Strung Up Ch. 01

His fingers slide across her skin, tracing patterns along her goosebumps. Her breath hitched when his pale hand brushed across her stomach, her core taught with tension waiting to be released. He checked his watch, the second hand audibly stretching out each moment. It had only been forty-five minutes—she could wait.

She was hot underneath his touch. Despite the cool air and the lack of movement, she was warm; wonderfully, beautifully, warm. He preferred to keep the room under-temperature, because she would always overheat. Her skin, like wet earth, would glow from the heat of her body.

A smile tugged at his lips at the way her body quivered, his fingertips dusting across her thighs. Not that she saw any of that, covered by the dark leather blindfold that almost melded into her skin. A part of him regretted covering up her twinkling eyes. They burned like two hot embers when they were focused on him, and the way she bit her lip in anticipation...fuck. He tightened his grip on her thigh and she whimpered, which didn't help matters. At all.

He brought his second hand to her hip, and slowly ran his hands up. The calluses on his fingers and palms made small lines, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for them. He was always looking for them. Looking for the marks he had left the last time, for the telltale signs across her neck and jaw, on her thighs and hips. Everywhere he could get his hands on her.

His hands shook with restraint as he lifted them away, just letting the fingertips glide across her stomach and full breasts, brushing across her nipples, crinkled and hard in the cool air. A sadistic grin slowly creased the smile lines near the corners of his eyes, and he felt the weight of the nipple clamps in his pocket. Later, he thought to himself.

The way her breath came out in a stuttering gasp as he drew small circles around her nipples made him weak in the knees. He hoped she never knew how weak she made him; it brought him no end of satisfaction when he wrapped his hands around her throat and saw her beg with her eyes. With her beautiful, dark, smoldering eyes. Fuck, why wasn't he kissing her right now?

Without an audible warning, he corrected that mistake immediately. Her breath sputtered for a second before her hot tongue slipped across his, tentatively, and then with force. His deft fingers tweaked one of her nipples and she whimpered into the kiss.

"Don't forget your place," he muttered, nipping at her earlobe. His rough palms slid up to her neck and caressed her jawline, one of his thumbs making slow sweeping motions across her strong features. His watch ticked away the seconds of their next kiss, and he only pulled back at the thirty-seventh tick because she was stealing away his air. Perhaps his soul.

He growled low in his throat, but she responded with a small laugh. One that made his nerves tingle down his spine in pleasure; he loved that sound. Almost as much as the one she was about to make next.

She didn't have any warning when his hand connected with her face. A love tap, really. But it was still enough to cut off her laugh with a sharp gasp, and set her head rocking to the side. The angle was perfect, and he couldn't help himself.

He leaned down, his nails leaving light marks across her thighs as he bit down on her neck. She whimpered, and he let his hand snake lower, fingers flicking across her clit for the barest second. That increase in pitch—he flicked his fingers back across, lingering to make small circles as he left marks on her neck—that was what he lived for.

He tore his hungry gaze away from her lithe, soft body underneath him, helpless and wriggling in need, and looked around the room.

There were so many instruments. So many strings to play, so many chords to pluck, and so much music to make. The low, warm lighting fell across the polished wood of the various stringed instruments, and his own, personal, implements. Then his eyes fell back upon her.

For a moment, he let himself soak her in. He always did; it was one of his small indulgences. He let his fingers slip up the leather bench she was strapped down to, and had his fingers play across her hair. It was spread out around her face like a raging dark ocean, all curls and tangles. That was partially his fault.

He pulled her hair back, and her restraints snapped taught as her body moved to comply with his impossible demand. And yet, she managed it, as she always did. Pride welled up within him, even as he bit her again, on the opposite side (symmetry, after all) and his fingers found her clit again.

This time they slid lower, and came back slick. He pushed one inside, and then two. He knew she could fit more, but he would save that for later, when he intended to take her. First, he had to break her down a little.

He curled his long fingers up inside her and the noise she made, the way she mewled, reminded him why he never gagged her. Music should be enjoyed, not quieted. He pushed in deeper, feeling her give in and tense up at the same time. Her body wanted to resist, but when he lowered his head down to her soft breasts and took one of her sensitive nipples in his mouth, it gave in. All that was left was her stubbornness.

Despite all he did to her, she was right back to being stubborn and willful again the next time. He liked their dance, and it made tuning her to perfection a full sensory experience. He kissed his way back up along her chest and her shoulders, slowly inhaling even as he moved his fingers inside her faster. Her body shuddered even as his remained statue-still, save for the few places he touched her.

She smelled of vanilla. His lips quirked at the irony. She smelled of sweet things, and a vague spice (cinnamon?). She smelled like a fire trapped inside, just waiting to be released. He brought his thumb to her clit and brushed it side-to-side in several quick motions, even as he curled his fingers again inside of her. He'd make her beg for that release.

She shuddered again as his pace quickened, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. Despite the cool of the room, she was developing a sheen to her dark skin, and he could taste the salt when he flicked his tongue across her jaw and nipped her there.

"Daddy..." she whimpered. It was a soft, tremulous, needy sound that brought out the worst in him. Because when she begged, he longed to make it worse. "Daddy please." It came out as a breath, one that was stopped prematurely by his hand around her throat. He squeezed, and felt her swallow.

His cock stiffened in his pants at the memory of her doing that before. He squeezed tighter, remembering what it was like to almost be in her throat, she was so close to finally being able to fit him, and then she would swallow. It would be wet, and warm, and the way she looked up at him when she did it, with those big eyes—it ruined him every time. He could never resist, and she knew that. She knew that he would grab her by her hair and push against the back of her throat, still unable to fit the last inch or two of his throbbing cock down her eager throat.

She knew that even as she begged for it with every moan and gag around his dick, that he wouldn't stop. That he would need to show her, make her feel how much he owned her. That she was his. That if she did that to him, he would make her pay for that. For making him feel...feel good.

Which brought them to where they were now.

With his lovely little one tied up underneath him on the small leather bench, writhing and moaning underneath him as she whimpered a soft trail of begging and pleading to no avail. Some music he cherished for as long as possible. Suddenly, he removed his touch.

"Daddy please!" she begged. His hand came from the silence, and the sharp smack echoed through the room for a second. Her cheek warmed and she whimpered, even as she dripped down her legs onto the bench. He shook his head.

"Incorrigible," he whispered.

"Please, daddy?" she asked, softer this time. He ran his hands along her calves and thighs, loving the way her skin would dimple under his touch. There were few pleasures in life greater than touching her everywhere he could.

"Tell me little one," he said. His voice came out almost as a rasp, then tilted into a lower pitch by the end. It was almost a growl, nearly caught in the whir of the air conditioner and vents. But it stuck, and the words hung like a weight. There was absolute silence until he spoke again. "Tell me, do you remember why you're being punished?"

"Yes daddy," she said in a low whisper. The flush in her cheeks, the shame in the way she tilted her head, showed she did remember. His hands were on her hips now, his fingers rubbing just above her clit and then he took them away.

He leaned in close to her ear, and his voice rolled out like the calm before the storm. "Why are you being punished?"

"Because I—" She yelped when he flicked her nipples. "Because, daddy, I was teasing you."

He slipped lower, leaving kisses and bite marks in his wake. "What else?"

"I was being stubborn." He scraped his teeth along her thighs, his cool breath whispering over her wet pussy.

"What else little one?"

"I was being selfish daddy. Please let me cum!" Her hips moved in need, even as he let cool air blow past his lips against her little clit.

"And you're doing it again," he chided. His tongue pushed inside of her, and he growled in pleasure at the taste. She was sweet, she always was. Fruity, and delicious.

Fucking addictive, he thought, pushing his tongue in. If he was honest with himself, he loved punishing her. Not because he got to turn her ass red with his hand and his belt. Not because he got to hold her under his grip until her eyelids fluttered, or because he got to thrust deep inside of her until she begged him to stop because she was so sensitive. No, this was his favorite part.

He curled his tongue inside of her, and moved his lips up to suck her clit into his mouth, swirling it around before moving down. His tongue and his mouth was hot, but she was hotter. She was wetter. She was better.

He growled and bit at her thigh again, causing her to yelp before he went back to it. He needed to punish her, to show her that he could do the same things to her as she did to him. That she was his, and when she needed it, he could deny her as well. He would break her...and he had all night.

"Daddy, please. Please let me cum daddy!" He traced his name across her skin, and inside of her. M. "Daddy!" O. "Daddy, I'll be good, I promise." R. "I'll take care of you like you need." G. "I'll do anything, daddy. Anything!" A. That one was against her clit, and he took a moment to swirl it up and down, letting her nails dig into the leather bench. He growled as he traced out the last letter, N. If she scratched the leather...

"Daddy, please..." she whimpered. He suddenly pulled back and she whined in frustration. I wish I cared, he thought to himself. But he didn't care about how frustrated she was, or how bad she needed it. Because he was aching in his slacks, and his belt was pushed almost an inch away from his waist with how hard he was. He needed it too. But he could be patient, and so would she.

He took one last long look at her, then removed the blindfold in one motion. At the same time, he brought his hand down firmly against her clit and wet pussy, feeling her juices against his hand as he cupped her and rubbed his palm against her. Her pupils dilated, and when she looked up at him, wild and desperate, she still glowed. Her eyes were still embers. She was still on fire for him.

He smirked and pushed three fingers into her dripping pussy, and felt the same heat below, as he saw above. No way you looked at it, Alexandra was hot. But.

He curled his fingers in her again, and her eyes shut, and she bit her lip in a way he would have to imitate later. He let his lips drift across her cheek and kissed her gently. But.

She moaned and tried to buck her hips, but he held her firmly in place.

But...he had all night.

**********

Then

Alexandra hated Morgan Hayashi. Hated him with all her might. The way he acted, with that indifference, it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair!

"I'll wipe that smirk off your face," she grumbled to herself, digging for her phone in her purse. The way she felt for Morgan Hayashi was a small place, buried deep within her—one not often used. She reserved it for the same way she felt about chihuahuas, mayonnaise, and her step-mom's god-forsaken laugh: unfiltered contempt.

Her phone continued to ring, Gwen Stefani's "Hollyback Girl" almost unrecognizable from the guttural growls portrayed by the off-beat metal cover. She had downloaded it (semi-legally) four months ago after seeing the band live. The lineup had changed once already since then, and their Spotify discography remained woefully, tragically empty. But she had this shitty cover.

"This is Clay," she said, cutting off the grainy audio with a press of the button.

"Hi, Miss Clay, this is Elliot Burtenby." Alexandra puzzled over the name. Burtenby...Burtenby...It wasn't ringing any bells, so she remained silent. Elliot cleared his throat, which did nothing to help his voice. "I run the Gallivant Galore Antique Shop?" More silence from Alexandra's end. "I asked you about your sword and you...made a joke?"

"Oh yes! What can I do for you Elliot?" she asked, slipping into her car. She could feel the warmth of the leather seats against her ass, and she wriggled side-to-side in pleasure. With the unfortunate cold-front coming through the area, she was grateful for every drop of sun she could get.

"I had talked with you before about displaying some of your refurbished items at the auction, and you had said you would get back to me. That was two weeks ago." Despite the tremble in his voice, and the way it cut through the air like jagged glass, Elliot's voice was constant and firm. Alexandra gripped her steering wheel in frustration, turning her knuckles white. He had no right to talk to her that way.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that Elliot. Things have been busy and—"

"Listen, Miss Clay, we're having the art show this weekend," he interrupted. He sounded tired. "Slots are filling up fast: will you bring your pieces?" Alexandra sighed into the phone as she started her car, the engine coming to life with a steady purr.

Her mind's eye flashed to Barry, at home, asleep on the couch with applications in his hands—her store bills that had to be paid (customers refused to shop in the dark, with no heating, for some reason). She thought about Morgan Hayashi, and his insufferable, dismissive air towards her, and her work. She thought about the bottle she had tucked in her bedside drawer, the one that Barry never opened because he already knew what was in there. She needed the money, but...

"Thanks again for the offer, Elliot," she said, forcing a smile into her words that didn't match the expression on her face. "But business is booming." Not fast enough, she thought. Not that she would tell anyone that. "And I really can't afford to focus on anything else but adding to my inventory right now. It's a nice thought."

"Are you sure? Miss Clay, Alexandra, there are some people who attend these that would really—"

"Bye Elliot." Her thumb hit the end button, and the line went dead instantly. She sighed and threw her phone in her purse, backing out of the parking space. She hazarded a glance at the building's sign (Amnesty Mental Health Clinic) as she passed, and sighed with disgust. Whether that was at herself, her day, or maybe the entire goddamn world, she couldn't be sure.

Alexandra slammed on her brakes at the red light, and horns blared up behind her. She threw up a choice gesture out the window, which didn't help matters. But it did make her feel better.

"Time to swing by and open up for an hour, before I have to close it right back down," she sighed, thinking about her small shop. And then, she'd have to deal with her upstairs guest. That annoying, inconsiderate, fucking Morgan Hayashi. She slowly knocked her head back against her unyielding headrest. "Fuck. Me," she growled through clenched teeth.