Brazen Read Free Page B

room and point to the queen-sized bed. “Lie down,” I say, and slam
the door shut behind us.
    He sits at
the edge of the mattress, looking smug.
    “I said
‘lie’,” I remind him, and he stretches out across my claret-colored comforter.
    I dig two
pairs of nylons out of my hosiery drawer and walk to the far end of the bed. I
yank his hands through the slats of the oak headboard and bind his wrists
together.
    “There’s one
rule corrected,” I say. “Open your mouth.”
    He does and I
gag him with the second pair of stockings, tying them tight at the base of his
skull.
    “Better,” I
say. “Now turn over.”
    I have no
clue what the trouble-man’s game is because he seems eager to follow
directions, suddenly. Perhaps he just craves attention. He flips over onto his
stomach, bound arms crossing, and I leave for a minute to fetch myself a glass
of wine and a couple more candles. Outside there’s a flash and a delayed peal
of thunder and I jump, nerves crackling.
    Mr.
Troublesome is as he should be when I return. I set the candles on the vanity
and close the door and perch at the edge of the bed. I sip my wine and admire
his back muscles and shoulder blades in the jerking light. He has his head
propped to one side on his arm, eyes on me, waiting. It’s hard to tell with the
gag, but I think he’s smiling. I take a deep drink and set the glass aside.
    “I’m firing
you after tonight,” I say. “You’re extremely disappointing.”
    He watches as
I crawl to the middle of the bedspread. I slide my feet then ankles then legs
beneath his hips, until he’s lying across my lap. I feel his hard dick against
my thighs as I run my palm over his ass. He’s excited, and his skin is damp and
warm as I pull his shorts down his hips. I reach my hand between his legs to
fondle his balls for a few moments, teasing him with rough pulls. The weight of
his bare cock makes me ache for something I swore never to do with any of my
beautiful boys.
    I hear his
deep, nasal breaths and muffled grunts. I think of how flagrantly he
disregarded the rules of this house— my house—and I make him feel every
ounce of my anger when I slap him. The force or the frightening sound of it
jolts his body.
    I spank him
until I can see his skin branded red even in the dim light, until his back is
shining with a fine layer of perspiration and his ribs expand and contract fast
and deep. He finally shows me some helplessness, and I relent. I’m not a
powerful woman. I’m average height and of graceful build if I may say so
myself. I was a dancer before I took up photography. I’m fit but not built for
dominance by any stretch of the imagination, though at this moment I feel magnificent
and cruel and masterful.
    Our
collective skin is warm and sticky as I maneuver my bare legs from under him,
smoothing my silk skirt back down my thighs. He watches, still.
    “Turn over
again,” I say, and I hear a new weight in my voice.
    His smell is
potent as he settles on his back. I explore him with my eyes, from his
sweat-matted hair and furrowed brow, down his strained, muscular body to his
long, thick cock. Longer and thicker than I’d prefer for my usual purposes. A very nice size for other activities, however. I pull his
underwear all the way off then stalk up the mattress and jerk the gag from his
mouth, letting it lie limp around his throat. Below his stubbly chin, just to
one side of his neck, there’s a mark—a reddish bruise like a hickey. I catch
his eyes and I shuffle to the headboard and reach for his hands. I don’t
release them, but I feel his rough fingertips, the calluses on his left hand. I
sit back down on the covers and study his face.
    “You’re a
violinist.”
    “Would you
like me to play for you?” he asks, and his voice is as deep and haunting and
melancholy as his chosen instrument.
    “Definitely
not,” I say. “I don’t do romance.”
    His eyes dart
condemningly to the candles, my wine, to the panes where the rain is