Page 65 of A Gold Medal in Love
“Don’t you fucking reverse psychology me, Sir. This isn’t a scene. You’re in my house now,” I assert, gesturing to the figure-skating arena.
Blake nuzzles into my neck, moving so they can whisper lowly into my ear, “I love it when you need a reminder that you’re my collared submissive and that we’re in a total power exchange.” A hand is removed from my hip to finger the torqueat my throat. “You wanna brat your way to a celebratory spanking? By all means, Cupcake. What a fun idea.”
“No, I don’t want anything from you,” I huff, raring to go. I love to test them about our TPE. It folds out into CNC scenes nicely, I’ve come to find.
Blake unfolds my legs at their back and sets me on my skates. “Behave for two seconds, will you? It’s not that kind of exhibition gala. And you need to refuel after that performance. I have a surprise for you. Your mummy couldn’t be here, but, through powers that will be unknown to you, I may or may not have her patties for you,” they reveal.
“Mummy’s patties? My favorite Jamaican pastry?” I eagerly ask, slipping the guards on my blades.
“The very ones. Come on, Cupcake. Follow me,” Blake holds out their hand.
I accept, but make sure I give a grumbled, “If I must.”
“That’s my naughty little brat,” Blake laughs, pulling my arm lovingly.
BLAKE
One Month Later
March 2030
Standing in the middle of my team’s practice arena, I fold my hands together and patiently wait under the glaring spotlight placed upon me. One of my most ardent fantasies is about to become reality… well, sort of. It’s becoming in the most delicate of ways in order to preserve our professional identities.
And I am simply vibrating with intensity with the excitement of carrying this scene out.
I hear the door bang open and then watch as Imani comes into view. She’s outfitted in her usual practice attire: her ballerina motif of black leotard, pink legwarmers, and delicate wrap sweater. Her face cants in confusion at my lack of skates and besuited body as she begins to glide across the ice to me.
“No. Crawl to me,” I demand, interrupting her strides.
Face dropping, she blusters, “What the fuck? On the goddamn ice, Sir?”
Giving her nothing, I simply nod, a smile twitching at the corners of my lips.
Imani huffs, but immediately drops down onto the cold. She begins slowly, moving on her hands and knees jerkily, but as expected, her eyes turn as glassy as the surface, her limbs finding the easy rhythm she’s known for possessing.
When she arrives at my feet, I walk her perimeter, assessing. “Unexpected, isn’t it? How you enjoy the bite of pain as your joints meet the ice?”
“How are we doing this here right now, Sir?” Imani questions me instead of answering.
“Tsk, tsk. You know better to ask questions once we’re in a scene,” I evade, wanting to heighten her experience with a jolt of fear in the back of her mind. She doesn’t need to know that I arranged for the two of us to be the only people in the arena at this hour. Instead, I hope she doesn’t know. I’m going to mold that fear into something to taunt her with. I press a loafer into her back with enough force that she collapses onto the ice, turning her head to press a cheek into the floor.
“Cold, isn’t it? But I bet you’re nice and hot in other places,” I muse aloud before I kick her legs apart and lower myself to a kneeling position to situate myself behind her. Sure, I don’t enjoy the icy bite through my clothes the way she does, but thisis my scene too, and pretending to give in to my exhibitionist sentiments is satisfying enough that I can ignore the pain for as long as it takes.
Pushing the gusset of her leotard aside, I push two fingers into Imani’s center with no warning. This, too, is planned. I knew how wet she’d be this far into the scene; it’s enough foreplay for us both.
Imani groans under me, arching her back and trying to fuck back onto my hand. “What if someone sees us, Sir?”
“Always my naughty girl. Do you know you keep racking up torture?” I croon to her, fucking my fingers in and out of her pussy until the melody of lust plays for us both on stereo. “Do you like that—knowing anyone could walk in at any time? We could be caught; we would be punished; oh, what a scandal we would make.”
Imani whimpers and gushes around my digits.
“Oh, yes; she likes that. What a delicious idea, isn’t it? To think, someone could walk in at any moment and find Blake Floquet on their knees in an arena, our bodies showcased by the perfect lighting as I worship this cunt,” I purr, enunciating every word for maximum effect.
“Sir, please, Sir!” Imani cries as she spasms around me and comes around my flesh.
Placing her taste on my tongue, I savor her. “Mm, delicious. You, my wife, are my favorite flavor.” Then I tear that leotard open, destroying another piece of Imani’s wardrobe.
“Sir!” Imani squeaks, perpetually annoyed that I make it my mission to wreck her clothing.