Nobody's Angel (#2)

"I love seeing you stretched out for me. So beautiful."

Lying this way, as if tied, and wearing only the blindfold sent a thrill through her body. Even though he didn't touch her, she could almost feel his hands on her. With her hands stretched above her head, she imagined her girls were lifted and almost perky. She smiled, less concerned about how she looked and beginning to anticipate his lesson or demonstration or whatever this was with a little more enthusiasm now.

Marc's lips brushed her right ear. "That's right. Relax, cara." Marc's scruff abraded her cheek and ear in the most sensual way. Heat pooled in her core and she tilted her pelvis toward him, begging for his touch.

"Lift your hips."

Trying to keep her legs where he had positioned them made it impossible to do as he told her very easily, but she raised them as much as she could. His strong hand lifted her higher and he slid a pillow under her butt, leaving her pussy exposed even more. Her heart began to beat faster and her tongue licked across suddenly parched lips.

She felt the mattress sink under his weight, then he straddled her hips and bent his upper body over hers. One hand cupped her left breast, teasing her nipple, while he brought his mouth down to her right nipple and suckled. Heat from his body enveloped her, the hairs from his chest tickling the skin on her torso and abdomen. He tugged on her nipple with his teeth, stretching her breast to the limits of comfort, then letting the tender peak go so that her breast bounced back into place. He repeated the motion again and yet again, just as he had done with his fingers on the sofa last night.

"I love your breasts, pet."

Gee, I hadn't noticed.

He gave her swollen bud another nip with his teeth, then, with a sigh, sat up again. His hand skimmed over her abdomen, just barely brushing the tiny body hair and sending gooseflesh over her entire body. Her hair even stood on end. Then his hand brushed lower, tickling her and causing an instinctively defensive move as she pulled her knees up to protect her pussy. If he weren't sitting slightly on her thighs, she'd have disobeyed him.

"Ticklish there, are we?"

Her face flushed as she nodded.

He sighed. That didn't sound good. "Pet, I'm sorry, but more than likely, I am going to need to restrain your legs."

"No! I'll keep them down this time."

"I did not give you permission to speak, did I?"

Frustrated, she groaned, then shook her head.

"If you defy my commands, I will gag you, as well."

She shook her head vigorously. Not that! How would she speak her safeword if she were gagged?

"Don't worry, gattina." His voice grew gentle again, as if he smiled. "When I…When your Dom introduces you to the gag, you'll be given a safe gesture to use instead of a word."

How did he always know what she was thinking?

"You aren't ready for that step, so if you simply do as I say, we can dispense with that tonight. But this is your last chance on both counts."

No leg restraints. No gag. And just what did he do, travel around with ball gags on him? Or would he improvise? She forced herself to relax her tensed muscles and sank back against the mattress and pillows. Marc moved off of her hips, stretching out beside her, and returned his finger to just below her breast where he began trailing it down across her abdomen. When he came close to her mons, her legs bolted up. Oh, no! Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. How could she control the damned reflex if he kept tickling her like that?

Without a word, Marc got off the mattress and she heard his footsteps heading toward the nightstand. She grew tense once more as he took one of her ankles and she felt the coolness of satin or some other cloth quickly warm against her skin. He tied the sash or belt around her ankle, then pulled her leg open wider than she thought comfortably possible. When he had secured her binding to the footboard, she tested her range of motion and found it to be less limiting than she'd expected. He really was trying not to scare the bejeezers out of her.

So sweet of you, Marc...er, Sir.

At least her hands were still free. She didn't feel as vulnerable knowing she could at least inflict some serious damage with her hands, not unlike what she'd done to Allen earlier tonight, if Marc so much as…

"Relax your leg."

She didn't realize she'd tensed up again and did as he ordered. After he attached another cloth belt to her ankle and restrained that leg, she felt his fingers slide between the sash and her ankle on each side as if testing the tightness. The mattress sagged under his weight on her right side moments later.

"Nod or shake your head. Are you okay with the restraints?"

She nodded.

"I'm proud of you, cara. You're being very brave."

Brave? He was only the second person to tell her that in her entire life—and the first one was a figment of her imagination. Before her mind could process his praise, his hand glided down the inside of her right thigh to her knee, causing chill bumps to rise in its wake. When he began a slow, upward advance toward her pussy, she held her breath. Please, don't!

Don't stop!

Pent-up tension built to fever pitch. Even though he had yet to touch her clit, the needy bit throbbed, waiting to welcome him. She'd been anticipating his touch for so long while kneeling on the floor that now when she was so close to…something she couldn't even name…the sensations were nearing torture. She would come at the slightest pressure against the place where she needed him most.

She tilted her hips, begging silently. Now! Please!

Nothing. The hand touching her thigh left her. She arched her back, raising her chest toward him, hoping he would touch her nipples again. Bite them. Touch or bite her anywhere. Instead he got off the bed again and she ached at the loss.

Two days ago, if someone had told her she'd be tied to her bed—or half tied, in this case—craving a man's touch like this, she'd have told them they were delusional. When had she become so depraved? So…submissive? So wanton?

Dear God, she'd become a wanton woman.

No, a wanting woman. And what she wanted more than anything in the world, even chocolate, was Marc's touch. Where had he gone anyway? What was he doing? Then she felt him climb back onto the bed and his weight pressed into the mattress near her right leg. She relaxed her contracted muscles and smiled. A short-lived reprieve because, rather than feel his hands or mouth on her body, what felt like cold sharp steel traced lightly over the skin from her left sole, causing her to squirm at the ticklish, yet prickly, feeling. She heard a slight squeak, as if it were a wheel of some type, tracing a path from her ankle to the inside of her knee. Sharp, but not breaking the skin, although it probably could cut her if he exerted enough pressure.

She sucked in a gasp of air and held still, holding her breath, not wanting to be cut by whatever he was using. The pinpricks rolled up the insides of her knees, her thighs. Oh, God, not her pussy! She tried to close her legs against the invasion, but couldn't move them.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Restrained.

She knew she couldn't stand the bite of that thing against her clit. Could she? Then the wheel rolled along the uppermost ridge of her hipbone and onto her abdomen. Her legs reflexively fought the restraints, but she was unable to defend against his ticklish onslaught. She gripped the headboard tighter, trying not to break into screams—or giggles. He rolled the damned thing lower, toward her mons, and she nearly came undone.

Mind over matter. In her mind, she prepared the batter for an Italian cream cake. After adding the first few ingredients, she was able to control her response to the ticklish stimuli.

"Very good, cara."

Warmth spread over her, then the wheel marked new territory again as it traveled upward. The ticklish sensation gave way to a more biting pressure as the wheel rolled around the edge of her right breast where it met her chest wall. Every hair on her body stood on end.

A finger from his other hand brushed the inside of her knee and moved upward, bypassing her pussy, as well. She moaned in frustration. His fingertip skimmed lightly over her hip, across her abdomen, unerringly along the same path the steel object had traced seconds ago, as if following a pattern across her skin. Was the instrument marking a path on her skin in some way?
The pinpricks skittered across the underside of her left breast, then traveled over the space between her girls and onto the top of her right one, circling around the base of the breast and back to the other one. He was making repeated figure eights. Her nipples tightened, aching and waiting.

Please! Touch me there!