His to Command

3 - The Investor

The world snapped back into focus, sharp and terrifying. Lucien’s half-unbuttoned shirt revealed a sculpted chest, a landscape of power and control I ached to map with my tongue. But the hunger in his eyes had shifted, cooled into something more deliberate, more dangerous. He wasn’t finished with me. He was just beginning.

He took my hand again, his grip absolute, and led me deeper into the room. My nakedness, my recent climax, made me feel utterly exposed, a specimen laid bare for his examination. The air here was cooler, the scent of Velvet Accord mutating into something sharper, more metallic. Anticipation. Fear. Desire.

In the center of the room stood a structure of dark, polished wood. Two beams crossed in a large X, fitted with leather cuffs at the wrists and ankles. A St. Andrew’s cross. My scientific mind identified it clinically, even as my body recoiled. This was no longer just his fingers inside me. This was a commitment.

“Position,” Lucien commanded, his voice devoid of the rough hunger from moments ago. It was the voice of a conductor before a symphony.

A shiver, cold and hot at once, traced its way up my spine. I walked to the cross, the smooth, cool floor beneath my feet. He didn’t guide me. He watched. I placed my palms against the cool wood, my back to him. I heard the soft whisper of leather as he approached.

“Your safe word is ‘molecule’,” he stated, his breath warm on my shoulder as he secured the first cuff around my right wrist. The leather was buttery soft, the buckle closing with a definitive, quiet click. “You will use it if you need to. You will not use it because you are afraid to feel. Do you understand the difference, Solange?”

He moved to my left wrist, pulling my arm taut. The stretch was immediate, a surrender of my autonomy. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He knelt, and the shift in power was dizzying. My superior, now at my feet. He took my ankle, his hand warming my skin, and fastened the cuff. My heart began to hammer against my ribs again, a wild bird in a cage. He secured my other ankle, spreading me open before him. I was tethered. utterly. completely. His.

He stepped back. I heard the soft rustle of him moving, the clink of metal. I couldn’t turn my head to see. The not-knowing was its own exquisite torture. My breathing was loud in the silent room.

“Tonight’s lesson is sensation,” his voice came from my side, calm, instructional. “Your body will learn to translate pleasure and pain into the same f*****g language. My language.”

I heard a soft swish through the air, followed by a gentle thud against my upper back. It was a caress, a warning. A flogger. The falls were soft, probably suede.

“Count,” he said.

Swish-thud. The impact was sharper this time, landing on my right shoulder blade. A bright sting bloomed, immediately followed by a warm, spreading heat. My skin sang with it.

“One, Sir,” I breathed.

He moved. The next strike landed on the curve of my ass, a little harder. The sensation was a shock, a jolt that went straight to my core, which was already throbbing with a renewed, desperate emptiness. “Two, Sir.”

Swish-thud. On the other ass cheek. My body jerked against the restraints, a purely involuntary reaction. The ache between my legs was becoming a pounding need. “Three, Sir.”

He was silent for a moment. I could feel his gaze roaming my bound form, studying the faint pink marks he was painting on my skin. The air grew thick with the scent of us, the Velvet Accord deepening, a note of dark spice emerging that hadn’t been there before.

He shifted his position, coming to stand in front of me. My eyes, wide and uncertain, met his. His expression was unreadable, a mask of intense focus. He let the falls of the flogger trail over my collarbones, down between my breasts. The soft suede was a tease, a promise of what was to come. My n*****s tightened into painful, sensitive points.

“The body is a map, Solange,” he murmured, his eyes locked on mine. “And I am its cartographer.”

The flogger lifted. Swish-thud. It landed across the upper slopes of my breasts. The pain was brighter, more acute. A gasp tore from my throat. “Four, Sir.”

He did it again, on the same spot, the falls overlapping. The sting was incredible, a focused heat that melted instantly into a deep, resonant throb. My back arched, pushing my chest toward him, a silent plea for more. “Five, Sir.”

“You taste so good on the air,” he growled, his composure cracking for a second to reveal the predator beneath. “Your fear. Your want. It’s all the same delicious fuel.”

He lowered the flogger. The falls danced over my stomach, my hips, and then, with a torturous slowness, he traced the outer lips of my p***y with the soft leather. I bucked against the restraints, a broken sound escaping me. He was teasing the epicenter of the ache he’d created.

“Please,” I whimpered.

“Please what?” He tapped the flogger gently against my c**t. The pressure, even through the soft falls, was almost too much. My vision blurred.

“I don’t know, Sir. Something. Please.”

“You will ask for what you need.” He drew back. Swish-thud.

The strike landed directly on my mound, just above my c**t. It was a lightning bolt of pure sensation—sharp, shocking, unbelievable. A cry was ripped from my lungs. The pain was immediate and intense, but a millisecond later, it transformed into a wave of molten heat that crashed through my entire body, centering on my c**t with a throbbing, desperate intensity. I was so wet I could feel it slick on my inner thighs.

“Six,” I sobbed.

He did it again. Swish-thud. Same place. The pain was a bright, white star that instantly exploded into a pleasure so deep it felt like coming undone. My hips strained against the cuffs, trying to grind against the air, seeking friction, seeking him. “Seven, Sir! f**k!”

“The numbers are for the strikes, Solange,” he corrected, his voice grim with his own restraint. “The begging is for my c**k. And you will beg for it.”

He delivered a third strike, lower this time, the ends of the falls biting into the sensitive lips of my p***y. I screamed, the sound raw and ragged. The sensation was unbearable. It was everything. It was all I could feel, all I was. My body was a live wire, connected only to the spot his flogger had touched. The heat between my legs was an inferno.

“Please, Sir! Please!” I was babbling, tears of overwhelm and ecstasy streaking my cheeks. “I can’t… it’s too much…”

“It’s not nearly enough,” he countered, but he dropped the flogger. I heard it hit the floor with a soft thump. His hands replaced it, his palms smoothing over the heated, punished skin of my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. His touch was shockingly cool, a balm and a brand. He cupped my p***y, his fingers sliding through the slickness there, and I cried out again at the contact.

“You are so f*****g wet from my punishment,” he snarled, his own control clearly fraying. He pressed two fingers inside me, and my body clenched around them instantly, greedily. “Your body understands. It begs better than your mouth does.”

He pumped his fingers slowly, torturously, his thumb circling my throbbing, oversensitive c**t. The combination of the lingering sting and the direct pleasure was overwhelming. I was shaking, straining against the leather cuffs, completely at his mercy.

“What do you need, Solange?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper against my ear as he leaned in close. “Say it. Beg for it.”

The words tore from me, ripped from some deep, primal place he had unlocked. “Please, Sir! Please, f**k me! I need your c**k. I need you to f**k me now. Please, Lucien, I’m begging you…”