Page 66 of Cruel Pleasures
The straps of my dress have slunk down my shoulders. With nothing to hold it in place, the top portion of my dress remains upright by sheer force of will.
But that’s soon taken away too—he leans closer ’til my back grazes his front and his hands smooth down my arms, dragging the straps all the way off. The top half of my dress drops too, collapsing to the swell of my hips.
Because I skipped a bra tonight, my breast hang free, completely topless.
Cool air brushes over me, intensified by my high. I close my eyes and almost moan at how good it feels on my naked skin.
It’s just the beginning.
“I am the Warden,” he explains matter-of-factly. Something hot, dark, and sinister about the factual nature of his voice all at once. “You will refer to me as such. If you fail to do so, you will be punished. If you fail to do as you’re told, you will be punished. If you fail to answer?—”
“Let me guess. I’ll be punished,” I interrupt.
His hands still where they’ve traveled up to cup my bare breasts. I’m aware how I’ve smart-mouthed yet again and I’ll likely have a punishment waiting for me, but the second his warm palms slide over the soft mounds of flesh, I don’t give a fuck.
His touch feels sooo… mmmm…
I moan as I’m unable to even finish the thought. I’m shuddering as he cups my breasts and then rubs his thumbs over my nipples.
He’s only drawn me further against him, closer so that it feels like, if he stepped away, I’d topple back. His scent invades my senses, though it’s difficult to describe. It permeates the air, entirely distinct yet almost nonexistent at the same time.
Something warm and fresh. Something on a baser chemical level, like pheromones.
“In this room, you are the bunny—like a rabbit caught in a snare. That is your sole identity. It is your name. You will answer to it at all times. If you need to stop,” he says, massaging my breasts, “then the safe word is midnight. You say that word, and it ends immediately. I will use my knife to cut you free.”
As though satisfied with how he’s lulled me into a false sense of comfort, he gives a sharp twist of my right nipple.
I scream and jump against him. The pain radiates through my breast stronger than it should.
More effects from the spice.
“Are we clear?” he asks.
I nod my head, so thrown I can’t otherwise answer.
“Then we’ll begin.”
The rest of my dress is done away with. Soon it’s pooling at my ankles and he’s grabbing my hand to help me step out of it. He kneels beside me to take hold of my foot and delicately undo the straps from my heels.
I’m mesmerized watching him, marveling at how his touch varies from gentle to rough at any given second. He wants to keep me on my toes.
Literally.
My heels slide off my feet and I’m left standing barefoot before him. He sets them off neatly to the side as though out of compulsive habit for all things order.
“Do you know what kind of rope this is?” he asks from behind me. His arms loop over me, the rope taut in his grasp.
Eying the braided rope he holds out in front of me, I shake my head. “I didn’t realize there were different types of rope.”
“Yes or no,” he reminds.
“No,” I say quickly as if I’ve been zapped. “No.”
“It’s called jute. Many riggers use it to create their art pieces.” He loops the rope around my torso a second time so casually, you’d think he does this in his sleep. “Not only is it strong and durable, it’s rough and abrasive but tolerable against the skin. It’s convenient for tying knots and looks excellent when properly bound.”
I swallow against the quake of nerves in my belly. “That’s already more than I ever thought I’d learn about rope.”
“You can make many designs using it,” he goes on. He’s centered the rope on my torso, wrapping it under my breasts once and then a second time. “This design will resemble a star. It begins with a simple shinju, a harness around the breasts. Yours are full and round enough that it will look particularly striking.”
