Annabel Joseph - Firebird

“Down to your panties, Prosper.”

She blinked, and then her fingers began to fumble with the zipper of her dress. Nudity wasn’t a huge hang-up for her. Being a dancer, her body was always on display for appraisal and judgment. What made this different was that she was undressing for him.

He watched her from a few steps away. His burgeoning erection was obvious through the fabric of his pants. She couldn’t look there, nor could she bear to look at his eyes, so she kept her gaze on the floor. She believed him when he said he wouldn’t take what wasn’t his. But the fact that his erection was there, blatantly obvious, made her own center throb and grow wet. She took off her dress and her bra, then looked down at her garter belt and stockings. Besides them, she wore only a teensy thong. She looked up at him, flushing hot.

“Yes, okay. Pretty lingerie. Leave it on.”

With a sigh of relief, she went to the bed. By the time she’d arranged herself across the stark white sheets, he had equally stark white ropes dangling from his hand. He took first one wrist and then the other and tied them to the posts of the headboard with a casual ease that indicated he was far from new at this. They were soft ties, of nylon maybe, but they were strong. They had no give at all when she tested them with quick, furtive pulls. He watched her with a hint of a smile.

“You’re caught now, aren’t you? Try to get free. Pull hard.”

She did and felt fearful excitement when she couldn’t move her wrists more than an inch or two in each direction. He reached down and snapped one of her garters. She yelped at the sting and reached to soothe it, but her hand was stuck fast.

“Naughty girl. You wouldn’t have worn those if you didn’t have every intention of getting naked today with our friend George.”

He looked down at her in mock censure. She shook her head.

“No, I wouldn’t have. I only wore them… They make me feel… I hoped—”

He snapped the other garter. She yelped again and fidgeted on the soft sheets.

“Little liar.”

“Really! If he… If you had been a stranger—”

“Stranger or not, Prosper, you should never let anyone tie you up unless you’ve negotiated first. You didn’t even ask for a safe word.”

“Safe word?”

He raised his eyebrows at her as he took her right ankle and pulled her legs apart.

“You are a novice.” He wrapped her ankle in rope and secured it. “You don’t know what a safe word is?”

“I know what a safe word is. But I know you. I trust you.”

“Do you? What do you know about me? What do you know about my needs and my limits? Do they match yours?”

She looked at him, wrapping her mind around his questions. “I know you won’t hurt me,” she said finally.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you need me for your ballet.” He looked down at her and burst into laughter—a rich, warm sound she’d never heard before. She was so used to critical comments and serious commands that his laughter caught her off guard.

“Okay. You’ve got me there. Not that you’re totally irreplaceable,” he said, waggling a finger at her. She giggled at his teasing and felt herself relax. He wouldn’t hurt her; she knew it. His fingertips brushed her ankle, checking the knot, making sure the rope was neither too loose nor too tight. The care he took made the warm throb intensify between her thighs.

“A common safe word partners use is mercy ,” he said. “Today we’ll use that, not that you’ll need a safe word. Just a formality.”

She nodded as he walked to the other side of the bed to secure her left ankle. When he finished, she would be completely subdued, at his mercy. Mercy . It was an appropriate word, but it didn’t feel safe. The fact that such a thing as a safe word needed to exist between them took her breath away.

He stood back when he finished, and his gaze swept over her, making her go hotter still. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what he wanted to do to her , and that made her wet, wetter than she could ever remember being. She was terrified he would touch her there and discover just how drenched she was.

“Okay?” he asked. “Your hands and feet feel okay? Your circulation isn’t cut off? As you pointed out earlier, I have a bit of a vested interest in your body. If you feel anything going numb, let me know right away. Don’t try to tough it out.”

She nodded.

“You can answer ‘yes, Sir.’ The nods and headshakes seem a bit rude.”

The reprimand in his tone washed over her, cold and hot lust. “Yes, Sir.”

He sat beside her, his solid weight dipping the bed toward him. She stayed where she was, inexorably tied. He leaned close, so close she could smell him, the clean scent of soap and aftershave, an amalgamation of maleness. She breathed deep.

He lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it across her shoulder. “How do you feel, Prosper? Have you ever been tied up?”

She shook her head, then remembered and said, “No, Sir. Not like this. With rope instead of cuffs.”

“Do you like it?”

His gaze penetrated her. There was no way to hide the truth from him.

“Yes.”

“‘Yes, Sir, I like it.’”

“Yes, Sir, I like it.” Like it ? She was so overwhelmed with arousal, she could barely get the words out.

“Speak so I can hear you. Talk to me when I ask you a question, no whispering.”

“Yes, Sir, I like it.” She managed to say it more loudly, but he must have heard her voice shake.

“Okay. Better.” He reached a hand up to caress her jaw, the length of her neck, and down to the fullness of her breasts. She didn’t know where to look. His eyes? His hand? His fingertips as they brushed across her nipples— ohhhh . She tried to hide her reaction to the stimulation, but a jerky breath escaped. His other hand came down next to her head, and he leaned forward over her and then drew the undisciplined little nipple into his mouth.

The sensation took her breath away. She writhed in the bonds, hating herself for doing it. He’d only been touching her for a minute, less than a minute, and already she was tossing around like a tart. She tried to steel herself against the pleasure that threatened to undo her. With a smirk, he laved the other nipple, drawing it between rough lips that teased and tortured before releasing it with one sharp bite. She clenched her teeth to keep the groan inside. His fingertips touched the inside of her thigh and pinched her softly.

“Are you wet, Prosper?” He whispered it against her ear.

Her eyes were closed. Please don’t touch me there, or you’ll know. You’ll know.

“Answer me, ‘yes, Sir’ or ‘no, Sir,’” he said. “Prosper. Are you wet?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m wet.”

He moved his hand farther up the inside of her thigh, and she jerked again. He held his palm over the inadequate triangle of material that covered her. It hovered there, a hairbreadth away. If he pressed down, his palm would come away soaking wet.

“Please—”

His unforgiving gaze was terrifying. “Please what? Please touch you?”

“No, no,” she pleaded. “Please don’t.”

“I already know you’re wet.” He smiled. “You told me. Either way I would have known. I can look at your eyes and see it.”

“I just don’t want you to—”

“Take it as an invitation?”

“It’s just my body, my body doing things—”

“Your mind doesn’t agree with your body? Your mind isn’t turned on by what I’m doing to you? Tying you down, touching you, but not quite touching you enough?”