Honor Bound by Joey Hill (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

He milked her to the end of it, took her down to a gasping, shuddering aftermath, and then nipped at her lips. “That’s the last I want to hear about Ben’s fucking portfolio.”

“Sure,” she said faintly. Though, privately, she thought if she ever wanted to be overwhelmed with a mindless climax within seconds, she’d shamelessly chant, “Ben, Ben, Ben,” to elicit that reaction from her captain again.

She bit her lip, shuddering with an aftershock as he used a handkerchief to clean her, holding her thong to the side, rubbing her as she clutched his jacket sleeve. When he readjusted her clothes, she wondered if the handkerchief was his. If he left it on the seat with her scent, or put it back in his pocket to carry. Then he was getting out of the limo.

Her legs were trembling now for more reasons than nervousness, so he supported her as she emerged. She blessed him for thinking of the mask, which would conceal that her eyes were sightless. Taking a deep breath, she tried to imagine how she looked. The nightclub lights would gleam off the curves of breast, hip and waist encased in copper corset, most of her scars beneath the garment and stockings. Her ass would be shown to good advantage in heels that were flattering but not ice pick or too high, Peter’s sensitivity to her balance. She was going to have to look into that yoga instructor, and practicing walking. She did like how stilettos made her ass look. She thought Peter would, too, if she got the confidence for that fuck-me-if-you-dare pendulum swing she’d had down pat before.

The clothes helped. Lord God, did they help, as every child who’d ever played dress up knew. Instead of being in a dark room in a sweat suit and mindless stupor, indifferent to her life, wallowed down in fearful misery, she stood in front of a BDSM club, in the company of a man who’d made it clear he thought her capable of anything. Who, despite what scars might be showing, thought she was sexy, gorgeous. His.

It wasn’t the clothes. It was him. The corset was his weapon, one he’d deployed with maximum devastating effect. With that Master’s intuition he had, he’d discerned its power over her from nothing more than her brief reaction to the suggestion, on one far-too-short night, more than a year ago.

Before this had happened, she’d always believed in herself, her own strength. It shamed her, the way she’d faltered. In the army, she’d accepted certain things couldn’t be accomplished alone. She just hadn’t realized she might need someone to stand at her back even when it didn’t involve AK-47s and insurgents.

Could she dare to hope he stood there for the right reasons, or was it pity? Powerful, deceptive nostalgia goaded by a titillating memory, instead of present reality? She wondered if it was a sign her perspective was changing, that she was more worried about what was going on in his heart than her own. Was that good or bad?

His hand was on her hip, stroking the top of her buttock, his thigh pressed to the back of hers. Reaching down, she curled her fingers over his. They overlapped hers, his lips touching her throat below the collar, so that she tilted her head back to his shoulder, giving him immediate access.

“We’re going inside now,” he said. “It’s going to be impossible to hear in certain places, okay? Pay attention to the leash, to my touch. If you get confused or disoriented, don’t worry. I’m right here.”

She nodded. Leaning down, he brushed his cheek against hers once more. “We’re going to have fun tonight, sweetheart. Right?”

She latched on to the relaxed quality of his voice, tried to take it into herself, despite the fact she was all too aware that the human world was a very visual and auditory one, not one that encouraged touch. Even fetish clubs had stringent rules about touching anyone without invitation, though if there was a large segment that liked to play public, there were often a lot of invitations. But she couldn’t see or hear any of those invitations.

Peter promised they would have fun, that he was here. She had to trust him to keep her out of trouble. Still, her pulse was pounding in her throat as he took her up the ramp toward the entrance, steadying her at the change in angle. He’d described it in detail on the way, so she focused on the image. Blue and silver lights outlining the main doorway, people in all manner of fetish garbs inside, paying their cover fee, having their IDs checked. Of course Peter and his friends were already members, so they passed through that area. It was crowded, though. Peter’s hand was wrapped in the leash, lying on her hip, keeping her close, but she still bumped people. A brush of velvet from a cloak, smells of latex and leather, that humming vibration of arousal. Music from the

approaching dance floor resonated through her feet. Realizing they must be passing through the public play area, she heard snatches of things. A muted, rhythmic sound she realized was a flogger. A cry of pain laced with pleasure, the plea to a Mistress for more.

Perhaps Peter would take her to a booth with his friends, get a drink. She could kneel at his feet. She wouldn’t have to move, to fight the overwhelming urge to stretch out her arms and pinwheel, trying to figure out her surroundings.

When the crowd let up so she could breathe, move more freely, Peter eased away from her, letting the leash lengthen and slacken. Immediately she reached after him, but he was already beyond her fingertips. Before she could panic, the tether twitched. Not pulling her in that direction, merely letting her know he was there.

He was giving her ten feet to do as she pleased, but she didn’t want to move.