Her Calling (Emma Book 3)
Table of Contents
Her Calling
James Grey
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Epilogue
The End
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Her Calling
Volume 3 of the
Emma series by
James Grey
FIREFLY
Oxford, England · Charlotte, North Carolina
© Firefly, 2017
This book is written as fiction. The names of characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, actual events locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including internet usage, without written permission of the author.
Cover Image by Shutterstock
Cover designed by Amygdala Design
Copyright © James Grey
All rights reserved
Prologue
It could be enough. Because being in her presence is like admiring a work of art. You don’t need to touch a great painting to reap profound joy from it. Oh yes, watching her taut breasts rise and fall, her entire being poised on the brink of explosion, could be enough for me.
Knowing that I’ve put the deviant little fox in that place would be enough. Desire smoulders off her being and swirls around the room. Does she hear the whimpers she’s making behind that gag? Does she know how loaded with lust they are? How can she articulate such longing with no tongue, just the gurgling baseness of her throat?
When she breathes through her nose, she does it with the repeating shudder of a woman in need. It’s the hitching pant of a woman desperate for that final touch. The last stroke of the brush. Even after three and a half hours, she hangs in the balance. And I put her there.
Knowing that would be enough.
A smile plays across my face as I hear the clock strike five. She’s as good as gold. Ever the professional. The wanton slut I paid for. The one who doesn’t have to act. My perfect whore. The one who made me forget all the others.
Oh yes, it could be enough. Just walking closer to her, bathing in the scent of her perfume and passion. Stopping in front of her and leaning in, close enough to feel the warmth from her nostrils and see each perfect little hair in her eyebrows. Sensing her back arching as she responds to my nearness. All of that could be enough.
I’ve controlled her all night. I’ve pulled the strings of her desire, making her voice box growl with need. I’ve had her beautiful clitoris at the end of a thread; she’s been walking a tightrope I made her walk. All that would be enough.
It could be enough, but I will take more. Because I can.
Satisfaction will not suffice. I am aching with arousal. And I own her until seven. She will do anything I ask. Not just because she is the consummate professional. But because she’s consumed by the flames of lust right now. I know she feels my power and thrives on bowing to my will. Bending to my need for her.
So I’ll fuck her. Just the way I want to fuck her. Whatever way captures my fancy. She’s my bitch. She’ll be taken. Hard. No mercy.
Fuck art. I’m going to fuck this masterpiece.
I grab her hair and tug her head backwards. I hear the gurgle of a half-choke, and tighten my jaw as I grind my teeth. I’m already high on control.
I’m not supposed to speak, but I do it anyway. She has to be told. I need to be the one telling her. She’s my bitch and I get to call the shots.
“We’re going for a walk now,” I tell her in a whispering splutter, my nose twitching in time with the words I spit out. “Come with me.”
I don’t plan the double entendre, but it brings a surge of adrenaline into my belly. I’m talking louder than I’m supposed to. How far can you take a whisper? Do I care enough to whisper anymore?
I’m not sure I care about anything except demeaning, punishing sex with this creature I’ve captured. I harden at the thought of truly having imprisoned her. For a moment I wonder if I’ll have the restraint to let her go when her time’s up. I’m in a strange and unfamiliar place right now. Somewhere I’ve never been.
I grip even tighter on her hair as I shoot the command at her, watching her cheeks flex like a goldfish. She’s powerless to stop the saliva escaping around the side of her gag, and it makes me smile to watch the submission drip down her chin.
I step away from her. I need to release the chord that’s held her in beautiful agony for half a night. Otherwise I can’t execute the next part of my plan.
I’ve walked women like dogs before, but always with the leash attached to a collar. Until now. The fantasy of a lifetime: walking a bitch, making her crawl as usual, but with the leash attached to her clit ring.
Fuck, this is going to be intense. The thought is making me dizzy, as I watch her face react to the slackening of the cable. Little twitches run through her body, as though the loosening of the chord brought on a succession of micro-orgasms.
She’s still sitting there like a good girl, though. Hands bound, mouth gagged. Nipples hard and clamped. Legs open. God, she’s perfect.
And it feels like she’ll explode if I touch her skin.
I’m not going to do that. Not just yet.
“Stand up, slowly,” I order, returning to a quieter, more menacing whisper.
I know she’ll struggle after so long with her legs hanging over the edge of the desk. After so many hours of doing exactly what I wanted her to do. Of being my little piece of art.
She copes well, my little beauty. I half-expect her knees to collapse, but she is a resolute submissive. She won’t bend. I’ve seen that already.
I move behind her and free her wrists. I go weak-kneed myself as I return to her body’s warmth and her hair’s magnificent odour. My fingertips graze her skin as I loosen those bonds. Another time, I will touch her softly there. Very softly indeed.
I snap out of it. That’s not the plan for tonight. We’re not making love, goddammit. I’m here to get high on her humiliation. The total subjugation and conquest of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I instruct her to get down on her knees, informing her that her ball gag and her nipple clamps are going nowhere. I tell her she’s given me too much shit. Her puzzled expression almost makes me come there and then. But of course she sinks down onto all fours without a trace of hesitation. I don’t know of many subs that could move so seamlessly from lengthy torture to the next phase of their ordeal. It makes my chest heave with power to see how eager she is to please me.
I reach down and pull off her heels. A dog does not wear shoes. She will keep her panties on, and the nipple clamps too. The gag will stay. These small touches raise the erotic factor somehow. They send me to the brink of a place I won’t easily come back from.
I sense nothing but a total giving of the self from this almost-naked being down on th
e floor in front of me. It’s time for the little slut to move.
Unable to take my eyes off her even for a second, fascinated by the flatness of her hands on the floor and the way her wrists have turned white from the blood rushing to her splayed fingers as she waits for her next instruction, I bend down and pick up the leash.
It’s a beautifully-crafted leather, made in Italy by the Simpatico firm. It’s for dogs, but only privileged ones. Recommended by a friend with similar tastes, they come in at over a hundred Euros. The company does belts as well. I have a few of those in my possession as well. Like the leash, there’s a devilish x-factor to the feel. As though the impish Italians who designed it knew perfectly well that their products might get used for more than just their stated purpose.
I love how light it feels. The leather, just an inch or so wide, nestles into my wrist, at once indestructible and satin soft. I give it a small tug, watching the thin thread attached to the neck noose go taut. There’s only about a foot of it between the belt and her clitoris.
It must be on fire, that beautiful bud of hers. Pierced by metal, especially for tonight. Punctured so that a delicate yet strong line can be attached to her pussy, leaving her as helpless as a fish caught on a hook. Only with the knowledge that if she’s careful, and doesn’t fight, the pleasure will be all hers.
As the thread goes tight where it enters her panties and the leather pulls firm against her torso, I hear her gasp gently, as if unsure whether she might be allowed to do so. I’m riveted by her.
“Walk,” I order. I give another pull. I know that with one yank I could destroy her clitoris for life; reduce it to a bloody mess. The violent power in my hands chokes me with lust. This is what owning your pet really means. For her, this is giving. Putting every last morsel of trust in me.
I will not destroy that perfect vagina. But I will lead her by it, to the place where its calling lies.
She begins to crawl.
The grace of a stealthy panther stalking its prey, slow and silent. In this darkest hour of the night, her shadowy auburn hair appears black as the classic cat’s coat; sleek as the feline’s flawless fur. And yet there’s the uncertain, tentative goodness of the prey itself, fearful of the consequences of any false move. She walks a razor-sharp line between nobility and utter abandon. I’ve never seen a woman walk it so well.
Wordlessly, deliberately, submissively, she crawls across the rug towards the door. I shake the leash as we reach it, and a wave of leather ripples past her chin and between her dangling breasts. She stops, without me having to ask her to.
Her breathing is clipped as I open the door. Her whole being seems in suspense, ready for something to explode. I haven’t decided yet what that explosion will be. But I know it’s going to end up with me inside her. I’m going to take each and every one of her holes tonight. And I don’t feel like letting the whore come. She has no needs that matter. Fuck her needs. This is about me.
I tell her as much as we cross the hallway.
“We’re going up the stairs now, so keep up or that metal and your pussy flesh are going to have a violent disagreement, you fucking bitch.”
I don’t normally swear this much at a submissive, but she’s triggering something outlandish in me as we reach the bottom of the stairs and I take the first step up. She has the power to bring out mine. I’m getting nasty.
She thinks I’m messing with her mind. What I’m actually doing is driving my own into a frenzy. Even as I control her, holding her destiny and her desire in my hands, she’s making me lose control of myself. Should I resent her for that?
This woman is too sexy for my own good. The thought of calling Gemma to watch over me flickers into my head. I don’t think I like the idea, but I wonder if I can trust myself tonight.
No. Gemma’s gone to her room. You need to handle this.
I lead her all the way up the stairs by the dog leash. I continue to flick the leather, on each and every step, making her lurch every time. There’s no graceful way to crawl up a flight of stairs, and she has to splay her knees each time she wants to bring one up. Now it’s like watching a helpless seal pup trying to drag itself up a beach. Except her miniscule pauses are to let the surge of sex flood through her, not to rest.
The thought of a seal pup is making me want to look into her dark, searching eyes and see the lust looking up at me, questioning my own eyes in that way that only she can. Looking up at me from two stairs down below, where a precious submissive belongs.
She thinks we haven’t looked each other in the eye before. But she’s wrong.
Pull yourself together. That can’t happen.
Another tiny whimper as she reaches the top landing, resuming her level, elegant pose once more. I begin to shake with need.
I take a breath, and turn away from her as we move on. I need to gather myself, somehow, as I take her into the upstairs drawing room.
She sniffs the burning air, once more the stealthy hunter, her senses on high alert thanks to the blindfold, the gag and the silence in this house. It’s warmer, and the wall-to-wall carpet gives this room a totally different, more intimate feel. This is where I’m going to fuck her. But first I’m going to play with her body some more.
My eye catches the fireplace. Below the mantelpiece is some swooping, white metalwork. Fire. Now that’s something I’ve never toyed with.
I drag her across the room, my desire as blazing as those flames. I bring her into the heat, and watch the amber glow spread across her gag-stuffed face. I need to see it. She doesn’t need any props; she’ll do as she’s told because that’s who she is. Emma Carling.
I say her name again as I tell her I’m tying her to the mantelpiece, close enough to the knot that the leather actually hangs loose now. No more pull on her clit. But I would bet my fortune that her panties are wet.
I think I’ll feel that arousal of hers for myself, very soon. I brought her here on a leash. The sensation of dragging her across the house by her clitoris has not disappointed. And now I’m going to indulge myself. Explore her at will. Touch her and feel her at the exact nucleus of all those sensations I’ve made her feel tonight.
My clitoris.
I stand above my little pup, surveying my options. The panties need to come off. Or…wait…no. Let’s just see how wet they are.
I get down on one knee behind the crouching creature between myself and the fire. I let my palm fall gently onto the bottom of her spine, where her body apexes, then allow it to travel further down, over those soft, sweet cheeks as they cascade gently down towards the floor. Her skin prickles with response as I let my fingers splay.
I pause my hand above her taut cleft and the thin material that covers it. The smell already tells me what I’m going to feel, but I need the sensation itself. So I drop my middle finger onto the fabric, pressing roughly. I rub the fingertip in a circle, and feel her whole body shake.
Of course it’s wet. Wetter than a rainy April day.
It sends me wild. My breathing quickens.
I want her to taste my finger. I need her mouth. This has to happen.
My rational self is in deep retreat now. Fuck.
I snarl like a demon as I grip her throat with my left hand.
“Open wide.”
She does as she’s told. I shove my forefinger and thumb into her mouth, gripping around the ball gag.
It’s tight in there. There’s an anguished yelp of discomfort. It rings around the room and belts my ears. I’m in dangerous territory.
I slide my left hand around to hold her by her cheek, so I can see her face. It radiates relief, but she’s panting hard, saliva running free from her slackened mouth as I toss the gag away. I’m panting hard too, still feasting my eyes on her animal position and svelte lines, still melting at the way she’s letting so much of her head’s weight collapse into my palm. What was it that I wanted to do to her again?
Does it matter? I’ll obey my every whim – that’s what this is about. And now it’s about fucki
ng her mouth. I’ve waited enough hours for real contact. Enough hours to enter her. I’m like a volcano set to blast.
I move in front of her, kneeling above her whilst loosening the zip on my trousers. She seems to sense my positioning and my intentions, despite the blindfold. Even while gathering her breath again and letting her muscles settle, she’s moving subtly to exactly the right height for me. With a blindfold on. It’s like she has some lewd sixth sense.
My penis screams with delight as it invades her mouth and her lips envelope it like a warm welcome home. I quiver instantly, and I can feel her tremble too. It makes me drive my ever-growing erection deeper inside her, knowing she’ll take it with pleasure. I hammer her wide-open throat, then feel a slight give as she swallows a part of me.
I’m tighter than tight, harder than hard. And suddenly, I’m desperate for her to know me. I look down at the sleek, creamy shoulders that stand like sentinels on either side of her bobbing head. They’re glistening with perspiration, but she shows no sign of letting up.
I fixate on the blindfold. One knot to undo, and she’d see me. Or more importantly, I’d see her seeing me. I’d see her looking questioningly up into her Master’s eyes.
Don’t do it.
But the thought won’t leave me. It’s the final seal that I need. Even as I fuck her mouth so hard and she cups my raging balls with astonishing gentleness, my mind gets stuck on this vicious need. I don’t believe I’m going to be able to stop myself.
Some force greater than myself is at work in me now. Maybe it’s the client deal that went wrong so badly this afternoon. The beautiful, submissive creature beneath me is too good an antidote for it. Her impeccable bowing to my will is making my ego twitch with a need to share my identity with her.
I’m controlling her, completely and totally. But I’m not controlling myself. Not one bit. This is how empires fall. When nothing else matters but having a woman. And right now, having her means letting her see me. It’s the final act of foreplay for me right now.
A whisper in my brain says it will be the final act, full stop. But the crazed part of me yells it into the kind of submission I’m seeing from the dark-haired vixen before me.