Page 15

“Ito-sama.” I moan, struggling with the chains, as he feasts on my neck.

He hangs the cuffs on the headboard while he kisses and sucks my throat. Those cuffs are real, too. As solid and serious as Mr. Ito.

When I’m restrained, he leans back and studies me. What’s his real expression beneath the mask? Admiration? Is he proud to have such magnificence at his mercy? Disgust? Is he repulsed by the echoes of his own orgasm and my slavish willingness? The angry silver and gold eyebrows hide the real man.

He rubs the bulge of my cock, still snug and suffocating in my jeans.

Just that touch, reduces me to humping his hand. “Please, Ito-sama. Take it out. Touch me. Please make me come. I need it so bad.”

He smiles, mysterious and a little evil, then squeezes me through the worn denim, torturing me with the rough fabric on my sensitive cock. Serves me right for not wearing underwear with such tight jeans. I moan and writhe into his hands, arching my hips up against his pressure.

“Tell me when it’s happening. I want to see your face.”

The bastard is going to make me come in my pants. I can already feel the wetness of pre-cum against his palm, slickening the fabric while he kneads my cock. This fucker wants to prove I have no control, so little ability to restrain myself. He didn’t have time to get my jeans off before … before—

“I’m gonna come.”

With one last hard squeeze, Mr. Ito removes his hand.

For a moment, my brain can’t make sense of the lack of sensation. My hips continue to lift, seeking the friction I crave. But my cock immediately understands and throws a tantrum of twitches, radiating pain and misery. My brain catches up.

Oh, the bastard … the beautiful evil bastard.

He’s not gonna let me come.

Mr. Ito answers my expression with a soft chuckle. He pushes my hips onto the bed, slides his hands over my chest, deliberately avoiding the straining swell of my trapped cock.

“Ito-sama,” I beg him. “Please.”

He gives me an amused smile.

“Please, let me come.”

He ignores me and strokes my sides, rolling my t-shirt higher up my chest. His fingers dance over my nipples. A lightning bolt of lust scorches my desperate cock. He doesn’t spend any more time on my erogenous areas, just in case. But Christ, can this man make me come through nipple-play? Is that how starved I am for him?

My shirt stretches as he tugs part of it over my head, but leaves the rest over my face, a soft blindfold.

His tongue touches my chest, between my pectorals, licking a slow, hot trail toward my cock. I shudder and moan.

That damned mask snags, and he withdraws.

He stays there, weighing the bed down, staring at me.

Maybe he’s taken off the mask.

God, could I possibly see him? If I wiggle just a little out of this shirt will his unmasked face be on the other side? Reassurance in the thin lines of his eyes. Care in the furrow of his brow. The softness of a cheek instead of the glitter of precious metals. The answers to every strange question in this strange situation would be etched in his face.

When I jerk free of my impromptu blindfold, I find myself gazing into the mask. Mr. Ito shakes his head a slow and gentle “no”, smiling wickedly. Shame on me for not following the simplest of unspoken directions. Shame on me for being such a needy slut.

I smile at him, sheepishly.

He frees my shirt from my neck, and stands up. Abandoning me.

“Ito-sama,” I plead, as my cock strains to follow him, trying to rub itself against the jeans in each throb of my heart. “Don’t be so cruel.”

He opens a place on the wall—oh, a hidden closet? That’s cool. In the half-dark of his dim bedroom lights, I see a dresser. He opens the drawer, pulling out fabric. My heart quickens even as it sinks. My cock gives another pointless twitch. That’s the blindfold and the ball gag.

“Okay?” He asks because I once said I didn’t like to be blindfolded, gagged, and bound at the same time.