wrong. Walker flogged and spanked. That’s what she’d bought him for. It was all she’d ever seen him do, and yes, he had already told her he wasn’t going to until she caved and completely ruined herself in the eyes of the entire CCC—perhaps even the whole town and every single person she knew—by admitting what she’d done. She couldn’t. She’d rather learn to live with the guilt, and anyway, he had to be kidding about that part. Because spanking was his thing. Sooner or later, he’d have to do it, right? He was just… she wasn’t sure, making her sweat it out or something.

  And, apparently, turning her into a table.

  When Walker returned a short time later it was with a wooden plank of a serving tray. A neck strap helped to stabilize the serving surface because it did not come with handles. Rather, a pair of leather straps were affixed to the bottom where her wrists would be buckled in, side by side in the very center of the board, making it a matter of deep concentration to keep the tray from tipping one way or the other. Especially if he wasn’t particular about balancing whatever he intended to put on top.

  “Time to pray,” he said, unbuckling the wrist straps as he approached her.

  Objectification wasn’t really her kink, although this barely qualified as that. This was more like bondage servitude, especiall
y when she clasped her hands, bringing her wrists together as close as possible. He buckled her to the tray, which forced her to hold her arms at stern right angles.

  “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, as he opened one of his many Ziploc baggies.

  “Exactly whatever I tell you to.” Shaking two sets of clover clamps out into his hand, he set them on her tray.

  “You know I only have two nipples, right?” She stared at the clamps. She’d never seen a pair up close like this, but those that she had seen were always linked together via a sturdy chain. Walker’s weren’t. His clamps had rings on the end, but no chain. Her hands weren’t free, so she couldn’t pick them up for a closer look. She also couldn’t imagine more than one clamp at a time being able to fit on her nipples.

  Smiling, Walker plucked two leather collars out of the same bag. Oddly, those did have chains attached. “Don’t move.” He winked and promptly dropped to one knee, disappearing under the plank of her tray.

  He was now at eye level with her pussy. He was probably staring right at—oh my God, oh my God—he was touching it!

  Or rather, he was touching her leg, wrapping a collar around the top of her thigh. But her thigh was attached to her pussy, so… close enough.

  She was freaking. The need to laugh was absurdly strong, with the brush of his fingers as he buckled that strap around her leg almost tickling her. Her wildly humming nerves didn’t know how to interpret those brushing caresses as anything but that.

  “Hold still,” he said, sing-song and amused.

  She was trying. She really was, but every jerk as he pulled the buckles tighter brought his knuckles up that much higher. When he straightened the silver jewelry chains—one per strap, each only a few inches in length with a clip that made the lengths adjustable—she swore she felt his knuckle brush against her folds. It was a touch that went straight to her clit. Fighting not to close her eyes, she savored it. This was almost better than sex. She pressed her lips to keep back her telltale mew, but he must have heard it anyway.

  He pulled back just far enough for her to see the sparkle in his eyes. “Dipstick test,” he said. The tray hid his smile, but she could hear it in his voice.

  A sizzle of static excitement raced up her back, crackling up under the back of her skull as the delayed meaning of his words sank in.

  This was no trick of her imagination; the grazing caress of his fingertips really did trace back along the folds of her pussy. Finding entrance, one slipped between her nether lips and sank palm-deep into wetness.

  There was no muffling that mew. Just like there was no hiding the quiver that shook her thighs, sweeping up through her flinching belly into her womb. Her mouth opened, silent wonder rounding her lips at the intensity of such an invasion and the rippling spasm that racked the whole of her sex when he rumbled a hungry chuckle of his own.

  “Perfect.”

  Warmth blossomed inside her. She shivered again, but already his welcome touch was retreating. Reaching up onto the tray, he took two of the four clover clamps next. What…? Her eyes widened as his fingers returned their combing caress through her folds. She all but came up onto her tiptoes when he took a gentle pinching hold of the right half of her labia.

  Walker drew back far enough for her to see his eyes, then he winked.

  Rylee really did arch up onto her toes now even as her knees tried to buckle. And still, the cold grip of the clover clamp took its first bite on a place she had never in her life imagined he would put it.

  “Breathe,” he said. The pinch grew tighter as he released the clamp, the minuscule weight of it growing heavier… headier… and confusing sensation that only became more so once he’d added the weight and hang of the jewelry chain.

  “Oh, no, please,” she whispered, not daring to move. Her legs stiffened when he took hold of the other half of her captured sex. Even knowing now what to expect, it was a struggle to stand straight and still while the bite of the second clamp found its steady hold. The weight of the clamps was a strange sensation, coupled with the dangling vibration of each chain. Especially when he bumped them. Or tugged. Or lightly pulled as he attached the free end of each chain to the buckled collars on her thighs, and then pulled, opening the folds of her pussy in a way she’d never seen him do before. Not to anyone. Ever.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” she gasped, but ‘wait’ was not the safeword and he paid no attention to it. Shortening the length of each chain, he left her as open and as exposed as any woman could ever possibly be.

  Hands on her hips, Walker studied his handiwork, while Rylee fought not to move. She dared not even breathe. The bite of the clamps held her frozen without really hurting; she suspected that would come just as soon as she lost her precarious tiptoe balance and tried to move.

  “Lovely,” Walker declared, rising to stand once more. Giving her hip a light smack that jangled the excess length of the jewelry chains, he winked again. “Are you hungry? Let’s make dinner.”

  Clamped and bound, Rylee stared at his retreating back. Food was absolutely the last thing she was thinking about at this particular moment, but as he pulled open the fridge double doors and examined the contents Sophie had left for them, noticing that she hadn’t moved, he crooked a finger.

  “Right here.” He pointed to the floor at his right. “I want you within arm’s reach of me at all times tonight. Just in case a reward has been earned… or a correction.”

  So, he intended there to be spankings after all. Her pussy twitched, making the clamps bite and the chains pull.

  “Come, table.” Although cheerfully stated, it was an order nonetheless and it drew her to him.

  Oh, that first step. She minced, each timid movement a lesson in how erotic and mortifying and how very much more exposed than just naked a person could really be in the hands of a devious dom. It wasn’t even unpleasant, which surprised her.

  Rylee looked down at her tray with those two remaining clover clamps still resting on it. She looked at her nipples, the budding peaks tight and hard with an eagerness that was a total disconnect from what her nethers were experiencing, but even that wasn’t terrible. It was… oddly arousing, the cool caress of the open air, the strange tugs that accompanied just trying to walk. This wasn’t at all what she envisioned when she’d first set her mind on winning Walker in the Date-A-Dom auction. It wasn’t at all what she thought she’d get, either, to help cleanse the guilt of what she’d done.

  She liked it. Surprisingly enough, she liked the tightness of the bonds that held her wrists, although the tray still felt awkward. She liked the hug of the leather straps around her thighs, the cool dangle of the chains hanging down between, the weight, and even the pinch of the clamps that pulled her open. Strange though it was, she couldn’t believe how much she liked it and, if anything, that made her feel worse.

  She didn’t want him to do things to her that she was going to like. At least, not until after she got that long-awaited, soul-cleansing, butt-busting spanking that she so badly needed. But which she wouldn’t get, he’d said, unless first she told him what for and why.

  She couldn’t do that. She just couldn’t. There was just no way. The minute she opened her mouth and let the truth come pouring out, this date would be done. He’d tell her what she’d done wasn’t a spanking offense. It was assault and instead of landing her over the knee, where she ought to go was prison.

  Then he’d leave, and eventually he’d probably tell someone else. And then that someone would tell someone, until all of the CCC and Big Banks knew what she’d done, and she’d never live it down. Her life would be ruined.

  No, she couldn’t tell him. She shouldn’t have to, either. This was her night. She might have stolen it, but she’d also paid for it, damn it. And impact play was still Walker’s thing. It was the only thing she’d asked for. Eventually, he was going to run out of other things to do to her and he’d have no choice but to just do it. Whether she asked for it or not.

  If she could just keep
her mouth shut until then, the resulting spanking would surely be enough to set her free. It had to be. She’d seen him spank so many times before and it had always been such a powerful thing to witness, she just couldn’t imagine it being anything less for her.

  The spanking would make everything okay again.

  At least, she hoped it would.

  * * *

  Dinner was spaghetti, made from scratch.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” he’d laughed, when she commented on the scratch part. “I’m kind of a one-trick pony. Spaghetti is about the only thing I know how to make. Well,” he’d amended as he scrubbed the vegetables Sophie had provided and thought about it. “I do a mean chili too, and I’m a master on a grill. Give me a warm summer day and a steak, and I could make you weep. But when it comes to a kitchen, forget it. I can’t even make toast. Unless it’s garlic toast, but only if I’m also making spaghetti. Steady your tray.”

  One at a time, he’d washed the vegetables and piled them on her tray, occasionally splashing her with a stray drop of water or two. Or six. Rylee frowned at him the first time it happened, flinching a little at the chill of the droplets running now down the inner curves of her breasts and falling into the valley between.

  “Do you dislike getting wet?” he’d asked, and of course he would notice that. Not her frowns, or the side-eye looks she was giving him, but one little roll of her shoulders and push of her arms in an attempt to get her small breasts to come together enough to get rid of the tickling-trickling feeling in between them… and suddenly she was Bondage Serving Wench for spaghetti-making Sherlock Holmes.

  “No,” she replied.

  He’d actually looked at her then, one corner of his handsome mouth quirking. That annoyed her. He wasn’t doing anything worth two thousand dollars yet; she didn’t want to find him handsome. Not that being Bondage Serving Wench was a bad thing, but it was weird. The bite of the clamps had gone from the odd novelty sensation to a constant pinching awareness. The stretched feeling was odd too, but this business of being held forever open when he wasn’t doing anything more about it… that was just maddening.