The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) by Nikki Sloane (top e book reader .TXT) 📗

girl’s thighs, Mistress Theia left it there. She dragged a fist over her ponytail, smoothing the braids together, and pulled her hair over her shoulder so it would be out of her way. Then she leaned forward and set her hand flat on the girl’s chest, directly between her breasts. It was so she could brace herself as she knelt over her submissive and hold the vibrator tight to the girl’s clit.

Short, gulping breaths were punctuated with her moans, and it was obvious how the pleasure was building inside her. The girl tried to move her knees, so the frame warped ever so slightly, and one corner lifted off the ground before quietly knocking back down to the floor. Only her chest could move as she gasped for air.

The stillness and smooth latex coating made her look like a plastic doll. And it was sort of the same for the woman perched over her in the glossy bodysuit. She was like the other side of a coin. Covered in opaque black while the girl beneath her was covered in sheer white. Free to move and control, versus restrained and completely at someone else’s mercy.

Top versus bottom.

I never would have thought I’d be into something like this, but good lord, it was fucking hot.

Mistress Theia ground the buzzing head of the vibrator against the girl, moving it in a tight circle, and liquid heat poured through me. Was it wrong to want to trade places with this girl? Because I did. I craved to feel the roll of the wand against my clit, to get relief from all the tension building inside me. I was sort of worried I might come right here in this chair, in a room full of people and the only touch was Clay’s hand resting on my shoulder, his fingers brushing over my collarbone.

Would he like it if I did?

Would the man across the room from me like it?

Mistress Theia leaned further forward on her knees, which made her feet come off the floor, and the spikes of her boots lifted into the air. She didn’t notice. She was intently focused on what she was doing and determined to bring her submissive to orgasm.

It seemed as inescapable as the vacuum-sealed bed. As the girl trembled, the sheet of latex stretched across the frame began to vibrate. Needy cries tore from her lips, sounding sort of like panic, but it was clear it was pleasure.

“I’m coming, Mistress,” she gasped. Her chin lifted as her head tipped backward, and then the orgasm consumed her.

I clenched my teeth to keep from making a sound, leashing the moan I wanted to set loose. But a few others in the room didn’t stay quiet. There were noises of approval and whispered words of encouragement to both the domme and the submissive.

And as the climax rolled through and began to recede, Mistress Theia didn’t let up. The shuddering sighs from her submissive changed in pitch and urgency, swinging from satisfaction to dread. Because she was overly sensitive, and now the vibrations no longer felt good. The head of the wand wasn’t bringing pleasure—it was discomfort.

This time when she squirmed, it was with real effort to escape.

A pleased, dark look splashed across Mistress Theia’s face as she turned off the vibrator and dropped it to the latex stretched between the girl’s legs. Her expression said that just because she’d stopped with the toy, didn’t mean she was done with the girl. She shifted so she was sitting on her heels, kneeling beside her submissive, and slapped her fingertips against the girl’s overstimulated clit.

A sharp sound of surprise punched from the girl’s lungs. I don’t think it had hurt that badly, it was more that it hadn’t been expected. But her mistress’s second slap? That one wasn’t friendly, and the girl jolted. Each subsequent spanking increased in intensity, and the harsh sound created a song with a rhythm in pain.

Mistress Theia swung her hand with purpose and skill, striking the girl exactly where she meant to, and this time when the blonde bucked against her cage, the lower half of the bed began to twist.

But the domme’s laugh was as dark as the suit she wore. “That’s so cute. You think you can run from me.”

She reared back and drove her hand down with a vicious slap, and the girl made a keening sound. It was like it had stung too badly for her to stay quiet, even though she was supposed to.

The cold grip on my shoulder tightened, and I knew in an instant what this meant. Clay probably hadn’t done it on purpose. He was fighting against the arousal swelling inside him. If the first part of the show was for me—then this part was made for Clay.

He got off on pain.

Movement caught my eye. Earlier during the show, a couple had ducked out of the back, either no longer interested . . . or too turned on to stay. I wondered which it was for the man in the gray suit as he stood, keeping his chin tucked to his chest, and politely left.

I stayed where I was, pinned under the tense grip of a man who said he liked to watch, all the way until the show was over and Mistress Theia had the girl cradled lovingly in her arms.

Clay’s hand slid away, and he dropped down into now-empty seat beside me, his expression shuttered and giving nothing away. “What did you think?” His voice was forced casualness. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yes.” I was breathless, and my heart was still racing. “I liked it a lot.”

A relieved smile broke on his face, reaching all the way to his eyes trapped behind the dark frames he wore. I turned in my seat so my knees touched his, and set my hand on his thigh, not too close to make this private man uncomfortable, but high enough he couldn’t misinterpret my meaning.

His gaze dipped down and evaluated the ballet pink nail polish at the