Page 166 of Boardroom Mask

The belt disappears. His gloved hand replaces it, sliding between my legs from behind, pressing flat against the soaked lace at my center. He doesn’t move his fingers; I haven’t earned that yet. He just holds them there, taunting me. I try to grind against his palm, but the angle is wrong and my wrists are bound and I can’t get any leverage at all.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Then his hand is gone and I want to scream.

The belt taps my inner thigh twice. Light. Almost gentle. “I have a few more questions. Who’s the only man who gets to see you like this?”

I press my lips together. Not because I don’t know the answer. Because I want to see what happens when I don’t give it to him.

Three seconds pass. Four. Five.

The strike lands on the crease where my ass meets my thigh. I bury my face into the pillows and scream again.

“Try again,” he suggests.

“You! Only you. Nobody else.”

“Mm. Yes. Yes.” His hand comes back. This time, his thumb presses a slow line up the center of the panties. He holds me down with his other hand on the small of my back, pinning me flat while his thumb makes one more pass. Then nothing.

I whimper into the sheets.

“Last question.” His mouth is close to my ear now. I can feel the fabric of the mask brush my cheek. “Who’s going to make you fall apart tonight?”

“You are,” I whisper immediately. I’m out of brattiness faster than usual tonight. Sometimes, I put up a long fight and he’s forced to break me down completely. Tonight, though, I just want him as fast as I can get him. “Please. I need it so bad, baby. You are. Just you.”

The belt clatters to the floor. I hear him reach for something else, there’s a strangeshiiiinknoise, and then cold metal presses flat against my lower back.

My jaw falls open.

It’s a knife. The flat of it, not the edge, but my body doesn’t seem too concerned about that distinction, especially not when he teases it under the waistband of my underwear. The steel is freezing against my overheated skin.

“Breathe,” he orders.

I do, albeit barely.

He shimmies the flat under the lace at my hip. One quick sawing motion and the fabric gives way with a soft rip. He does the same on the other side, peels the ruined scrap away, and sets it aside.

Then his bare fingers—gloves off now, when did that happen?—touch my needy cunt and I nearly white out. Two fingers push inside and I feel my body suck them in, clutching around them. He puts the other hand on my clit, rubbing a wide orbit. It builds and tightens and spirals, and I’m right there, right at the edge?—

He pulls his hand away completely.

I whine wordlessly. The ropes bite into my wrists as I writhe and flop around.

His palm flattens against the small of my back and pins me to the mattress until I get the message and stop moving. “I told you: No cumming until I say so. You weren’t about to cum without permission now, were you?” I feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. “Wereyou, little fox? Because that would make you a very bad girl. And bad girls don’t get to cum. Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?”

I nod frantically, still facedown.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes! Yes, I want to be a good girl. Please. Just… please.” I’m drooling onto the bedsheets now. My center is spasming. It needs something big and hard to bear down on or I’m going to lose my ever-loving mind.

“Very well,” he says. “We’ll see how good you can be. I’ll give you the chance to prove to me you want it.”

Thus begins what has to be at least thirty minutes of edging.

I lose track of what implements are working on me. Whether it’s a knife or a belt, fingers or his hot, slutty mouth, he brings me right to the tipping point and then pulls back, over and over. He waits between rounds until I’m kicking my feet and screaming into the pillows before he starts from the top again.

Every time he pulls away, I die a little.