Bound to Accept Page 12

“A few ideas come to mind.” He lowers his head.

  I like his ideas.

  I like his ideas a lot.

  But I'm not sure what to do with my hands and arms. When they're bound, that problem is taken care of for me. I end up folding them behind my head, the way men do in movies when they get blowjobs, and it serves the dual purpose of arching my spine and putting me in a better position to watch him as he opens me up with his hands and his mouth. Readying me for his cock.

  I'm burning up. Sweat beads in my armpits and also between my breasts. That's the way he makes me feel—dizzy and feverish, like I've got a bad case of flu.

  I open my mouth, anticipating climax, and let out a small squeak of protest when he stops abruptly.

  Tristan pulls his cock out of the waistband of his pajama pants and expertly snaps a condom over it.

  “You know how this works,” he says, stroking himself lightly. “I get you all hot and bothered, and then you come when I say you can come.”

  He kisses my mouth. I can taste myself on him.

  “I didn't realize we were playing,” I whisper.

  “Who's playing? Spread your legs.”

  I move them apart, and he pulls the nightgown out of the way. Tristan hoists himself back up, and kneels between my thighs. Then he slowly lowers himself over me, using his arms to keep from squishing me.

  The blunt head of his cock is pressing against my opening. Tristan shifts his hips, leaning to one side to free one of his hands so he can move himself into position. I suck in my breath as he slowly works himself into me, because now there is pain, quite a bit of it, although once he's inside, he slides in quite neatly.

  And then—he stops.

  “Hello, Kelly's virginity,” he whispers.

  I laugh nervously, and it hurts.

  Tristan stays like that for a moment, letting me get used to his size and the feeling of him being inside of me. He's breathing quite hard, and his pupils look huge. He smiles when he catches me looking at him, but his arms are tense on either side of me and I can literally feel his restraint. I can also feel him moving inside of me, and that hurts too, but then I realize that there is a pattern to those movements, though I can't believe it at first.

  “Are you using your penis to tap out Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star?” I ask him incredulously. “You are officially…the biggest dork on the planet.” Laughing may hurt, but I can't help it. It really is too funny.

  Tristan makes a hoarse sound.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him worriedly.

  “I am very, very horny, and when you laugh…” He closes his eyes. “I can feel you clenching around my cock. It is starting to feel almost like pain.”

  I swallow hard. “Oh. I had no idea.”

  “Are you ready…Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God for that.” Tristan pulls out a few inches, still keeping the tip inside. “Deep breaths for me.” His voice is ragged, like he has a sore throat, and as he shifts his weight, he uses one of his hands to stroke me between my legs. “I'm sure this is going to hurt, but I promise to do my best and be as gentle as possible.”

  I can't respond around the lump in my throat. I'm still quite turned on from his mouth, and now his fingers are taking me even closer to that perilous juncture of no return. “Oh, God, what are you doing—”

  Tristan smiles and retracts his damp fingers, giving me a wry smile. “Goodbye, Kelly's virginity.”

  And then he pushes into me, hard enough to send me collapsing back against the mattress, and I scream.

  The scream startles him into stopping temporarily. But when he glances down and sees that I am okay, he keeps going. I grit my teeth, and stare at the ceiling. I feel very silly now for thinking that Tristan broke my hymen that first time that he fingered me. The mild ripping sensation of being stretched out is nothing compared to the burning agony I feel now.

  And I was ready for it.

  What did all those young girls think during their bridal honeymoons way back when?

  I bet they all thought they were broken.

  Tristan starts out with these slow, heavy strokes, but then he starts moving faster. I try putting my arms around him, but it doesn't quite work, he's moving too much for any sort of lasting contact. I do run my hand over his ass, squeezing the supple skin, enjoying the feel of his muscles jumping beneath the skin.

  “Hey,” he says lowly. “Get away from there.”

  His belly slaps against mine with every thrust, making this light, clapping sound. There's a little rip of skin every time he pulls away, and the little tingles of mild pain remind me of something he might do while I'm blindfolded. I grope around for his hand and close my fingers over his. He snaps out of his focused trance long enough to smile at me.

  It's a very sweet smile, completely free of any artifice. He lifts one of his fingers and strokes me quickly. Then he grabs both of my wrists and slams them down over my head. “Tristan.”

  “Corrine was right. You do have a perky little rack.” He shifts his weight to one side, which pushes him in deeper. “And wandering hands.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don't be sorry.” His thumb strokes over my pinned wrist. “Mm…you're so firm and wet—although not as wet as before.” He laughs hoarsely. “Have you lost your taste for vanilla ice cream, Kelly?”

  “Ice cream in general is overrated.” I grin up at him. “I like thick, messy desserts you can really sink your teeth into.”

  “That sounds…really fucking kinky.”

  “Does it?” I say innocently.

  Tristan bites my shoulder and growls at me when I yelp. “You're in no position to be teasing me.”

  He latches onto my throat, sucking so hard that I know I'm going to have a mark there for days. I don't care. That's what infinity scarves are for.

  I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access, and he releases my wrists to pinch my nipples, one after the other, using his nails for extra force. My neck is starting to ache dully. I'm in heaven. I'm on fire.

  “Tristan, my God.”

  “I could sink my teeth into you all day.”

  He plunges his tongue into my mouth, claiming it as his own, and for a moment, I can't breathe. He snorts into my face, and I can taste every grunt, gasp, and moan. Now I know the true flavor of desire; it's sweet and it's bitter, a breathlessness that's like drowning, a little death of the heart. It takes me a moment to remember how to put air back into my lungs, and when he pulls away, my thoughts feel like lost and wayward fish swimming in my head. I think I love him.

  “Fuck,” Tristan gasps. “Oh.” His mouth is open and he's panting, quick light bursts, and he plunges into me so deeply that for a moment I feel as if I might faint from pain. I can feel his heart pounding all around me, at every point of contact between our bodies.

  “God.” He bites his lip, and closes his eyes.

  And just like that, it's over. Tristan relaxes his arms, and falls against me, squishing my breasts. “Mm,” he says, in a thick, sleepy drawl. “Kelly cushion.”

  “Tristan weight,” I retort. “You're squishing me.”

  “Guess what? You're squishing me, too.”

  And he flexes his cock to prove it.

  I laugh, and a dull ache pulses through my vagina.

  Tristan sees the pained expression on my face and stops moving. “How was it?” he asks. “Your first time?”

  He looks so concerned. I pull his face down to kiss. “More than I'd hoped for.”

  “Good.” He kisses me back, and then pulls out of me. I watch him strip off the condom and disappear with it into the bathroom. A sink runs. I comb my fingers through my hair and straighten out my nightgown.

  Tristan reenters the room with his pajama pants adjusted. “There was blood on it,” he says proudly, as he slides back into bed beside me. “It's official. Your virginity is no more.”

  “It's creepy that you're so excited about that.”

  “No, it'd be creepy if I licke
d the condom and said something like, 'Now, with the Virginium Capsule as my life force, I will be the Supreme Ruler of the Galaxy.”

  Ew. “I bet you did. You're pervy enough to do that.”

  He laughs evilly. “That's one nice thing about being with an inexperienced woman.”

  “What, stealing their life force and using it to enslave the galaxy?”

  “No, smart mouth. You don't have anything to compare me to.” He taps my nose. “I am literally the best sex you've ever had—and I'm going to ruin you for every man who comes after me.”

  I try not to let him see how his words affect me. Because following that initial thrill, I feel a bit panicky. I don't want there to be any other men. I only want him.

  But he's looking at me, waiting for my response with a little boy's eagerness, so I say, “Following that line of logic, that means you're also the worst.”

  That gets me pinned down. He rolls up the hem of my nightgown and I suck in my breath, and then release it in a very unattractive series of snorts and laughs as he raspberries my belly. He doesn't stop tickling me until I threaten to piss his bed, and only after I admit that he's the best.

  Chapter Eleven

  I am no longer a virgin

  It's weird. I don't feel any different—inside, I mean. Physically, I'm quite sore. When I shift my legs, the pain grows into an acute sharp ache that makes me wince. But considering that this is a major milestone for a girl, I'm surprised by how…well, anticlimactic it is.

  Carefully, I roll over to lie on my right side—the side I prefer sleeping on—and face Tristan, who's still asleep. I can only imagine what he'd say if he heard me call the loss of my virginity anticlimactic.

  I stare unabashedly. It's the first time I've been able to observe him freely. Usually, when we're having sex, there is too much going on around me to take the time to appreciate the view.

  His eyelashes look a lot longer with his eyes closed, thicker. His lips are parted, and the dry, stuffy air of his apartment has rendered them a very pale cracked and chapped shade of pink marbled with bits of white.

  That reminds me how dry my own mouth is—dry, and swollen from his rough kisses, scratched by the stubble around his mouth. I lift a finger to trace along my lower lip and the skin feels softer than normal, as though tenderized by his brutish lovemaking.

  The shadow around his jaw is darker now. He needs to shave. He looks very scruffy. His hair is quite mussed, too, and sticks up at bizarre angles, and that makes me want to giggle. Or maybe smooth it down and kiss him again. I haven't decided. His lips look so sweet.

  The sheet covers most of us, but his shoulders have slipped free of the blanket. He has nice shoulders, and really strong arms. He cuddled me a little last night, before we went to bed, and it felt so good. That skin on skin contact. I ran my hands along the muscles in his arms, feeling them bunch and tense upon contact, tracing the veins in his wrists, and he sighed against my neck, stirring the wispy hairs still damp with sweat.

  “You are so tight and wonderful, my beautiful pony girl,” he'd purred, wrapping one of those powerful arms around my waist. The gesture reminded me of the bodice ripper covers from the eighties, as the hero carries the heroine off into the night to be ravished by moonlight. “I think I'm going to keep you around for a long time.”

  And I want him to. I want him to keep me.

  I want to be his.

  Tristan stirs, and the tissue-thin skin of his eyelids twitch with sudden movement. His eyelashes flutter, shedding sleep dust on his cheeks. I reach over to brush one off, and he tilts his head in surprise. “Oh…Kelly?”

  I watch his eyes shift as he looks around, as if only just remembering where he is, what he's done, before his attention refocuses on me. Or, rather, my breasts. “Mm, that's a nice sight to wake up to.” He slides me closer and starts fondling them, rasping his thumb over my nipples through the papery lace.

  The room is quiet except for our commingled breathing, the scratch of the sheets, and the illicit whisper of silk and lace. “I love this nightgown.” He smiles with sleepy lust as he brings my nipples to hard points and lowers his head to take one into his mouth as his hand starts to wander up the hem.

  But his touch is too abrasive against the tender landscape my body has become, and I dislodge myself from his loose hold, though this means rolling my hips to scoot away from him. Immediately, I regret it.

  “Still sore?” Tristan sounds sympathetic, but also amused. His eyes are half-closed and the lust hasn't left them, yet.

  “Men will never understand this problem.”

  He slides a hand under the sheets to stroke himself. As his eyes slip closed, he says, “That's not exactly true. I imagine a sore asshole probably rivals a sore vagina.”

  “Fine. Fetch me a gay man.”

  Tristan continues to fist his erection. “Why?” I can see his hand move under the sheets, with increasingly furious motions as he brings himself closer to climax. “You want a threesome?”

  “No. So we can commiserate together, and hate on you.”

  Tristan bites his lip, and there's a quiet pattering sound as his come spatters the sheet. He sighs, then spreads his hands, as if to suggest he has no gay shoulder present to cry on. “You know—” his breathing is a little uneven “—there's plenty of straight men who enjoy taking it up the ass. It's not just a gay thing.”

  This is the last thing I expected him to say.

  I stare at him.

  “No,” he says. “I'm not one of them.”

  “Pity,” I mutter. “Because for a moment there, I was totally thinking, 'And me without my strap-on.'”

  Tristan laughs. “You're so cranky. Are you hungry? I bet your blood sugar's probably low.”

  The paternal tone he takes with me is irritating. It's even more annoying because I know he's probably right. “What do you have?” I ask him crossly.

  “Delicious things.” He gets out of bed and strolls to the cupboards. I watch the muscles in his chest and sides flex interestingly as he reaches into the top shelf. He comes back with a package of ramen, the good kind from Thailand. It's Tom Yum flavored. “Want it?” he teases.

  I glare at him, but can't stop my eyes from darting to the silver foil package. He holds it just out of reach.

  “Kiss me for it,” he says lazily.

  I kick off the covers and sit up to kiss him. He cups my throat, forcing me to stretch to maintain the contact.

  He is an evil bastard, but he kisses like the devil himself. Teeth at my lip. Tongue at the seams of my mouth. Tristan doesn't leave any spot untouched. It's like I'm a fortress, and he's laying siege to it. He doesn't kiss, so much as conquer. “Good girl,” he whispers.

  I snatch the ramen from him and spring off the bed before he decides to change his mind. I grab one of his bowls from the cupboard and fill it with water, then pop it into the microwave for two minutes.

  Tristan leans back against the counter, watching me with a half-smile on his face. “You going to share?”

  “I don't know that I should.”

  “You should—because if you don't, I will tie you up, and tease your clit with my mouth until you're half-mad. And the moment you're close, I'll kiss you good-bye and leave you to squirm.” He smiles at me. “I might even sit there and have a drink while I watch you beg.”

  “Okay,” I say, after a pause. “You can have some.”

  “Thank you. That's very generous.”

  I get another bowl out of the cupboard and pour half the hot water from the microwave into it. Bastard.

  When I break the square of ramen in two, I make sure to give him the smaller piece.

  There are two packets of flavoring in the package. The regular Tom Yum soup stock mix and a packet of red chili powder. That's another reason I like this kind. When I open the second packet, though, Tristan says, “No chili powder for me.”

  I shrug and dump the entire packet into my own bowl of ramen. More for me. “Wuss.” I slide his portion across the
counter. “Here's your wuss bowl.”

  He gives me the finger. “Suck on it, Kelly.”

  I spoon salty noodles into my mouth and close my eyes. Oh my God. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but they taste even better after sex.

  “Are you ever going to take me to St. Andrew's Cross?” I ask between bites of the delicious post-coital noodles. When they figure out how to bottle up orgasms and sell them as a food additive, I'll be first in line.

  Tristan glances at me over his bowl. “Probably not.”

  The blunt refusal startles me. “Why? Corrine said we should drop by. She said we'd be popular. Not that I care about being popular, but I'd like to meet your BDSM friends. Er—” is that too twee? “—I mean, associates.”

  “Corrine is not your Master. I am. She does not know what is best for you. I do.”

  “Why are you so against me going?” I fold my arms under my breasts. “I want to learn more about BDSM.”

  “Because you are painfully new, and I don't want to see anything bad happen to you.” He waves his spoon at me. “Flashing your tits at me won't change my mind.”

  I hastily lower my arms. “Like what?” I scoff. “What could possibly happen to me?”

  “There's a lot of unspoken etiquette and rules at clubs like St. Andrew's. The things that could happen to you run the gamut from you offending an old friend of mine to you getting violated by one of the mentally-unbalanced types who joined because they like the idea of hurting women for fun.”

  Mentally unbalanced? “But you said BDSM was supposed to be safe, sane, and consensual.”

  “Ideally, yes. But that doesn't mean that there aren't people who slip through the cracks to abuse the system.” He pauses. “Or people who make mistakes.”

  What an odd thing to say. “Have you ever made a mistake?”

  Tristan sets his ramen bowl aside, even though he didn't finish the broth. “We've tried most of your oranges now,” he says. “All that's left is rape fantasy and impact play.”

  He's changing the subject, and not subtly.

  What was his mistake? And why won't he tell me? He told me about Nipple Pincushion Girl.