Read Online Clark, Rachel - Alicia's Awakening (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) by Rachel Clark - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Clark
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to making dinner.
“Can I help you with anything?” I quickly add the word “Sir” when he turns and raises an eyebrow.
“You can help by being quiet,” he instructs before he turns his attention back to the salad he seems to be making. The kitchen is already filled with the spicy smell of lasagna. I don’t know if it’s the store-bought kind or if he made it himself earlier, but it does smell delicious.
“Did you—” I begin to ask, but shut up the moment he puts the knife down and turns toward me. He doesn’t look un happy, but I’m not sure I can interpret his actual mood.
He crosses his arms as he looks at me. Just looks at me. He doesn’t say a damn word, and I’m starting to fidget in my seat. Crap, considering the seat I’m sitting in—the saddle-shaped orgasm-inducing one I’ve used on more than one occasion thanks to Doug’s kinky orders—I probably shouldn’t be wriggling around, especially since I was just told to sit quietly.
I can feel the urge to hyperventilate, the nervous flutter in my stomach, the need to cover my race toward another panic attack with empty words into a conversation I’m no longer focused on. Shit.
“Stand up,” Doug orders me in a low, growly voice. Even just his instruction seems to settle me a little. “Lean over the bench.”
I do as he says, grunting softly when he places a hand between my shoulder blades and pushes my naked breasts harder against the cold marble. I lie there for only a moment before he steps past me and reaches into a cupboard that I know from experience contains all sorts of interesting toys. He slips something into his front pocket that I didn’t quite see, and I’m still trying to imagine what it might have been when he reaches for something else. The paddle he chooses already has me squirming, but the first hit leaves me howling in pain. Holy fuck.
Twice more he smacks me with the hard piece of wood before helping me to stand and then bodily lifting me back onto the stool. I hiss as my abused flesh touches the smooth wood.
“Better?” he asks as he uses his thumb to brush away the tears that continue to fall from my eyes. Suddenly wearing no makeup seems like a damn good idea. I nod, the sore bottom very easily dragging my attention back to the here and now. He stands back, folds his arms across his chest, and looks at me as if he can see every thought in my head. “I want you to explain why you feel the need to fill silence with words. It seems to be a habit you’re quite fond of.”
I shake my head. It’s not really a habit, is it? “I don’t really know why, Sir. It just feels like something I should do.”
“So you’re playing hostess?” he asks as he washes his hands and then goes back to preparing the salad.
“I don’t think so,” I say as possible explanations flit through my brain. “The silence just makes me uncomfortable, sort of.”
I know I sound like a scatterbrain, but it seems weird that I’m actually suggesting I’m not happy with silence. I don’t even play soft background music at work like some of the other accountants do. I like silence. I actually find it very calming. Just…not when other people are around? How strange.
Doug turns and gives me an assessing look. He glances at the timer on the oven.
“For the next twenty minutes I want you to not talk. Just concentrate and enjoy the comfortable silence between us. Embrace the idea of being in the same room with another person without actually speaking. Can you do that for me, little sub?”
I’m nodding even before I really absorb the meaning of his words. I want to please him. He asked me to do it, so I plan to get it right.
“This will help,” he says as he pulls that thing from his pocket and moves to wash it in the sink. My heart pounds heavily as I recognize the ball-gag. I’d noticed lots of subs wearing them when we visited the club, but I hadn’t been enamored by the thought. I’m not sure what’s worse—the idea of
“Can I help you with anything?” I quickly add the word “Sir” when he turns and raises an eyebrow.
“You can help by being quiet,” he instructs before he turns his attention back to the salad he seems to be making. The kitchen is already filled with the spicy smell of lasagna. I don’t know if it’s the store-bought kind or if he made it himself earlier, but it does smell delicious.
“Did you—” I begin to ask, but shut up the moment he puts the knife down and turns toward me. He doesn’t look un happy, but I’m not sure I can interpret his actual mood.
He crosses his arms as he looks at me. Just looks at me. He doesn’t say a damn word, and I’m starting to fidget in my seat. Crap, considering the seat I’m sitting in—the saddle-shaped orgasm-inducing one I’ve used on more than one occasion thanks to Doug’s kinky orders—I probably shouldn’t be wriggling around, especially since I was just told to sit quietly.
I can feel the urge to hyperventilate, the nervous flutter in my stomach, the need to cover my race toward another panic attack with empty words into a conversation I’m no longer focused on. Shit.
“Stand up,” Doug orders me in a low, growly voice. Even just his instruction seems to settle me a little. “Lean over the bench.”
I do as he says, grunting softly when he places a hand between my shoulder blades and pushes my naked breasts harder against the cold marble. I lie there for only a moment before he steps past me and reaches into a cupboard that I know from experience contains all sorts of interesting toys. He slips something into his front pocket that I didn’t quite see, and I’m still trying to imagine what it might have been when he reaches for something else. The paddle he chooses already has me squirming, but the first hit leaves me howling in pain. Holy fuck.
Twice more he smacks me with the hard piece of wood before helping me to stand and then bodily lifting me back onto the stool. I hiss as my abused flesh touches the smooth wood.
“Better?” he asks as he uses his thumb to brush away the tears that continue to fall from my eyes. Suddenly wearing no makeup seems like a damn good idea. I nod, the sore bottom very easily dragging my attention back to the here and now. He stands back, folds his arms across his chest, and looks at me as if he can see every thought in my head. “I want you to explain why you feel the need to fill silence with words. It seems to be a habit you’re quite fond of.”
I shake my head. It’s not really a habit, is it? “I don’t really know why, Sir. It just feels like something I should do.”
“So you’re playing hostess?” he asks as he washes his hands and then goes back to preparing the salad.
“I don’t think so,” I say as possible explanations flit through my brain. “The silence just makes me uncomfortable, sort of.”
I know I sound like a scatterbrain, but it seems weird that I’m actually suggesting I’m not happy with silence. I don’t even play soft background music at work like some of the other accountants do. I like silence. I actually find it very calming. Just…not when other people are around? How strange.
Doug turns and gives me an assessing look. He glances at the timer on the oven.
“For the next twenty minutes I want you to not talk. Just concentrate and enjoy the comfortable silence between us. Embrace the idea of being in the same room with another person without actually speaking. Can you do that for me, little sub?”
I’m nodding even before I really absorb the meaning of his words. I want to please him. He asked me to do it, so I plan to get it right.
“This will help,” he says as he pulls that thing from his pocket and moves to wash it in the sink. My heart pounds heavily as I recognize the ball-gag. I’d noticed lots of subs wearing them when we visited the club, but I hadn’t been enamored by the thought. I’m not sure what’s worse—the idea of
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