Page 16 of Tamed Enemy
It’s not a kiss. A kiss is something sweet, something romantic. My lips against hers are demanding. My teeth are cruel. My tongue wants to take something from her, to steal it, to keep it forever.
She resists for a moment, hard and closed. But then my free hand finds one of her pebbled nipples, and I pinch, hard enough to make her gasp.
That breath of air transforms her. She becomes a different woman, a new creature. She’s indignant and imploring, sharp and meltingly soft.
Arching her throat, she opens to me. She’s hot and she’s wet, and she’s moaning even before I tug her top from the waistband of her pants. Need has already worked its magic. This time, when I pinch, she presses into me for more.
This is the mystery of the dungeon. On the one hand, excitement shuts down pain. Once I’ve awakened my sub’s desire, she’ll eagerly embrace a level of torment she could never manage cold.
On the other hand, every touch ignites new nerves. My aroused sub discovers awareness in places she never imagined were sensitive—the arch of an eyebrow, the knobby jut of a collarbone, the soft fold of an elbow.
As a Dom, my role is to manage those opposites. I’m a conductor and a warden, an avenger and a guide.
And right here, right now, I’m the man who has Kate Lynch pinned against the door—lips swollen, throat bruised, as she thrusts her hips against me and begs for me to pinch her clit, pleads for me to let her finish, hard, fast, now.
I take one full step back and drop my hands to my sides.
Kate’s screech is equal parts loss and lust, rage and regret. I know her well enough to understand she despises the power I hold over her.Shewants to be the strong one; she wants to be in control.
But she wants the release I can give her even more.
So she drops to her knees on the cool marble floor. She reaches for my zipper with fingers that tremble like caged birds. She murmurs things she’d never allow me to hear if I hadn’t just stripped her to her most basic self.
She pleads. She begs. And when I catch her wrists with both my hands, keeping her from her prize, she wails in disbelief.
“Downstairs,” I say, my voice rougher than I expect it to be. “Now.”
My cock makes an impressive tent against my zipper, arguing there’s no reason to waste time finding light switches and descending stairs. I can fuck my wife here in the foyer, pushing her up against the door.
But she’s obedient. She’s already heading for the basement. I hurry to catch up, because I want to see her face when she gets to the dungeon.
I built the old room over several years, furnishing it with tools I needed to complete my work as a Dom. Stark and severe, limited to shades of black and gray and white, the space expressed my darkest desires.
Things have changed in the renovation.
The floor is still designed to serve a function. The vinyl surface is waterproof and stain-resistant. It’s heated from beneath with four drains set discreetly against the surface. I paid for bespoke boards, so carefully designed to look like real oak that a dedicated sub could spend a lifetime counting growth rings.
The furniture has a purpose too. It’s still made of iron—nothing else will stand up to the activities I demand. But all of it—bed, bondage chair, spanking table, three different cages, and a St. Andrew’s cross—is finished in antique brass. The metal fittings capture a warm glow, as if they reflect the wood-like floor.
My tools are in a matching armoire—polished oak doors, gleaming wooden shelves, all the hinges and drawer pulls in the antiqued metal. I’ve filled the cabinet with a full range of equipment—gags and restraints, vibrators and clamps, a complete range of options for impact play, for wax play, for ropes.
A refrigerator hums softly in the corner, stocked with water and fresh fruit. A nightstand has drawers for chocolate and arnica gel.
But it’s the bed I’m most pleased with, the bed I spent the most time planning. The linens are emerald-green. They’re the color of Kate’s eyes when she’s at her stormiest—deep and rich and absolutely unwilling to compromise. The moment I boughtthose sheets, I pictured Kate’s body spread-eagle atop them, her skin flushed deepest pink from my filthiest attention. I imagined her hair tangled and damp, framing her full-lipped face.
I don’t have to imagine any longer. We’re finally here. Together.
Kate staggers to a stop at the foot of the stairs. Her breath catches in surprise. She takes her time studying the room, drinking in everything I’ve chosen just for her.
“I…” she starts to say. “It…” She turns to me, her eyes wide with wonder. And then she rallies. “My,” she drawls, slipping into one of our oldest jokes. “What a big dungeon you have.”
“The better to fuck you with, my dear,” I answer, because those are the words she’s expecting, and that’s why I did all of this, selected it, bought it, and had it installed in record time: So I can fuck my wife exactly the way she deserves. And then, before she has a chance to discover all the secrets I’ve built for her, I say, “Clothes off. Now.”
She doesn’t obey, not precisely. She takes her time with the buttons on her top, playing shy the way she did upstairs, flirting with me through her lashes.
“Faster,” I warn.
But Kate has never been a woman who does as she’s told—not by society, not by her family, and not by me. Pausing with her tits half-bared, she cocks a hip. She licks her lips. She throws her head back, shaking out her magnificent hair.
