“The safe word is petticoat,” she explained, tightening the ropes on his wrists. “But only women and babies need safe words.”

“I can take it,” he boasted, meeting her fearless gaze.


He was sprawled on the bed, completely exposed. She, as usual, was stripped down to her loosened corset and pantalettes. It had a slightly masculine effect that he was embarrassed to realize aroused him. She selected her favorite switch, a well-worn wooden piece she called Old Hickory. She struck his thigh with it, just lightly, and delighted to see his member stir in response.

“Oh you like that?” She struck him again, harder.

“Yes. Yes, miss.”

“You’ve been a very bad boy,” she chastised, punctuating this with another slap. “But that’s ok. I’m going to take care of you.” She dropped the switch, and ran her hands over his body. He shivered and met her eyes again. She reached for a scarf and blindfolded him easily. For a moment he looked concerned, but he relaxed as she stroked the side of his cheek, and explored his body.

“I’m going to do whatever I want to you,” she told him. “You’re mine.”

She took the candle from the shelf, and dripped wax onto his chest. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and grew harder as she did it again. She pivoted, ran her tongue along the side of his shaft, and resumed playing with the wax. He was moaning now, and her teasing only made him more desperate.

“Please, fuck, I need to feel that mouth again, baby,” he begged.

“If you’re good,” she was just as aroused but her voice betrayed nothing. She pinched his nipples, and then violently scooped up the switch again.

“Bad boys need to be flogged,” she reminded him. “And you’ve been one of the worst.” She slapped him again, and again, knowing he loved every moment of it, but wanting the angry welts to remind him that he shouldn’t induce economic panic; he should respect the decisions of the Supreme Court; he shouldn’t threaten every man he met to a duel.

The wax on his chest had begun to harden, and she flaked it off to make room for more. He was throbbing, each pinch and burn only made him want her more.

“Do you want to be inside me now, Mr. President?” She only used his title when she was mocking him; it infuriated him, but he did want to be inside her.

“More than anything,” he exhaled.

She straddled him, still not giving him what he wanted. “More than anything? More than you want Quincy and his campaign to suffer for slandering your wife?”

He gasped, “Well, I– not– why would you…”

She interrupted his stuttering, “So not more than anything, huh?”

“Oh fuck you,” he shot back, and he struggled against the restraints and the blindfold. For a moment she wondered if that had been too far; she expected the safe word now; she expected he’d snap the restraints and toss her clear through the wall and she’d die impaled on the giant wheel of cheese in the parlor. But he merely struggled, and the word didn’t come, and she reached back and gently stroked his still throbbing staff until his breathing softened.

“Still a bad boy,” she reminded him, still tugging on him.

“You’re a bitch,” he spat.

She slapped him across the face.

“Harder!” He demanded. She gave in. There were times neither of them were sure where the fantasy began or ended, and she felt again that she didn’t particularly enjoy this man, but her body was still begging for him. To ease her mind, she reached up and wrapped her hands around his throat.

She choked him, her delicate hands a surprising force around his neck. For a few blissful seconds he could feel his life draining like he’d drained funds from the US Bank. He felt most alive here, on the edge of death. It was the feeling that launched him into battles, and duels, and made him a fierce opponent. Allowing this woman to control him only enhanced it. A tiny trail of tears escaped the blindfold, and she reached up and pulled it off, as he caught his breath.

Then, swiftly, she slid her hips back and he slipped inside her. They both moaned immediately; after so much buildup they needed this moment. She rode him, aggressively, still concerned more with her pleasure than this, and still wanting him to feel used. He pulled against the restraints again; it drove him crazy not to be able to dominate her, or even to touch her.

“Fuck,” she exclaimed. “You are a monster. I hope Congress censures you.”

Her threats carried little weight while she was straining herself bouncing on him, but he appreciated the effort.

“And yet you can’t get enough,” he smirked. “If I’m so terrible, if you’re such an Indian-lover, why is my huge cock spoiling you right now?”

“Oh shut the fuck up with your spoils system,” she shoved the scarf into his mouth, and rode him until they both finished.


One thought on “SEVEN.

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