Driftwood Deeds by Laila Blake Page A

same almost polite tone that still allowed for no complaint or disobedience. My fingers slipped between my legs without any hesitation. I just looked up at him wide-eyed and wanting.
    “What does it feel like?”
    I thought about this as I trapped my clit between my middle and index finger, before carefully rubbing it up and down. 
    “Eyes on me,” he reminded me quickly when they started to fall shut at the sensation. It felt like a jolt through my system.
    “It’s... still a little numb, a little sore,” I whispered trying to stay truthful, “but not in a bad way.”
    He chuckled and touched my cheekbone. I wanted to touch him, too, but his orders were to do that to myself and it felt like a physical impossibility to raise my fingers from where he had ordered them to be.
    “Eager puppy,” he whispered approvingly. “Have you ever had your ass fucked?”
    That brought me up short. My mouth opened, then closed and I knew that my cheeks were flaming red again. I could feel the flood rushing there as it pulsed through my temples.
    “I...”
    “It’s a simple question, puppy.”
    “No...” There was a deep sense of failure in my voice and if he hadn’t told me to keep my eyes on his, I would have looked away. “Um, no, Sir.”
    Paul didn’t share my sentiment, though. At least, if he did, he didn’t show it. He just shook his head at my expression and leaned down to kiss my forehead.
    “I just wanted to know. It’s something I wouldn’t want to take from you this way, now.”
    I swallowed. Again I didn’t have the slightest clue how to phrase my thoughts. Did I want to keep whatever shred of virginity I had left for some sexist idea of a future boyfriend, a future dominant? I didn’t know—and it didn’t help that the very idea both thrilled and petrified me.
    “Okay,” I finally whispered but when he nodded, I vividly remembered his fingers there, pushing against the ring of muscle, losing its tension. I had loved that feeling of discomfort and a hint of pain mixed with that intensely tender feeling of being caressed somewhere forbidden, somewhere dirty. I didn’t want to wait for some phantom man.
    I wanted Paul. But I’d leave the next day, go back home to my apartment scouring the Internet for porn that might help me recreate these moments and never could. I wanted Paul.
    The sudden rush of tears caught me by surprise and I was lucky that Paul had just turned away. It gave me a moment to recover, to put on a smile before he turned back to me. I think he saw it anyway, but neither of us was brave enough to bring it up.
    “There’s a beautiful puppy,” he whispered instead, rubbing my cheek. I was still touching myself but I could hardly feel it against the onslaught of other emotions and so I was vaguely surprised when he took my hands and pulled them from between my legs. Bringing them to his face, he smelled my fingertips, kissed them—and then brought them high over my head. The texture of rope brushed over my wrist and before I could even wonder if I wanted to protest, my right hand was tied firmly to the bedpost. Tugging at it once yielded no result and the shock of desire this sent through my system was distracting enough to push the sudden sadness back into its secret box at the edge of my consciousness. 
    He took my other hand and brought it to the corresponding bedpost—I couldn’t breathe while he made more knots. However much I wanted him to do what he was doing, my first instinct was to check for a way out. I tugged at the bonds again but they didn’t give—not an inch. I caught Paul looking down at me, concern washed over his face but it didn’t linger.
    “Stay,” he whispered in a teasing allusion to that puppy.
    “Yes, Sir,” I breathed. He flashed me a smile, then walked around the bed. With his knee on the mattress, he grabbed my knees and pushed my thighs apart, gaping wide. There couldn’t possibly be a breeze in the room but I felt the air cool against my moist