Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2) - Sex Stories

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)

... “So,” he took a second sip, and sat down along the edge of the bed, “Why don’t you tell me what you did today.” “I’m…not sure there’s much to tell,” I choked. My eyes were still watering, “I did what you told me. I wandered around a while. I sketched… I—” “No,” he cut me off coolly, and set his hand on my pillow. “Start here. The moment you woke up.” Is he serious? My cheeks reddened. They always did when he took that scolding tone with me. “I…woke up late,” I thought carefully, “Later than you wanted. But it was still dark out.” He nodded calmly. My eyes lost focus as I strained to summon up the details. “I could smell the fire burning downstairs. I forgot where I was at first,” I drew my knees up under my chin. “I was sore.” “Sore…” he ran the back of his hand down my calf, over the ankle, and across the tips of my toes—I felt the tingle travel clear up to my eyelashes. “Are you still sore, Penny?” I quivered a little as he leaned closer. The drink he’d made me was a strong intoxicant, but it paled in comparison to the scent of him. “…No.” He moved in even nearer; we were almost touching. He looked me once over, and wetted his lips. “Liar.” I flinched. But he didn’t attack me. All he did was lay a fatherly and unsatisfying kiss on my forehead. "Go on, then," he rested back against the footboard, and drew my legs up over his lap. "Tell me the rest." Peloteur. Is there a circle in hell set aside for men who tease? I sighed, and tried to remember the remainder of the morning, ...

... but my efforts were frustrated both by the excruciating degree of detail he demanded, and by the mild, scintillating agony of his touch. I squirmed as he traced his hand along my shin, and I confessed that prior to dutifully dressing myself in the clothes he'd left out for me, I'd spent at least half an eternity in the shower. He nodded, "Were you feeling unclean this morning, Penny?" His hand wrapped round the ball of my foot, softly stroking the arch with his thumb; and though it tickled terribly, he held me still. I suffered in silence, biting down on the insides of my cheeks. I was almost crying when he finally quit. "This ankle's healed up nicely," he bent it gently in each direction. "Has it bothered you at all?" “Only in heels,” I batted the moisture from my eyes, and gazed down to my unpainted toes in his lap. “You know… you forgot to leave me some shoes this morning.” “Did I?” His brows arched in mock surprise, and he raised my leg a little higher. The sensation was unbearable. With each word, the dark wires of his stubble bristled against the tips of my toes. “Did you need shoes today, dear girl?” “No,” I cringed, working hard not to squeal. “I… I really didn’t.” He caught my eye for one charged and wordless moment. It was no small seizure on his part; to dress me, but deprive me of shoes. Our arrangement as I understood it hinged on the condition that, at any time and for any reason, I could walk out the front door, and be free of it. But in Montreal, in December, ...