Free Transcendent by Anne Calhoun Page A

front of him he gathers details with his peripheral vision. A muscle in his jaw jumps before he controls it. I smile. Something about the delicate nature of this dress, the fabric, the color, makes this so much harder for him. I admire how he faces what makes him tremble.
    â€œStand up, please,” I say.
Please
is a necessary part of this game, as is
thank you.
The niceties emphasize that I am making requests he is free to decline but chooses to obey. He’s not my slave. I’m not his mistress. I’m something worse. I’m what he fears, yet can’t resist.
    Hands still behind his head, he rises easily to his feet. A T-shirt clings snugly to his torso; memory fills in the details of his biceps and triceps under the leather biker jacket while I contemplate the lean length of his abdomen, the brown leather belt through the loops of his jeans, the thick shaft of his cock straining against his zipper. He’s tall, heavily muscled, and outweighs me by at least one hundred pounds, which makes him a delight to handle.
    I leave him in that position while I pour myself a glass of chilled water from the pitcher in the kitchen, then I seat myself in front of him and look him over again, from his face, carefully neutral, to the tips of his boots.
    â€œYou look well, Cole.”
    â€œThank you, Miss Banks.”
    I insist on Miss, not Ms. There is nothing politically correct about what we do in this room. Ms. implies a measure of equality. We’re not equals, and while I think we’re about the same age, Miss makes me seem younger than I am, another facet of this that gives Cole pause.
    â€œThe jacket, please, Cole.”
    â€œYes, Miss Banks,” he says as he lets it slip from his shoulders, lays it neatly on the bench beside me, and resumes position. I request his shirt, then his boots, and each time he returns to the indubitably submissive position with his hands behind his head.
    I eye his now-bare torso, muscles nicely delineated under the tanned skin, and feel my pulse pick up. His is already visible at the base of his strong throat, and we’ve barely begun.
    â€œYour belt, please,” I say.
    Even after nine encounters there’s the slightest hesitation, then his long fingers go to the buckle, jerk back the tongue to release the prong from the eyelet, and slip the leather through the loops. He leans to place the belt on the growing pile of clothes to my left, but I stop him with a quick, palm-up beckoning gesture.
    â€œHand it to me, please.”
    He does, offering it, the warm leather across both of his open palms. I take it. He resumes waiting, and now a dark flush creeps up his chest and into his face.
    â€œYou forgot,” I say idly.
    â€œYes, Miss Banks,” he says, but I can hear the hint of strain under his even tone. “Forgive me, Miss Banks.”
    This is where it gets difficult. Any man can strip for a woman. Admitting his error and begging pardon is another thing entirely. I lay the length of leather across my lap and stroke it like I would a cat, savoring the warm, supple material, the darker places where the leather rubbed against belt loops or the buckle. Wide and brown, worn black in lots of subtly interesting spots, this is Cole’s own belt.
    I’m going to strap him to the bed and lash him with it.
    â€œThe rest, please, Cole,” I say, without giving him absolution.
    In seconds he is naked before me, his cock straining away from his body. Cole’s red-blooded American male brain has been conditioned to tell him he’s supposed to be the dominant one. Cole’s animal body, however, gets very, very aroused when we play this game, when I dress in the most delicately feminine clothing I can find and whip him until he’s clenching his teeth against the groans. In a delicious turnabout of roles, tonight I will make him shudder and sweat as
he
services
me.
Tonight I will use him with no regard for his comfort or pleasure, and he