On the Razor's Edge of Paradise Read online

  "I won't usually be this forgiving, but I'll give you another chance to say that without all of the self-loathing, or I will have you go out and buy a paddle with which to self spank."

  No! I did not want to be told to do that, under any circumstance. "I'm sorry, Daniel," I apologized immediately, then corrected my tone, making it one of wonderment rather than sarcasm, "You have a crush on me?"

  "Absolutely, darling!"

  I could hear someone calling to him in the background.

  "I'm sorry, honey, but I have to go. Be good, and don't forget to add two when you're supposed to."

  "Be careful!" I was a confirmed worrywart in regards to those I cared about. "Good luck, Daniel."

  "Thank you, Bella-issma. Think of me holding you and encouraging you while you edge, baby girl. I'll send you dates and times when I'll be available as soon as I can. Take good care of yourself."

  The line went dead, and I sat in my chair for the longest time, thinking so hard about what had transpired between us, about what I had learned about him, that my head quickly began to pound in time with my genitals, so I got up and threw myself into housework, which took my mind off my troubles—if only temporarily.

  CHAPTER 7

  I t took us a lot of jiggering back and forth, but eventually we settled on my Saturday early evening to his mid-morning Sunday. He had been right that the hotel had Wi-Fi. Although it wasn't great, it would be enough for us to Skype—probably.

  I certainly hoped so. I was a little frightened of just how powerful my feelings for him were growing—how they had developed so quickly into something incredibly intense, and I wondered if that was real or if it had been created within me because of all of the denial I was inflicting on myself at his behest.

  But as much as I wanted that to matter, it really didn't at the moment. I had to see his face and hear his voice as much as I needed to draw my next breath. I had never felt quite as dependent on my Dom before, and that, too, scared me a bit.

  "There you are, gorgeous!" he said as soon as his face filled the screen of my laptop, and his smile looked at least a goofy as mine did.

  Okay, well, his looked goofy on a pretty amazing face and mine…well, I had to stop there. He wasn't complaining, so—

  "Here I am!" I said, wanting to smack myself for the inanity of it.

  He looked at me more seriously than he usually did—at least at the start of a conversation. "How are you doing, baby? Tell me truthfully. I know I've thrown a lot of things at you very quickly, and I really want to know how you're feeling about them."

  Tears flooded my eyes but I blinked them back. "I'm a mess."

  "Are you in your chaise?"

  "Yes."

  "Why don't you take me into your bedroom, love, where you can be the most comfortable. We have time, and I'll wait."

  I did as he asked, taking the laptop with me into the bedroom and snuggling under the covers—already having removed my pajama bottoms and panties, as he'd instructed me to in an email last night.

  "Done," I said when he was perched on my tummy.

  "Good girl!"

  I felt inordinately pleased to have earned his praise, even for something so simple.

  "Now, spill. What's been going on with you, love?"

  I told him everything in a great outpouring of emotion—ranting and raving about work and other stupid drivers and my landlord and everything that had driven me crazy since he left, and even revealing to him that I was quite afraid of the intensity of what we'd been doing. And when I finally ran out of steam, I immediately said, "Sorry."

  "No, you've no need to feel sorry, Isa. Have you misbehaved and I've told you that you're going to be punished?"

  I thought it an odd question, but I answered it truthfully, "No."

  "Then you have no need to feel sorry."

  That was a very profound idea to me—someone who mentally self-castigates constantly—the thought that I could simply be and not worry about anything except whether or not I had obeyed him. I didn't have to think about anything beyond that.

  "Does that help a little bit?" he asked softly.

  More tears brimming in my eyes, I replied, "More than you'll ever know, really, Daniel."

  His smile was an incredibly soothing sight. "I'm glad. I can see that you're a tense person, and that's something I sincerely want to help you with. The only tension you should be dealing with is the dread of a punishment and the greedy hunger of your unfulfilled clit. You need worry about nothing else—that scut of life—as much as I can make it so for you—is my job."

  I sighed then, and with it, I did my best to let go of everything I was so constantly worried about. I wasn't able to discharge all of them, but I felt about ten pounds lighter from what I was able to just…forget.

  "I will tell you that you have nothing to fear from me, but I think that can only be shown, and your fears will naturally lessen with time. But I want you to know that I can and will take care of you. I will keep you safe and warm. Always. I will make sure you behave and do all the things that are best for you in this world. I will keep your bottom and your pussy sore and tingling, both of them, almost all of the time, because I sense that would be the best thing for you." And then he said what I had already surmised, "I am telling you this now, and I'll tell you again as many times as you need to hear it to really believe it—all you need to worry about, from now on in your life, is obeying me."

  Another long, relieved sigh. "You've probably added a decade to my life just by saying that to me."

  "I hope you realize that it's not just pretty words to me."

  I bit my lip, wanting desperately to believe in him. "I'm trying to."

  "Good girl." He cleared his throat, leaning forward a bit, towards the camera. "Turn me around and pull back the covers. Are you dressed as you should be?"

  "Yes, Daniel." I showed him my nakedness below the waist.

  "Very good. Put me on the bed, between your legs and spread them wide. I want to see that gorgeous little pussy of yours."

  Blushing monumentally, I positioned him where he would have a terribly intimate view of me, putting my legs a bit apart around him, not expecting what I heard him say next.

  "That's very naughty of you. What did I say, Isabella?"

  I didn't pretend not to know what he was scolding me about in that tone that had me contracting once, which was a horrible thing considering the point at which I was being kept.

  I arranged my feet even further apart and bent a bit.

  "No. I don't want you to correct your position yet, I want you to tell me what I said."

  "I'm sorry, Daniel. You said to spread my legs wide."

  "Yes, I did. And although you should have tried a lot harder, I take some of the blame for your naughtiness because I should have been more specific. When I say that, I mean that I want you to put your legs as far apart as you can stand without cramping. Do that now, please." I did so, but he was still frowning. "Tell you what. Let's do this. Put your soles of your feet on either side of the laptop—and bring me as close to you as you can comfortably."

  Holy mother—that was going to expose everything I had to him! This was worse than the gynecologist's office by far!

  "And put your arms out at your sides unless I tell you to do something else with them."

  Whimpering, I obeyed.

  "Beautiful," he breathed. "Eyes on me. I want you to watch me while I inspect you."

  That word—inspect—had me contracting, and I bet he could see it, but he made no comment about it.

  "Have you been wearing the panties I prescribed for you?"

  He had made me go out and get plain, white briefs that were three sizes too small for me, so that they would cup me down there even more closely than the correct size, constantly rubbing me and keeping me even more aware of myself and my pitiful state than I already was.

  "Yes, Daniel," I whispered, unable to control the sigh that escaped at the end of the phrase.

  "Good girl. I want you to
feel as if I'm always cupping my hand over you."

  "I do!"

  "Are your panties always wet when you change them?"

  I snorted. "I could practically ring them out."

  He laughed. "I would love to see that." Again, he leaned even further forward, his face filling the screen. "In fact, I think I see some of it now. Do you leak constantly or just sometimes?"

  "Constantly, Daniel."

  His eyes found mine, and I was afraid my expression was terribly revealing. "That's very good. And it embarrasses you to do so?"

  I desperately wanted to hide my burning face from him, but I knew I couldn't. "Yes, it does. Terribly."

  "Good. A little embarrassment is good for a girl—it reminds you of your place, as does the denial of your orgasms."

  "Yes, Daniel."

  He smiled. "Are your lips usually this puffy?"

  "They are now. I barely fit into the panties I'm wearing now."

  "Perfect. Reach down with both hands and open yourself for me, just your outer lips for the time being."

  Although I thought I was going to die of the shame of it, I did as he asked.

  "Wider—just like your legs, when I tell you to open them, you're always to do so to the greatest extent possible without pain."

  "Yes, Daniel." I did so, the rush of cool air on parts of me that didn't usually feel it making me want to come—like everything did. And when I did pull them back, I could feel how my honey practically poured out of me and down onto the bed sheets beneath.

  "That is one gorgeous sight, Isa, you with your legs and lips spread for me, all buttery and gushing all over yourself."

  I was surprised to hear the click of the camera on his IPad as he took a picture of me, and my alarm must've shown on my face. "You needn't worry that I'm going to share these with anyone, Isabella. I am much too greedy when it comes to you to allow anyone else to see any pictures—or videos—I might make of you or us. They are purely for my own enjoyment and for research purposes."

  I felt a little mollified at that—but not completely. "Research purposes?" That was a new one on me.

  "Yes, so that I can better learn how what has no effect on you, what gets you to the point I always want you at quickly, what might put you over the brink if I'm not careful."

  "Dan!"

  He was smiling broadly at my indignation. "I want you to show me how you've been edging, honey. How many are you up to now each time?"

  "Ugh, six tonight!" I moaned, making him laugh.

  "Well, let's do five, as long as you don't go over, and you can pick up from there tomorrow."

  "What happens if I go over?"

  I should have known the answer to that question.

  "Why, we start again, of course."

  I wanted to argue for a complete reprieve—for a blasted orgasm, already—but I knew that would only result in me getting into trouble with him, and after that spanking, I was really not interested in ending up over his lap again.

  Or over my own lap or however self-spanking worked.

  I reached for a bottle of lube, and he stopped me. "With all of that beautiful slickness of your own, you're using lube?"

  I shrugged. "Force of habit, I guess."

  "Well, stop that. I believe in keeping things as natural as possible, and your pussy is one of them. Use what nature herself is so generously giving you, baby girl. If you need something else, I want you to ask me for permission."

  "Yes, Daniel."

  Having him watch me was so much worse than doing it by myself. And he kept asking me questions, which disrupted my concentration.

  "How many times have you accidentally pushed yourself over since I first made you edge, honey?"

  I heard him moving about, but didn't pay much attention. "Um, I haven't been keeping track, honestly."

  "Just a guesstimate," he prompted.

  "Well—" Damn, the man was making me do math at a time like this? "I've had, what, about eight sessions, not including do overs? And I've probably had about…" I was thinking hard, wanting to be truthful. "Six un-orgasms? Disorgasms? Not quite orgasms?"

  "The word you're searching for is ruined."

  "Yes! That's it! That's the perfect term for it, because they are—they're horribly unsatisfying—way worse than if I'd not let myself get to that point."

  He was almost giggling at my vehemence. "That's exactly how they're supposed to be—they'll help you learn your how to keep from starting to contract."

  My voice was barely above a whisper when I said, "They make me crazy, Daniel."

  "Aw, poor baby. I know they do, but I happen to believe that this is something that's very good for you."

  I didn't like the sounds of that at all.

  "It makes you more aware of yourself and your sexuality; it keeps your body constantly ready for me—which is only right—and it reminds you of your submission to me—all things I consider are very important for you to remember at all times."

  My panting and moaning almost drowned out his voice—but, unfortunately, not quite. And what he was saying was turning me on just that much more.

  After a surprisingly quiet moment, Daniel said, "Wait a minute, Isa, did I tell you to give me a count as you're doing them?"

  "No, Daniel, you didn't," I answered, afraid that I knew what he was going to say next.

  "And where are you right now?"

  "Working on number three."

  He sighed, sounding truly vexed with himself. "I'm sorry, baby, but I want you to start over again, and tell me each time you stop so I can keep count, too."

  I almost wept at his edict as I leaned up a bit, looking down at him for the first time to realize that he had himself in hand and was stroking that impressive hard on of his. But I couldn't let myself think about that now.

  "But, Daniel—" I whispered pitifully. "No, please, don't make me do that!"

  "Yes, baby, I'm sorry, but I want you to do as I've told you, and I want to hear how you feel about what you're doing to yourself, too—you were much louder when I was touching you. I want to hear that."

  "Yes, Daniel," I sobbed, reluctantly applying my fingers to myself again.

  "That's my good girl."

  It was surprisingly hard to edge and be vocal for him. Somehow, that made things much worse, and I was—even more than usual—in constant danger of losing control of things, but I managed to make it to four without messing up.

  But then he said, "Stop!"

  My fingers stilled, and I looked down at him. It was obvious, by how his chest was heaving and the huskiness of his voice, that he was very close himself.

  Join the club! I thought to myself.

  "Now, this time I want you to make yourself contract, but, of course, you must remove your hands once you begin to do so."

  I-I couldn't believe he was asking me to do that, and, because of that, my hands didn't move to resume the self-torture.

  "Now, Isabella. And remember…" his voice lowered several octaves and became dark and full of threat, "…you are not to give yourself an orgasm. When I see your pussy begin to contract—and I will—your hands had better be stretched as far out from your sides as they can be, or I will make you so thoroughly regret your disobedience that you will never do such a thing again."

  Sobbing pitifully, I nonetheless replied, "Yes, Daniel."

  "Now, do as you are told. I need to come, and I want you to watch me as I do it. I'm going to try my best to time it so that I orgasm when you don't."

  This man was going to kill me with this—I knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  And I also knew—and acknowledged in the deep, dark recesses of myself—that I was going to let him do it.

  It was as horrible—and somehow wonderful, too, in a twisted way as well as terribly powerful at the same time, almost a high, of sorts—as I had thought it would be. He was dead on with his timing. Hearing his groans and cries—seeing him spill himself over his hand—the stark relief on his face as he experienced what he was denying
me made me contract even harder and longer and more helplessly than I usually did. My hands were in the correct position, well away from where I wanted to touch so badly. I had to clench my fists—making marks on my palms—against disobeying, my hips mindlessly, pathetically arching against nothing, no trace of friction to be found to assuage my raging need.

  "Oh, God, Isabella, my darling."

  His voice was so raw, so raspy I could barely recognize it as his. He was more growling than talking.

  "That was truly stupendous—I love how your little hips sought your touch—my touch—my cock—anything to try to make something out of nothing. I don't think I've ever come that hard in my life."

  "You are such a sadist!" I literally screamed—and I never, ever screamed at anyone or anything besides other—idiot—drivers and football players who were losing when I was rooting for them to win.

  His grin was wholly unapologetic. "I am. I'm your sadist. I'm the one who's going to very thoroughly control almost every aspect of your life and make you scream and beg and leave you—except for the occasional blue moon—completely frustrated and loving every minute of it."

  I HATED it when he was right.

  We had another, longer Skype session and a long, languid phone call, during which we hashed out a lot of the details about how we wanted our relationship to work. He made me edge a horrible amount of times, then made me listen to him finish before he came home, neither of which resulted in an orgasm—for me, anyway.

  And, honestly, although I was living through the torment of Hell, it was the phone call that was more important to me, really, because he got me to talk to him about my past relationships, and Gary, naturally, came up.

  "He was your last Dom?" Dan asked.

  "Yes."

  "And there were problems?"

  "Yeah, serious ones, or I'd probably still be with him."

  "Perish the thought!" He chuckled. "I would love for you to tell me about him, when you feel you can. I will dominate a lot about your life, but I don't feel it would be right for me to force you to talk to me about what happened before you met me. So, I am not asking as your Dom, but more as your boyfriend and someone who cares about you and wants to know everything he can about you."