Clark, Rachel - Alicia's Awakening (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) by Rachel Clark Page B
Authors: Rachel Clark
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for girly wimps, so I know how to duck and give as good as I get, but with Doug I’m actually happy to give him the power to do with me what he wishes.
It’s already an amazing, and uncharacteristic, step toward trusting someone other than myself.
His hands caress over my newly waxed flesh, his finger traveling from my wet pussy lips up the crease of my ass. “The beautician did a good job,” he says as he rubs my swollen labia between finger and thumb, apparently checking for missed hairs. He pushes his fingers into my vagina, pressing against the toy, rubbing it against a particularly sensitive spot inside me. I moan from the pleasure.
But then he curls his fingers and pulls the vibrating egg from my body.
“Stand up,” he says. My movements are less than graceful, but he thankfully steadies me with a hand wrapped tightly around my upper arm. He leads me to the bathroom door. “Have a quick shower, and meet me in the kitchen. You have ten minutes.”
I glance in the mirror and realize my makeup needs fixing. Damn, near orgasm is almost as bad for mascara as a spanking. My toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss are the only things in the room I recognize as mine. Apparently my Dom unpacked my bags for me but missed a few of the more feminine items a girl requires.
“Sir,” I say before he leaves, hoping like hell that I’m actually allowed to talk at this stage, “I need to grab my makeup kit.”
He leans back against the doorjamb and shakes his head. “No makeup.”
“But—” I begin to say before he gives me a stern look that shuts me up very quickly.
“No makeup. No clothes.” He moves off the wall to stand in front of me. “No back chatting.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say as I feel arousal dribble down my thigh. Good grief. I have no idea why his bossy attitude turns me on so much, but two weeks without clothes is seriously going to damage his furniture. He hands me a facecloth and a towel and leaves the room. I move to close the door behind him, but the words “leave it open” float down the hallway as he walks away.
I suppose, considering that I’m expected to be naked—so much for all the pretty clothes I packed—that scrubbing makeup off my face and having a shower with the bathroom door open isn’t that big a deal. I glance at the toilet in the corner and wonder if the same rule applies.
Shivering with uncertainty, still vibrating with arousal, and shaking in nervous anticipation, I manage to scrub the makeup off my face. Considering how unsteady I am, “no makeup” is probably a fortuitous sort of rule. I don’t fancy poking out an eye trying to get eyeliner in the right place.
Showering quickly and careful to leave the bathroom as tidy as I found it, I head to the kitchen. Doug comes over and buckles the now-familiar fur-lined cuffs onto my wrists and then kneels at my feet to wrap a new set around my ankles. He stands up, gives me a once-over, nods at my pale, unmade face in approval, and points to the stool—yes that stool.
“Sit.”
I want to roll my eyes and woof like a dog, but it seems more respectful of my Dom to do as I’m told. Although his soft chuckle suggests he read my instinctive reaction anyway. A glass of juice is sitting in front of me, and he nods as I lift it to my lips. I’m halfway through the drink before I realize he’s drinking white wine while he makes dinner.
I realize that I should be happy that the man seems to be able to cook, but I’m more than a little distracted on wondering why I get fruit juice and he gets wine.
“Sir,” I ask respectfully, knowing I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but annoyed at the feeling of being placed at the kiddy table, “may I have a glass of wine, please?”
“No,” he says without even turning around.
Again I want to argue, or at least demand an explanation, but this time I manage to control the impulse. He turns around after a few moments, gives me an approving sort of smile, and then goes back
It’s already an amazing, and uncharacteristic, step toward trusting someone other than myself.
His hands caress over my newly waxed flesh, his finger traveling from my wet pussy lips up the crease of my ass. “The beautician did a good job,” he says as he rubs my swollen labia between finger and thumb, apparently checking for missed hairs. He pushes his fingers into my vagina, pressing against the toy, rubbing it against a particularly sensitive spot inside me. I moan from the pleasure.
But then he curls his fingers and pulls the vibrating egg from my body.
“Stand up,” he says. My movements are less than graceful, but he thankfully steadies me with a hand wrapped tightly around my upper arm. He leads me to the bathroom door. “Have a quick shower, and meet me in the kitchen. You have ten minutes.”
I glance in the mirror and realize my makeup needs fixing. Damn, near orgasm is almost as bad for mascara as a spanking. My toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss are the only things in the room I recognize as mine. Apparently my Dom unpacked my bags for me but missed a few of the more feminine items a girl requires.
“Sir,” I say before he leaves, hoping like hell that I’m actually allowed to talk at this stage, “I need to grab my makeup kit.”
He leans back against the doorjamb and shakes his head. “No makeup.”
“But—” I begin to say before he gives me a stern look that shuts me up very quickly.
“No makeup. No clothes.” He moves off the wall to stand in front of me. “No back chatting.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say as I feel arousal dribble down my thigh. Good grief. I have no idea why his bossy attitude turns me on so much, but two weeks without clothes is seriously going to damage his furniture. He hands me a facecloth and a towel and leaves the room. I move to close the door behind him, but the words “leave it open” float down the hallway as he walks away.
I suppose, considering that I’m expected to be naked—so much for all the pretty clothes I packed—that scrubbing makeup off my face and having a shower with the bathroom door open isn’t that big a deal. I glance at the toilet in the corner and wonder if the same rule applies.
Shivering with uncertainty, still vibrating with arousal, and shaking in nervous anticipation, I manage to scrub the makeup off my face. Considering how unsteady I am, “no makeup” is probably a fortuitous sort of rule. I don’t fancy poking out an eye trying to get eyeliner in the right place.
Showering quickly and careful to leave the bathroom as tidy as I found it, I head to the kitchen. Doug comes over and buckles the now-familiar fur-lined cuffs onto my wrists and then kneels at my feet to wrap a new set around my ankles. He stands up, gives me a once-over, nods at my pale, unmade face in approval, and points to the stool—yes that stool.
“Sit.”
I want to roll my eyes and woof like a dog, but it seems more respectful of my Dom to do as I’m told. Although his soft chuckle suggests he read my instinctive reaction anyway. A glass of juice is sitting in front of me, and he nods as I lift it to my lips. I’m halfway through the drink before I realize he’s drinking white wine while he makes dinner.
I realize that I should be happy that the man seems to be able to cook, but I’m more than a little distracted on wondering why I get fruit juice and he gets wine.
“Sir,” I ask respectfully, knowing I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but annoyed at the feeling of being placed at the kiddy table, “may I have a glass of wine, please?”
“No,” he says without even turning around.
Again I want to argue, or at least demand an explanation, but this time I manage to control the impulse. He turns around after a few moments, gives me an approving sort of smile, and then goes back
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