Yes, she could see herself during a night out with the women she'd worked with at her former job in Boston. "Oh, Doris, I'm so glad to hear you aced your recent board meeting and sent that bunch of sexist assholes home with their tails between their legs. Last weekend, I was chained to a sofa like a sex slave by a man I've started to call Master." And I've never felt so cherished . . . or felt so loved . . . in all my life.
She stared at him, her pulse pounding high and hard now for a different reason. It was the truth, and she found no fault with it, no instant scream for therapy from her rational mind. He picked up his tools. "Read your magazines," he ordered. "Let me know if you get uncomfortable or if you need anything. Anything important," he amended, that familiar gleam coming to his eye. "Else I'll have to gag you."
*
He worked for a solid two hours. With no access to a clock, she thought it could have been two minutes or two eternities. Time was both irrelevant and excruciating. She did page through one of the magazines, but in the end, she just watched him. She folded her hands beneath her head, fingers idly playing in the links of the chain attached to the collar. Her legs were bent enough she could feel the pull of the other chain on her ankle.
He chiseled out curves in the wood as sweet as a woman's. He bored holes, biceps flexing as he put pressure on the tool, and attached pieces with carefully placed fasteners.
As his work took shape, she saw it was fashioned after the stocks placed in a public square to punish and humiliate someone. It had the usual three holes for head and wrists, but he had it designed so the height could be adjusted, the servant bent at angles according to the desires of the Dominant. He had an additional panel that could be slotted and locked into the top of the stocks. Studying it, she realized the spaced holes were intended for a woman's breasts. Just like the bench piece he'd shown her the first time she'd toured his workshop, it gave the Master the ability to run a chain between nipple clamps or piercings, so the captive couldn't pull back, free herself.
The way he carefully checked the dimensions suggested the woman in question had been measured, probably by her Master. She imagined Logan doing that to her, so he could design furniture to hold her according to his desires. She wondered what he might make, what he'd like to do to her.
Though he was absorbed in his work, he did glance her way now and then. He didn't speak, but she thought he might be checking on how she was doing, or perhaps gaining more inspiration, because his gaze would course over the chains holding her, linger on her collar. Once, when he did that, she found herself lifting her chin to display it more prominently. The flicker in his eyes made her fingers curl into the sofa cushions. When he returned his attention to his work, she was nearly breathless.
She wondered if all craftsmen were as beautiful as the objects they created. He'd shed his shirt, revealing the white undershirt he wore beneath it, and had pulled that free from his jeans. When he squatted to peer up at something from a different angle, denim stretched deliciously over his thighs, his taut ass, his shoulders flexing as he tented his fingers on the ground, holding his balance. Later, when he finished coaxing out the shape of the wood, he began to use the hand sander, smoothing the wood while tiny shavings frosted his forearms. His arm muscles rolled like ocean surf as he performed every step needed to perfect his work.
She wanted him to come to her, push her back on the sofa, still chained, and take her like she'd imagined. Leave her wet with his seed, and then go back to what he was doing, making her feel used and needed. Though he appeared to be fully engrossed in what he was doing, she'd never felt so noticed, at an intense level she'd never imagined it possible for a man to notice a woman. He was as aware of her as he was his own breath or heart beating. Most people thought they didn't think about those things, but in fact they were more aware of them than anything else, an integral part of their existence, a constant reminder they were alive.
At length, he was done for the night. He wiped down his tools, put them away. Sweeping up the sawdust, he dumped it in a bin, hung the dustpan and broom back on the wall, then moved to the utility sink to wash his hands and forearms. She watched him dry his hands, run a wet cloth over his face and neck before he turned to her.
Her lips were parted, her throat dry. She hadn't thought to drink any of the bottled water he'd left within reach, her focus all on him. He leaned against the sink and picked up his own bottle, taking a deep swig from it. As he wiped his mouth with a casual forearm, his eyes stayed on her.
"Are you still wet for me, Madison?"
When she nodded, his gaze sharpened like the tools he was using. He didn't have to say anything; he was a teacher adept at giving his students precise nonverbal cues.
"Yes sir." Yes, Master. She wanted to call him that, write it on a chalkboard over and over like a punishment and reward both.
"Show me you're ready to be fucked. Put your fingers inside yourself, move them around so I can hear your cunt suck on them."
It was amazing how vulgarity became poetry in the right circumstances. She shifted, hearing the sound of her chains as she put her hands beneath the skirt.
"Pull it up. I want to see."
She wriggled so the short skirt was up at her hips and he could see the swatch of panties she wore. He raised a finger, stilling her.
He took another sip of the water, studying what she was revealing, probably the crotch panel of her panties, so soaked the silk would be transparent. "Spread your legs wider."
She trembled at his tone. She'd refuse him nothing. The note had said "From here forward, you are not allowed to pleasure yourself in any way. Or be pleasured. A single infraction will incur severe punishment. Twenty-five strikes with a switch."
But he was her Master, here in the flesh, and she wouldn't resist him. Wouldn't deny him. Would he still, in whatever role he played for her this weekend, punish her for not following the instructions? Of course he would. That was part of the game, right? It made her tremble harder, knowing the punishment would be harsh, and yet whatever happened here would be worth it.
"Proceed."
She pulled aside the crotch panel and dipped two fingers inside herself. Her lips parted further, her throat working on a noisy swallow at the brief contact between her fingers and the sensitive internal and external tissues. Under his gaze, her pussy contracted, and she did hear it, that greedy suck on her fingers as her sex begged for that for which her fingers could only be a poor substitute. She pushed deeper ins
ide herself, pulled out enough to repeat the noise, and a moan slipped from her lips. A plea.
He watched her, his lips firm and unyielding, eyes fastened on what she was doing. He'd stopped drinking from the bottle, however, and when he shifted his thighs so his feet were planted at a wider angle, she wished the hem of the shirt wasn't hiding his reaction beneath the jeans. She wanted to see his erection growing, wanted to know just how much effort it was taking to deny himself. She also wanted to drop her head back, close her eyes, immerse herself in the feeling, but watching him was such an essential part of that, she didn't want to lose the visual input.
"Stop. Remove your fingers from yourself and hold them out toward me."
She did it, seeing her knuckles glistening with her juices. When he moved toward her at last, the quivering of her body increased. He moved with such purpose, such focus, it was as if he pulled in everything around him, including her, increasing the density of the very air.
Grasping her wrist, he tugged her upright until the chain pulled at her collar, indicating she'd come up as far as her bonds allowed. He dipped his head, smelled her fingers, his nostrils flaring. Then his tongue came out and he licked, a light tracing of her knuckle, sampling. When at last he sucked one finger in fully, the chains jangled as she jerked in sensual reaction.
He raised his head. "Lie back and spread your legs again. Both arms above your head, fingers holding on to the arm of the couch. Stay that way."