“I’d do my best to serve and please you, Sir.” “I want to fuck you until you’re out of control and screaming, and I want to just sit here and see what you’d do.” “It’s my honor and my duty as your sub, Sir.” Katrina eased back, both because his words implied she should and because for her own mental health it was better. Katrina closed her eyes, keeping that thought at the front of her mind. She could rub it into his skin as she knelt before him. She would have to do some research and find the best hand cream. She wondered what he did that he had such rough hands. The cracked, rough skin of his hands caught on her hair, but she didn’t mind. He released his hold, petting her hair instead. Katrina held her position, and gradually his fingers relaxed. Then rough fingers dug into her hair, squeezing until little sparks of delicious pain flared through her scalp. For a moment there was nothing and her stomach started to knot. Not sure if he would be displeased if she moved her hands, Katrina leaned forward and laid her cheek on his knee. That shocked her, because that urge to offer comfort was the core of her submission. How dare someone make this man feel like a rapist, or put him down because of the color of his skin. She’d known him less than an hour and she could tell he was funny, kind, and oh so sexy. The tightness in his body made her think that there were things in his past that made him think this way. “You have more faith in people than I do.” I will not confirm anyone’s stereotypes.” In case you haven’t noticed, I’m black, and raping a white woman, even in play, is something I’d never do. “I have no desire to pretend to rape a woman. Rape fantasy was hardly uncommon, and many subs had them, since rape was about loss of power. “Next is fantasy rape and fantasy gang bang.” She returned the smile, because it was actually a relief that something that had for her been devastating, was so easily dismissed in his reality. I can’t play with your lovely body if I abandon it.” He smiled. This time she stopped herself from tensing. He tapped the paper against his knee before he spoke again. Why did dominants always have to be so nosy? She nodded again. “Was that something your previous master enjoyed?”ĭamned perceptive Dom. “You’re thanking me for not slapping you?” If he enjoyed it, would he want to negotiate? Doms weren’t supposed to push against hard limits, but in practice there was often at the very least a discussion. It was the only way she managed to stay on her knees. Katrina stiffened, her teeth grinding together. Dante really was nothing like her ex, and that was a very, very good thing. She’d had to explain everything about her past relationship to get in. Looking at Dante she wondered if the overseers had put them together on purpose. BDSM relationships should be about more than physical appearance, but there was no denying that a strong muscular Dom with cool eyes and a commanding voice was easier to submit to.īut that’s what she’d had, and in the end, that’s whom she hadn’t been able to submit too. If he hadn’t ordered her to turn her palms up in that dark commanding voice, she would have thought he’d be an easy Dom to submit to. He didn’t need a dress shirt and shiny shoes to look commanding. He wore jeans and black sneakers that looked cool and expensive. His hair was cropped close to his head, his eyes rimmed with dense curly lashes. His forearms were displayed by his pale blue polo and particularly attractive-she wanted to lick her way from his elbow to his hand and then suck his fingers into her mouth. Dante Jones was a slender black man, with the long, lean muscles of a runner or cyclist. His gentle humor pushed back the tension that was crowding her. Even as she kept her breathing slow and even, her shoulders back and knees spread, offering her body for his viewing pleasure and eventually his touch, she remembered a time when kneeling had symbolized everything that was wrong with her relationship, and had made her feel like a doormat instead of a treasure.ĭante whistled and chuckled lightly. She had that same feeling now-this was familiar. While she wasn’t as graceful when she sank into a plie as she had been when she’d been a teenage ballerina, her muscles still knew how to move. She’d danced fairly seriously all through college, and had found when she returned to the barre her body still remembered some of the motions. Katrina settled into the familiar position-knees spread, hands palm up on her legs, head up but eyes lowered.
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