underfoot, seemed unreal. She hadn’t put her clothes back on, nor touched the bathrobe hanging in the closet–just as he’d told her. She wasn’t sure why she obeyed. Why she wanted to.
“I’m mad, utterly mad,” she muttered.
When Mr. Meisner had left the room and the door clicked shut, the bedroom had seemed empty, like the eerie silence after the passing of a storm. She rolled the sound of his first name around in her head. He wanted her to call him that but she couldn’t, not out loud, too...too something. Familiar? Maybe in time, but tonight he was Mr. Meisner.
Was she crazy? She’d let a lion into her world, hadn’t the faintest idea how to put him back in the cage, and would probably bite anyone who asked her to drive Leonhardt away.
She smiled, shut her eyes and shivered as hot-cold slivers threaded along every nerve. He wanted her to play with herself, down there, where he’d touched her. Pretending it was Mr. Meisner, she moved her hand down through her hair to the place where her clitoris dwelled. One finger on top of it was enough to make her smile again. She let her head go back as her neck arched in some instinctive response. So nice.
Her body was the last bastion where she’d still obeyed society’s rules. Women’s bodies and sex were for marriage and procreation. She smirked then let her concentration return to what her finger evoked. Tonight it seemed as if she had permission to do the naughtiest things. She’d always learned fast. Maybe she would surprise Mr. Meisner.
Surprise him? Memories coalesced–when he’d held her neck and threatened to spank her if she answered the wrong way; when he’d asked her to turn and look at him while her hands were tied at her back and she was naked. Her clitoris swelled. No, she’d not shock or surprise Leonhardt tonight, and she didn’t want to...not at all.
The bath water was inches from the top and the seat upholstery between her thighs wet with her moisture before she came to her senses and turned off the taps. She’d not had an orgasm, but heavens, if she had to do this much longer some part of her would surely explode. Why had she never done this before?
* * * *
Her skin damp and flushed pink from the soaking, her hair unclipped from its loose bun, she walked out into the bedroom and up to the bed. The quilt was cool to touch. Coiled at the bottom was the cord with which he’d tied her. Innocuous looking, innocent, except now it invoked strange, wicked images.
She crawled onto the quilt and found the middle. Though the room was empty, she felt like the center of attention somehow. As if someone might enter and see her. It was...intimidating.
She lay back and put her hand to the spot that was becoming gloriously familiar, let her eyes half-close. Mr. Meisner. That was who she imagined might enter, and see her doing this. Already her flesh down there was swollen and wet. She squeezed her hand between her thighs. Funny, but here, outside the cozy intimacy of the bathroom, she felt inhibited.
Nevertheless, she tried, experimenting with all manner of methods–fingertip, finger and thumb, rubbing hard, rubbing softly. Nothing brought her the edge like she’d found in the bathroom, or like Mr. Meisner.
When she heard footsteps approach her door and the key scrape in the lock, she grabbed a pillow from behind her head and covered herself. He walked in, came to a yard from the bed end, and simply loomed .
She gripped the pillow tighter, feeling her hard nipples butt into the cool fabric, aware that underneath, she was bare.
Those eyes of his, my goodness, he should patent them as a weapon. Like the twin headlights of his car, they seemed to shine into every corner of her being.
“Hello,” she said, trying not to squeak, and almost succeeding.
“Put the pillow aside, Faith. I want to see you.” He stayed where he was. Clothed, masculine, someone who seemed her natural master. Why, she hadn’t quite figured out. Her lion had
“I’m mad, utterly mad,” she muttered.
When Mr. Meisner had left the room and the door clicked shut, the bedroom had seemed empty, like the eerie silence after the passing of a storm. She rolled the sound of his first name around in her head. He wanted her to call him that but she couldn’t, not out loud, too...too something. Familiar? Maybe in time, but tonight he was Mr. Meisner.
Was she crazy? She’d let a lion into her world, hadn’t the faintest idea how to put him back in the cage, and would probably bite anyone who asked her to drive Leonhardt away.
She smiled, shut her eyes and shivered as hot-cold slivers threaded along every nerve. He wanted her to play with herself, down there, where he’d touched her. Pretending it was Mr. Meisner, she moved her hand down through her hair to the place where her clitoris dwelled. One finger on top of it was enough to make her smile again. She let her head go back as her neck arched in some instinctive response. So nice.
Her body was the last bastion where she’d still obeyed society’s rules. Women’s bodies and sex were for marriage and procreation. She smirked then let her concentration return to what her finger evoked. Tonight it seemed as if she had permission to do the naughtiest things. She’d always learned fast. Maybe she would surprise Mr. Meisner.
Surprise him? Memories coalesced–when he’d held her neck and threatened to spank her if she answered the wrong way; when he’d asked her to turn and look at him while her hands were tied at her back and she was naked. Her clitoris swelled. No, she’d not shock or surprise Leonhardt tonight, and she didn’t want to...not at all.
The bath water was inches from the top and the seat upholstery between her thighs wet with her moisture before she came to her senses and turned off the taps. She’d not had an orgasm, but heavens, if she had to do this much longer some part of her would surely explode. Why had she never done this before?
* * * *
Her skin damp and flushed pink from the soaking, her hair unclipped from its loose bun, she walked out into the bedroom and up to the bed. The quilt was cool to touch. Coiled at the bottom was the cord with which he’d tied her. Innocuous looking, innocent, except now it invoked strange, wicked images.
She crawled onto the quilt and found the middle. Though the room was empty, she felt like the center of attention somehow. As if someone might enter and see her. It was...intimidating.
She lay back and put her hand to the spot that was becoming gloriously familiar, let her eyes half-close. Mr. Meisner. That was who she imagined might enter, and see her doing this. Already her flesh down there was swollen and wet. She squeezed her hand between her thighs. Funny, but here, outside the cozy intimacy of the bathroom, she felt inhibited.
Nevertheless, she tried, experimenting with all manner of methods–fingertip, finger and thumb, rubbing hard, rubbing softly. Nothing brought her the edge like she’d found in the bathroom, or like Mr. Meisner.
When she heard footsteps approach her door and the key scrape in the lock, she grabbed a pillow from behind her head and covered herself. He walked in, came to a yard from the bed end, and simply loomed .
She gripped the pillow tighter, feeling her hard nipples butt into the cool fabric, aware that underneath, she was bare.
Those eyes of his, my goodness, he should patent them as a weapon. Like the twin headlights of his car, they seemed to shine into every corner of her being.
“Hello,” she said, trying not to squeak, and almost succeeding.
“Put the pillow aside, Faith. I want to see you.” He stayed where he was. Clothed, masculine, someone who seemed her natural master. Why, she hadn’t quite figured out. Her lion had
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