Knight Nostalgia: A Knights of the Board Room Anthology(63)
The comfortable domesticity was balanced with the pleasure of being his submissive. He exercised his Dominance over her in myriad ways, both expected and spontaneous. However, every Friday, which was her half-day of work, they shared a pure service ritual that she anticipated, a way of grounding and reminding her of her core self.
He’d leave her instructions to prepare him dinner, with precise directions on what she should wear, and how he wanted everything laid out, even down to the polish on the silver and the fold of the napkin. Often, she became so absorbed in the process, it was a form of subspace.
When he came home from work, she’d be waiting by his chair at the table, ass on her heels, hands clasped at her back, head down, wearing nothing but a pair of heels and his collar. Every time, she held her breath as he sat down at the meal and surveyed everything with careful attention. When he’d touch her cheek, stroke, it was a sign of his approval. That subspace feeling would return, a euphoric cloud on which she floated as she served his meal.
It didn’t stop with dinner. He took care to lay out every detail, including how to clean and put away the dishes after she cooked, how he wanted the bed prepared for when he would take his sub to it and she’d serve his pleasure there. Sometimes it was merely fresh linens. One time, during the gardenia blooming season, he had her cut a few blooms from the bushes around the outside of the house and scatter the petals over the sheets. The strong fragrance had wound around them as they moved together on the bed.
Whatever variances occurred with the bed preparation, what happened in it always involved pulling four earth-shattering climaxes from her.
One by suckling her nipples, his body laying upon her, her hips rising to rub her core against his ridged abdomen, if he allowed that. One with him in her mouth, while a vibrator hummed between her legs until she was moaning against his cock. Then, leaving the vibrator on, he’d push his well lubricated member into her rectum, taking her deep there.
After that, he’d tie her to the bed, spread out. The vibrator was removed and replaced with one of his diabolical little inventions. The latest one had been inspired by a toy belonging to Cass and Lucas’s cats. A little soft ball with metallic slender threads, creating a spiky surface.
He’d balanced his version of it on her clit, and told her she couldn’t move, couldn’t let it fall, when he went into the bathroom to clean himself. As her body heat was conveyed to the device, the threads had started to move, delivering tingling little shocks to that sensitive bundle of nerve endings. Finally, when she thought she’d lose her mind, Jon had returned. Setting the toy aside, Jon had lain down upon her fully, and slid himself into her once more slippery pussy. He’d stayed that way a long moment, elbows braced on either side of her head, their eyes close and full of one another.
Then he started to move, and before long the fourth orgasm gripped her, the most powerful one of all. It was the one driven as much by the heart and soul as the body.
Afterward, he untied her and they went to sleep, him curled protectively around her, breath upon her neck.
The message of their Friday ritual was as arousing as the act. She belonged to him, and he’d claim every orifice, every part of her, every week, to reinforce the message.
“Did you like that, last night? With the feather.” He brought her back to the present, his voice a melodious rumble against her ear. The deep timbre always reminded her of a midnight DJ, speaking to his listeners in the loneliest part of the night, reassuring them he was there with them. Sometimes his voice alone could make her wet, tremble, need.
“Yes.” Goddess, she had. But…
“But you liked it even better when it was just my mouth.”
She put her hands over his, still curved over her breasts. He was kneading again, lightly plucking her nipples, which tagged her words with breathy little notes. “I love the things you can create,” she managed. “I love you using me to test them. But the in-between times, when you use only your hand, your mouth…your body…it’s like you step inside of me so deeply.”
She thought of the dinner ritual, the last time he took her body, when they were pressed skin to skin, the weight of their love held between their gazes. She closed her eyes again as his hands slid to her upper abdomen, his arms crossing over her to hold. It only reinforced her next words. “I feel so safe and loved.”
He turned her toward him. As she gazed up into his dark blue eyes she thought how they, too, were sometimes like the darkest part of night, only over a sea, where even the night picked up the blue and held it. When she slid her hands up toward his shoulders, he gripped one wrist and dipped his head to drop a kiss on her knuckles. “Such pretty nails,” he observed. “But I’m going to risk them. I want to have you in the grotto, and see if I can make you lose your mind enough you’ll rake those pretty nails up my back.”
She smiled, even as she trembled. Sometimes it scared her, how much she loved their life together. She’d never had what she had with Jon. But she knew how quickly time passed, and what it could take away from a person. Every moment needed to be valued, instead of its loss feared. He’d helped her with that, because sometimes the fear came back. Like now.
If she could change anything about their first several years together, it would be that. As much as she loved Jon, and wanted to be his wife and submissive more than anything, the emotional fallout of two decades of psychological abuse and the attendant destruction of her confidence and self-esteem, couldn’t be eradicated overnight or merely by wishing.