ANA
“Clearly, you need to come so badly that you can’t control yourself. You need to understand the consequences of your actions. So instead of touching yourself in the dark, do it now, if you need it so badly.”
“I’m—” I swallow hard, hoping his last words constitute a way out of this. “I don’t. I don’t, really, I don’t need to—”
“Anastasia.” His voice sharpens again. “You’re making a mess of my rug. And you need to be punished. So spread your thighs wider, so I can see everything. And touch yourself until you come while I watch. That’s an order.” Alexandre’s eyes narrow. “Exactly as you did earlier.”
“I—“’
“Now.”
His voice, deep and rough and thickly accented, feels as if it goes straight to my throbbing clit. I feel it pulse, my pussy clenching, and I gasp.
“Now, Anastasia. Hold your skirt out of the way so that I can see.”
I nod mutely, my heart racing in my chest as I grip my skirt with my left hand, holding it up so that nothing obscures his few. My face and chest are flushed bright red with humiliation. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s not as if I’ve never been on display for a man before. I’ve had my legs over the shoulders of plenty of guys, had them spread me open so they could see every inch of my pussy while they fucked me, been fucked from behind with a clear view for them of everything.
But this is different. Just like the bath, this feels intimate, intense, controlling in a way that’s vulnerable and terrifying and embarrassing and deeply, deeply arousing all at once. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my veins, my heart racing until I think he must be able to hear it.
My arousal slipping down my thighs, wetter than ever. Drenched.
There’s no way out. And I don’t even know anymore if I want to stop.
I need to come so badly.
He’s so hard. I look at his cock as my fingers find my clit, spreading my folds with my thumb and ring finger so that he can see what he’s demanded to be displayed for him. My index and middle finger are on my clit, already rubbing, circling the hard, sensitive flesh as I watch him straining against his fly, visibly twitching against the fabric.
But he ignores it. His eyes are fixed on me, watching almost hungrily as I rub my clit, faster and faster, my fingers even more drenched than before as I grind against my hand helplessly, needing it. Needing the pleasure, the release, somehow even more turned on than before by him watching. Knowing that he’s so fiercely aroused too adds to it; knowing that he’s denying it pushes me even closer to the edge. I don’t understand it, but seeing Alexandre sitting there, tense and stern and rock-hard because ofme, has me on the edge of climax even faster than before, when I’d done this in the dark.
“Stop.”
His voice cuts through the air, and it doesn’t register at first. My fingers are flying over my clit, my hips arching into my hand, my pussy clenching hollowly at a desperately needed cock that isn’t there,hiscock, eager and waiting for me, if he’d only give in, only fuck me the way we both want him to.
“I said stop!” Alexandre is on his feet, his hand grabbing for my wrist, yanking it away from my throbbing clit, a second away from orgasm. Even as he takes my hand away, I can feel the dying tremors of it through my thighs, a faint echo of what it would have been before he ruined it.
I cry out in frustration, half moan, half sob, looking up at Alexandre with tear-filled eyes.
“You’re in here to be punished, not for your own pleasure. Not so you can sit here rubbing your pussy over and over.” He shakes his head, almost in disgust, and it reminds me of his reaction to my outburst when I’d hallucinated the jewelry box. Even in my foggy, lust-hazed state, something clearly connects in my mind.
It’s emotions that Alexandre doesn’t like. Intense, deep emotions. My outburst had made him uncomfortable, and so does this, this raw naked lust. Thisneed.
My guess is that his makes him uncomfortable, too. Which is part of why he hasn’t touched me, why he’s ignoring the clearly painful erection threatening to tear through his fly. Not just becausebeautiful things are meant to be admired, not used.
Because he’s afraid of how it would make him feel to use me. To lose control.
Tofeel.
It’s even likely why he got his anger under control so quickly, even as intense as it had been.
He steps back, dropping my hand. I don’t dare move. My hand is frozen, clutching my skirt, everything still bare and exposed, but he’s not looking any longer. He reaches for the plate and sets it down in front of me, taking a hasty step back as he runs his hand through his hair.
“You need to be punished, but I won’t starve you.” His voice is deep and rough, but the anger has drained out of it again. “Eat, Anastasia. Don’t touch yourself again, no matter how badly you think you need it. I’ll come back to collect your plate and put you to bed.”
Alexandre stalks out of the room, and I look down at the plate. It’s baked chicken with herbs, tender and fragrant and sliced so that I can eat it easily, thin crisp asparagus, and a slice of baguette with butter. Hardly bread and water in a prison cell. My stomach rumbles again—I’d forgotten to eat lunch—and even though part of me wants to disobey him and refuse to eat, I can’t bring myself to. It smells delicious, and I’m starving. There’s a glass of water with it, and I drink it quickly, unable to even wait until I start eating.
I let my skirt fall back around my knees and eat the food with my fingers from the plate on the floor, and I don’t care. Or I do, but not enough to stop me. I eat every last bit, knowing it will please him and because I want to. When the plate is clean, I stay there, kneeling, waiting for him to come and get me.
When he does, he doesn’t say a word. He picks up the plate and takes it back to the kitchen, and then returns, picking me up in one swift, graceful motion like he’s done so many times before now. It feels familiar, comforting, and despite everything that’s happened since he came home, I feel myself curling into his chest, wanting his warmth. Wantinghim.