Unraveled by Him (10 page)

Robert nods approvingly.

“Anything else, Miranda?”

“And that having sex with a submissive isn’t always of primary importance to a Dominant.”

“You mean that Warren never . . . ?” Robert says, puzzled.

“Not often, but often enough to make sure that I wasn’t a virgin anymore,” I say, then flush with shame.

“And then?” Robert asks, a frown on his handsome face.

“He dropped me and never saw me again,” I say, then flinch at the memory, far more painful and humiliating than the heaviest lash of any of Warren’s many whips.

Robert erupts in fury.

“Then Warren Courtney wasn’t a genuine dominant at all! A genuine dominant is kind, considerate, responsible, and deeply concerned about the well-being of his submissive. Especially if she hasn’t walked on the wild side before. All he was doing was using BDSM as a shield against committing to you,” he says, livid with anger.

“But I got over it,” I say defiantly.

“Yes, but after that, you only lived out your fantasies with men you didn’t love. I’m right, aren’t I?” he says in a voice that doesn’t brook any contradiction.

Much as I hate to admit it, he is right,

“Yes,” I finally admit, “because if you don’t love someone, and they abandon you, it won’t hurt so much.”

Robert looks at me thoughtfully.

“But perhaps one day it will be different for you, Miranda,” he says.

With you, Robert, only with you,
I think

. “Maybe,” I say brightly, then add, “But in the meantime . . .”

“In the meantime, you are highly responsive to an experienced Master,” he finishes.

On cue, the seat belt sign goes on, the plane starts revving up on the runway, and the vibration gives me an erotic charge.

Robert senses it immediately and, without any warning, thrusts his hand up my skirt, into my thong, and then sticks his finger deep inside of me.

Then another one, as he fingers me in time with the
rrrm rrrm rrrm
of the engine.

And as the plane soars into the sky—and my muscles clench around his fingers, then release, then clench again, then release—so does the buildup of my orgasm.

He pulls out his fingers, then pushes them into my mouth.

“Lick,” he commands, and I do, tasting the lemony flavor of my innermost self.

We are thousands of feet in the air now, and the seat belt sign is off.

He presses a bell next to us and pulls down my skirt so that I look demure and respectable again.

The door of the suite opens and a steward enters carrying a vast tray with dome-covered gold plates on it, which he places on a table next to the bed. The table is already set with gold cutlery and bone china plates.

With a flourish, he lifts the golden domes from the plates to reveal our dinner, and bows out of the suite.

Seeing the first two dishes he has unveiled, I blush scarlet.

Lobster bisque.

Shrimp cocktail.

Our dinner is straight out of the pages of
Unraveled
!

“Am I expected to slurp my food out of a dish on the floor, Robert?” I say.

“Not this time, Miranda,” he says, and an electric shock of desire shoots through my entire being.

We are flying over the ocean now.

Robert motions me to stand up.

“Strip,” he says, “I want to look at you.”

Without any hesitation, as naturally as if I have taken my clothes off in front of him a hundred times before and displayed myself naked in front of him, and always will, I obey his command.

At the same time, I am conscious of the fullness of my breasts, that they don’t stand up of their own accord, that they aren’t perky.

Not good for fashion. Not like Lady Georgiana’s, I’ll bet. The thought comes into my mind unbidden, and I wish it hadn’t.

I clasp my hands behind my neck hoping to display my breasts to their full advantage.

“Incredibly hot, and very, very beautiful,” he says.

Hearing his flattering words, I’m tempted to look over my shoulder for the beautiful woman he must surely be addressing.

Then, with his strong, unforgiving fingers, he pulls my nipples, twists them, pinches them, grips them as hard as he gripped my hand during lunch, even harder, and I wince in pain, but remain silent.

“Good girl,” he says. “The cabin is soundproof. But don’t make any noise until I give you permission. And only then.”

At that moment the plane lurches slightly to the left.

He puts his arm around my waist, steadies me, and, in the same motion, swiftly turns me over his knees.

It crosses my mind that he has deliberately arranged for the pilot to swoop the plane at that specific moment, just so that he could bend me over his knees in such a fluid movement.

Either way, I am pressed against the material of another of his black formal suits, which indicate that he is still in mourning. And although I don’t really want to admit it to myself, I hate the fact that after all this time, he still is.

But my emotions are eclipsed by the realization that I am bent over his knees, stark naked, and as I feel the moisture seep from between my thighs, I wish to God that I wasn’t.

I am trapped over his knees, my face over the pink patterned carpet, my arms hanging down in front of me.

He holds me in place with one hand while with the other he removes his black silk Hermès tie, then expertly binds my wrists together in front of me.

In shame, embarrassment, and anticipation, I squeeze my thighs together, aware that if I keep them open, all of me will be displayed to him in the bedroom mirrors and afford him a view of my most intimate parts.

I feel his hard hands stroking my ass cheeks, first individually, then together, squeezing them, stroking them again, pinching them, kneading them.

The sensation is not unpleasant, and I feel myself relax slightly.

Then he raises his arm high in the air, and his hand crashes into the left cheek of my ass. Hard, so hard that it takes all my resolve not to cry out in pain.

Then the right cheek.

Then both together.

Up, down, across.

For what seems forever, he spanks and spanks, then spanks more.

Finally, he gives me momentary relief by stroking my scorched ass with his big hand, lulling me into a false sense of security.

Then he spanks me again, making me feel like a chastised child, a punished woman, an object, owned and yet still desired.

At last, when I’m on the verge of crying out in pain, he plunges his fingers into me again, thrusting them in and out.

As I surrender to the rhythm of his skillful fingers, expecting it to accelerate, and the pleasure to maximize, he pulls his fingers out, and I feel lost, empty, abandoned.

Then, abruptly, he releases me from his grip, and I fall to the floor in front of him.

I shrink from him as he pushes his fingers under my nose.

“Soaking, Miranda, an infraction you’ll soon regret, I promise you,” he says, his gravelly voice vibrating through me.

I look at him wonderingly.

“Aroused by being punished,” he says, and I hang my head in shame.

“And you should be ashamed, Miranda,” he says, “which is why I’m going to punish you more and harder—much harder—for being sexually aroused by your punishment.”

I understand exactly where he is going with this, and the knowledge both electrifies and terrifies me.

“Now you must take what’s coming to you,” he says, “and this time, you have my full permission to cry out, and better still, to cry.”

No chance of me crying. Not now. Not like this.

Then he pulls me back over his knees again and holds me in place with his viselike grip.

I feel the stiff bristles of a hairbrush grind into the surface of my already sore ass, first lightly, then more strongly, so strongly that I am afraid the surface of my skin will be pierced by their sharpness. Then softly again.

He stops. And rubs my ass with the flat wooden surface of the hairbrush.

I tense in anticipation, simultaneously thrilled and afraid.

“No clenching,” he says. “Clenching is a way of resisting punishment and trying to make it easier for you to take. And I can assure you, Miranda, that I definitely don’t deal in easy punishments.”

“I hope not, Master,” I say.

In answer, he raises his right arm high, and the back of the wooden hairbrush slams into the defenseless cheeks of my ass, so hard that it flattens the breath out of me.

The spanking is heavy, relentless, blistering, and goes on for what seems like hours.

At the start, I scream out of a combination of pain and protest.

And wiggle as much as I can in a futile attempt to escape his iron grip, the harsh impact of the hairbrush on my ass, when I really don’t want to at all.

Sternly, he says, “Keep still, Miranda, or I promise you that you’ll get more, and much harder.”

And although I will myself to keep still, and do, he accelerates the spanking anyway.

So that my screams quickly become whimpers.

At that, as if my whimpering is spurring him on, he spanks me harder, until I start screaming again.

I scream until I’m hoarse, until I can’t scream anymore, and just lie there across his knee, limp and will-less.

I stand before him, and he pierces me with his all-seeing, burning stare.

“I play squash most days, Miranda, and when I do, I think about spanking a round, plump, available, willing bottom like yours. Because the more I play, the stronger my arm, the more developed my muscles, the harder I am able to spank. I spanked you very hard, Miranda, didn’t I?” he says slowly.

I nod my assent.

“Turn around. Put your hands on your knees and bend forward so that I can inspect my handiwork,” he says.

I do, and he runs his hands over my blistered, swollen ass, then pinches it hard.

I jump up in shock.

“A bad move, Miranda, and if we were in a different setting, one that would earn you yet another chastisement. One that would welt your bottom so thoroughly that you wouldn’t be able to sit down for at least a week. But not here, not now,” he says, and turns me around, so that I stand facing him.

He looks deep into my eyes.

“A protracted, heavy spanking, with no warm-up, no letup, no mercy. Yet no tears from you, Miranda?” he says.

I look away from him.

“Why no tears, Miranda?” he says.

“Because I can’t, Master, and nobody has ever been able to make me,” I say.

“Give me time,” he says, with a twinkle that undercuts the menace.

I smile back at him, aware that however handsome he is, however strong, however dominant, and however much time and energy he spends on disciplining me, I am incapable of giving him what he really wants. I am not capable of tears. And I don’t understand why I’m not.

Normally, I sleep on my back, but given that my ass is so tender, I know that sleeping in that position will be intensely painful for me.

So I say a silent prayer that Robert won’t force me to do just that as a part of my punishment.

Thankfully, once we are in the heart-shaped bed together, he gathers me to him so that my body is pressed against his, spoon fashion, but gently, so that he doesn’t abrade my ass.