Page 36 of Cabin Fever
“Okay,” I whisper. “Do you want me to wear something specific?”
Talon’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Yeah. There’s something for you in your closet. Black box, top shelf.”
I nod, stand, and walk—no, float—up the stairs. My hands are trembling. In the closet is a glossy black box with a red satin bow. Inside: a pair of sky-high patent stilettos, a set of lacy black pasties, a g-string smaller than a postage stamp, and a little note in Talon’s hand:Wear only these items. Nothing else.
I strip, heart hammering, and attach the pasties to my big breasts, turning in the mirror to eye them. Oh my god, my tits are huge and creamy, the black circles a contrast to my ivory skin. Then comes the g-string, which bisects my round bottom,and then the shoes. When I look in the mirror, I’m all legs and curves and exposed flesh, a sacrificial offering to some ancient, hungry god. I pinch my cheeks for color, and then arrange my blonde hair in a swirl about my shoulders. Oh my god, is this right? To my shame, there’s heat between my thighs because I can’t wait to see what Talon does.
When I return downstairs, Talon’s waiting at the bottom, arms crossed, blue eyes devouring every inch of me. The tension in the air is so thick it’s hard to move.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, because the alternative is to scream.
He takes my hand, and for the first time, I notice he’s nervous too. Maybe not nervous exactly, but there’s a dark flush on those high cheekbones.
“Safe word is ‘red,’” he murmurs. “You use it, we stop. No questions asked.”
I nod again, and let him lead me into his bedroom, where the restraints are waiting.
Whatever happens next, I know I’ll never be the same.
The bedroom isunlit except for the lamplight leaking in from the hallway and a large candle guttering on the dresser. Everything in here is oversized: the massive bed, the old pine wardrobe, the stark masculinity imbuing every corner of the room. I hover at the threshold, skin prickling, while Talon moves around theroom with the slow, confident motions of a man in control of everything around him.
There’s rope laid out on the bed—silk, not hemp, dyed midnight blue. Next to it, a pair of black leather cuffs, the hardware shining dully in the candle’s pulse. I stand there, all trembling breasts and weak knees, the stilettos raising my ass high and forcing my spine into a steep curve. I wonder if this is how new subs feel when they start a scene.
Talon gestures me forward. “On the bed, face up, sweetheart.”
His voice is low, but also thick with anticipation. I clamber up, every movement made clumsy by fear and anticipation. The sheets are cool, slick against my bare shoulders and back. He stands at the edge, looking down at me with gleaming blue eyes.
“We’re doing a club scene,” he says. “You’re new. I’m breaking you in. All you have to do is listen and obey. If it gets to be too much, you use the safe word.”
I nod, even though I already forgot the safe word. I doubt I’ll use it anyway.
He sets the rope aside and picks up the cuffs, circling the bed to fasten my right wrist to the bedpost. The leather is soft, almost buttery, but the click of the buckle is final, no-nonsense. He repeats with my left, then checks both to make sure I have some give but not enough to pull free.
He comes to stand at my feet, looking down at the way my thighs squeeze together, my chest heaving. He slides a finger under the waistband of the g-string and plucks it, hard enough to sting.
“Keep your legs open,” he says.
My body obeys before my brain catches up. I can feel how wet I am already, the slick pooling under my bottom.
Talon grabs a pillow and props it under my hips, tilting my cunt up to the ceiling. The exposure is total. I’m a dish on a silver tray, nerves screaming, skin hot enough to steam, and it feels wonderful to be exposed like this. I want to know what he’s going to do next. Icraveit.
Talon’s hands are rough yet gentle as he slides them up my calves, over my knees, to the tops of my thighs. He stops, kneeling at the foot of the bed. His eyes are fixed on my face, making sure I’m watching.
“First lesson,” he growls, “is you don’t get to hide.”
He slides two fingers into the waistband and pulls the g-string off, slow, scraping the mesh along the inside of my thighs, then dropping it over the edge of the bed. The air hits my cunt and I shiver, every muscle tightening.
He reaches for the pasties, but doesn’t peel them off. Not yet.
“Are you frightened, little one?” he asks, his voice almost gentle.
“Yes,” I breathe, and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
He smiles, small and wolfish. “Good.”
He leans over me, hands braced on either side of my waist, and bites the inside of my thigh, just above the knee. Not enough to bruise, but enough to make me yelp.
