“Sadira,” he murmured lowly, running a rough, callused hand across her bare breasts, vulnerable little teacups spread almost flat by the stretch of her arms, the arc of her spine. He circled her, touching her, trailing his hands idly over her nudity, tickling her and making her tremble as she danced from toe to toe.
“Do you like my new toy?” he whispered in her ear, sweeping her hair across the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured softly. There wasn’t an inch of her body he couldn’t have taken right then, however he wanted, if he wanted. She was helpless before him.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I’m nowhere near finished with you, yet.”
He gathered up the third scarf. Looping it around her torso, he pressed his whole body against her, bare chest to leather-clad groin grinding gently against her, from her shoulders, down the bend of her back, to the round curve of her hindquarters so prominently offered as she perched on her toes. He teased her with the scarf as he had with the others, letting her feel the sinuous caress as it glided over her flat belly, slipping it up her body like a snake winding its way between her breasts, up to her throat.
Without warning, he twisted the fabric around her neck, tightening it like a noose.
Her breath caught—the first brief flutter of panic stirred to life in her mind and she gasped for air, finding none. Heated adrenaline coursed through her veins and she uttered a squeak of mingled shock and excitement, struggling in vain.
“Too much?” he whispered cruelly; his lips brushed her ear and sent a shiver down her spine. The scarf loosened and Sadira gasped in sweet, sweet breaths of the perfumed air, bright relief rushing into her like a flood and lighting up all her senses.
“Oh!” she panted. “Master... do it again.”
He pulled the scarf tight once more, slower this time, carefully cutting off her air little by little and making her arch against him as her body instinctively rebelled. He loosened it just a little as she started to choke, then pulled it tight again, giving her tiny, flirting chances to catch her breath, chasing it with her up and up and up—the dangerous sensation of light-headedness had started buzzing in her mind, a strangely panicky joy as he toyed with her, permitting her and then denying her, dancing her through a vicious, wickedly arousing game.
“Ah,” she gasped in between desperate, heaving breaths. “Oh, God—”
He cut off her air again suddenly and the whole world spun—she thrashed weakly against him, her body in a frenzy, tugging wildly against the scarves for escape.
“Had enough yet?” he purred. She nodded frantically—her body was electric, filled with devilish bliss, trembling on the edge of terrible, beautiful alarm.
At the last second—just before she thought she would pass out—Bannon released the scarf and wonderful, bright, cold air flooded her lungs. Sadira moaned as the rush of deep relief and intoxicating pleasure filled her; her legs shuddered, threatening to give out, and she nearly lost her balance.
“Beautiful girl,” Bannon soothed. His warm hands—large, rugged hands, the hands of a swordsman, the hands of a man who had bedded many women and left none of them wanting—closed gently around her throat, following the lines of flesh with tentative, almost comforting gentleness. He massaged her tenderly, but she knew any moment those rough fingers could close in, crushing her throat without a thought.
He pressed closer against her; tightened his grip just the slightest bit. She gasped instinctively, rigid as he touched her, eyes flashing.
He chuckled. “Oh, you’re not going to start that again, are you? Defiance is better if you act on it before you’ve allowed me to tie you up.”
“Master?” she whispered. “What are you going to—”
“Shush,” he muttered back. “You’ll see.”
He chuckled. His hands fell away from her—then the scarf was back. He was tying it around her eyes, blindfolding her.
Sadira took a long, deep breath. Darkness; she could see nothing. She jumped a little in her bonds when Bannon’s hand rested without warning on her hips, and then descended into soft giggles.
Those hands, trailing down her side; flutters of ticklish pleasure running through her flesh. He explored her, dipping his hands under the folds of her sarong, caressing the sensitive flesh of her thighs.
“Oh?” he murmured. “Wet.”
She was. The evidence of her arousal was slick, already glistening on her inner thighs—her sex as warm and eager, a rebellious and shameless yearning stirred up as her highlander tormented her, satisfying himself on her total vulnerability.
“That will have to go,” her husband said almost pleasantly. Before she knew it, he’d undone her belt and her sarong pooled to the floor. She hung there, utterly naked for him, helpless.
Bannon muttered something, a note of approval. She sensed him draw away and she whimpered again, straining for his direction. The heated light of the flames danced on her skin, catching her and mocking the supplicant, begging expression on her face.
She heard him move in front of her. His hands came down gently on her breasts, caressing them softly, lovingly. She felt the warmth of his breath feather against her skin, and then the heat of his lips: he kissed her collarbone, up the line of her throat, tender, worshipful, adoring.
At the same time, he pinched both stiff nipples, making her cry out softly as he tweaked them, teasing them with mean joy, squeezing her whole breasts greedily in his palm.
“I told the blacksmith this was a torture device for my prisoners of war,” he murmured against her, his lips soft and wonderful on her skin. “Not so far from the truth, is it?”
His teeth closed on the lobe of her ear, gentle but firm, teasing her with the easy promise of pain. Another fierce tweak; she groaned.
“You are my prisoner, Sadira,” he whispered. “My woman. The spoils of war, captured from my enemies, mine to play with.”
She breathed heavily, breasts heaving in his hands. His voice was low, husky with a heavy note of lust, intoxicated by the scent of her sweat and pheromones, sharp against the mellow scent of incense.
“Yes, Master,” she breathed.
“God, how I love your body,” he moaned, nuzzling her soft throat.
Palms slipped from her breasts down to her hips, following her smooth contours, sweetly caressing. He tilted her back—she groaned at the strain on her arms as he held her there, leaning away, suspended by the scarves tying her to the stand—and his mouth closed on her nipple, pert and excited as his warm tongue laved over it.
Melodies of joy; her groan turned into an eager, hungry moan. He sucked at her gently, cradling her curvaceous rear in his hands and mulling over her flesh, tongue rolling across the eager little bud—his teeth closed on her, ever so slightly, ever so teasingly, rasping her skin.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh…”
“I have plans for you tonight, wife,” he muttered quietly. “We’re just getting started.”
“Started?” she murmured distractedly.
He kissed her one last time, and then he disappeared from their embrace. She heard him moving around—tried to follow the sound with her ears, but it was lost in the crackle of flames, the echoes against the stone.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s been too long since you were tormented at my hands… too long since I took my pleasure from that sweet little body.”
He had something in his hand now; she heard him tapping it against his other palm in patient rhythm. His footsteps came up close again, behind her now.
“Do you want it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she muttered eagerly. She cried out then, as a smart, stinging slap landed across the flesh of her buttocks. He’d retrieved a leather crop.
“Do you like it, Sadira?” he asked.
Another slap—the pain stung deep, sending a short, vibrant thrill through her body. She cried out again in pleasure.
Bannon circled her slowly, letting the tails of the little whip trail along her flesh like the fingers of a delicate feather duster, tickling her breasts, her nipples, her arms, her legs. She was thoroughly wet; she could feel her own arousal slick, practically dripping, and she imagined if he looked he would easily see how affected she was.
He’d made it full circle. Another slap!; she gave a shout of surprise and pain.
One hand grasped her left buttock with savage joy; he squeezed it hard, sending the fresh pain of flogging deep into her skin.
“Moan for me, slave,” he muttered. “If you want more.”
“I do!” she gasped. “Oh, Bannon, please—”
A hard slap, landing across the soft little curve of her right cheek, brutal: a shocked, pained little cry escaped her.
“What happened to master, hm?” he growled.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please… oh, master, please…”
He moved away from her, and the crop fell on her tender hindquarters again, hard, resolute. He whipped her over and over, slowly, letting her savor each cruel sting, writhe against the scarves in vain, cry for him in mingled pleasure and pain. She tried to press her thighs together, to hide the quivering, dripping evidence of her wicked, lascivious desire; each lash of the leather against her throbbing buttocks jolted her with beautifully cruel, wonderfully sinful pleasure, helpless and exposed to the rough hands of her devilish torturer.
“Mm,” her highlander mused, pausing in his punishment to run one palm over the reddened flesh of her little cheeks, thrilling her sore, well-abused skin.
“God, how I’d like to take that pretty ass,” he whispered cruelly in her ear, shamelessly groping her, squeezing the tingling flesh, kneading slowly in his hand. “I could so easily do it. Could spread those pretty cheeks and sink my iron into you, split you open on it, break that pretty little asshole underneath me.”