“It’s my body,” I protest. “I don’t tell you when to jerk off.”
“Fine, I won’t jerk off,” he says, a cruel smirk on his perfect lips. “When my cock needs attention, you’ll provide it. Better?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s only fair,” he says, still smirking. “Now, let me see how you’ve been touching what’s mine.”
His words send a little erotic thrill through me. I gulp again, swallowing the bratty words that threaten to come out. Instead, I obey, sliding my hand into my jeans on top of my underwear. I’m wearing underwear that matches the bra he told me to buy, white cotton ones with just a little red rose on the front. Through them, I can feel how deliciously smooth my skin feels after getting my hair lasered off.
A tremor goes through me when I imagine him seeing what I did for the first time.
“Go on,” he says.
I begin to move my fingers, touching myself the way I did the other day. He was right. It feels so much better without anything in the way, my skin smooth and bare. I watch him watching me, his dark eyes riveted on my hand as it moves. The heat of his gaze burns into me, shivering along my arms, settling into an ache between my thighs.
I can feel my panties getting damp, and then my gaze moves down his body again, and they get wetter. This time, I let my eyes move further, over his belt to the long, thick ridge in his pants. My clit throbs, and suddenly, my panties are soaked, and I have to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth at the thought of what he said he was going to do to me.
“Put a finger inside your panties,” King says, his voice husky.
I jerk my eyes from his pants, my cheeks flushing with shame. Slowly, I draw aside my panties and touch my bare skin, the lips already slick with my wetness. I suck in a breath, my knees squeezing together, my clit throbbing when my fingers swipes across it.
King’s eyes are blazing now. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“Wet,” I breathe.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes.” I whisper the word, my voice trembling with shame as I stroke faster, wanting to stop, to hide this most intimate act from him. At the same time, I know that doing this in front of him is what makes it feel so good, so dirty.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to remember exactly what it feels like to know I’m watching, because from now on, you will only touch yourself with my permission.”
His commands are sharp and direct, and feeling like I have no choice, like I’m utterly at his mercy, is humiliatingly addictive. I rock my hips, panting for relief, sliding my finger deeper into my slit.
“That’s enough,” he says, the hard edge in his words cutting through the fog of arousal. I don’t want to stop. But he’s unpredictable when he’s angry, and I don’t want to push him right now. Frustration makes me nearly cry out as I draw my hand from my jeans, leaving the heavy pressure of arousal thick between my thighs, needing to be fulfilled.
“Now take off your jeans.”
I hook my fingers into the waistband, easing them down over my hips. King’s eyes drink in my hips, his gaze dipping between them with a heavy stroke that’s nearly tangible. I bend to pull off my jeans, my cheeks heating when I realize he can see that the white fabric of my panties is soaked through, clinging to my bare skin.
I wait for him to comment, to praise me for getting rid of the hair. I realize how much I was craving his approval when he doesn’t give it.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I turn to face the mirror, but I can’t meet my own eyes. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t be turned on by his command over me, by the fact that he treats me like a possession, a child, a plaything to use and bend to his will. I should hate it.
“Take them off,” he says.
My fingers tremble, and my shame burns even hotter as I bend to slide my panties over my thighs, knowing he’s watching me bend over, seeing everything, seeing exactly how wet I am.
When I straighten, a gasp escapes my lips. King is standing right behind me, his dark eyes an inferno as they meet mine in the mirror. He slides his arms around me, one of them across my breasts, gripping me firmly to him. His shoulder wound is shallow, a long streak across his deltoid that cuts into the muscle, the skin around it purplish as blood pools under it. As if he’s forgotten his injury, King takes my nipple between his fingers and begins to squeeze as his other hand dips between my slick thighs. “If you want to cum, I’ll make you cum so hard your eyes bleed,” he says, spreading my outer lips to expose the pink, wet flesh inside. “Is that what you need,piccola?”
He gives my nipple a squeeze, and my clit throbs visibly. He chuckles and tightens his grip on my nipple until it’s all I can do not to gasp out loud. I can only manage the slightest shake of my head at his rough words, so incongruous with the way his middle finger slowly, sensually caressing my swollen clit. Slippery wetness coats his fingers, and he presses his hips against mine, letting me feel how hard he is. The threat of his cock makes my knees tremble and my core clench.
I watch in the mirror, transfixed by his movements, every soft touch a taunt, every gentle stroke carrying the threat of violence as he crushes my nipple with agonizing strength. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in as blood begins to leak down his arm, but it’s me who finally breaks. Even as my hips rock against his hand, trying to get there before I beg for mercy, his torment of my nipple reminds me this is no game to him.
Finally, I can’t take it, and pain overtakes pleasure. “Stop,” I gasp, going up on tiptoes, as if that will break his punishing grip on my poor, bruised nipple. “Please, King.”
He drops his hands from me, sliding one up and under my hair, gripping it and spinning me toward him in one motion. He bears down, forcing me to my knees.