Chapter 22: Lingerie Confession
The cloying scent of jasmine in Izzy’s closet was layered now with older, deeper smells: leather, dusty velvet, the faint, sweet trace of her sweat. Julian sat on a low, velvet-covered stool, its legs grooved with age. His wrists were bound to its carved frame with silk scarves, one azure, one crimson. The knots were intricate, cruel, and perfect.
“Comfortable?” Izzy asked, her voice a melodic mockery. She stood before a wall of mirrors, her reflection multiplied into infinity. She wore only a black robe, loosely tied. It gaped open as she moved, revealing flashes of pale skin.
He didn’t answer. The taste of her from the night before seemed to have seeped into his tongue permanently, a phantom flavor that rose with every breath of the perfumed air. The collar was a familiar weight now, a constant. He watched her, his anger a cold, hard stone in his gut, yet his body betrayed him, already stirring at her proximity.
“You’ll watch,” she said, not turning. It wasn’t a command; it was a simple statement of fact. “You’ll watch and you’ll learn what it is to want something you can’t have.”
She opened a long drawer, the sound of wood on wood loud in the hushed space. Inside were not clothes, but artifacts. Lace. Silk. Sheer panels of nothing. She selected a piece, holding it up to the dim light from a single, gilded sconce. It was a bodysuit, the color of black coffee, comprised mostly of intricate straps and a triangle of lace that would cover, but not conceal, her pussy.
She let the robe fall to the carpet. Julian’s breath caught. In the multiplied mirrors, her naked form was echoed a hundred times: the curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the dark shadow between her legs. She stepped into the bodysuit, pulling it up her legs with a slow, deliberate grace. She fastened a strap around her thigh, then another across her stomach. Her breasts were lifted, framed by crisscrossing bands. She turned, surveying herself.
“It’s vulgar, isn’t it?” she murmured, running her hands over the lace at her center. “Designed to make a man’s mind go blank. Does it work, Julian?”
He swallowed, his throat dry. The silk at his wrists felt like fire.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She swapped it for a sheer black chemise, so translucent the dark points of her nipples and the thatch of her pubic hair showed through like shadows underwater. Then a crimson corset, which she made him cinch for her, his bound hands fumbling with the laces at her back, his knuckles brushing her skin, until she grew impatient and did it herself, her waist narrowing to an impossible hourglass. Each garment was a performance, a transformation. She was a stranger in each one, and yet more utterly herself.
His cock strained against his trousers, a painful, insistent throb. He shifted on the stool, the velvet catching on his wool pants. The sound was loud.
Izzy heard it. She froze, one hand on a hanger holding a filmy negligee. She turned slowly, her eyes finding his lap, the obvious bulge there. A slow smile spread across her face, not warm, but predatory.
“See something you like, puppy?” she purred.
She walked toward him, the click of her heels on the parquet the only sound. She stopped inches from his knees. The scent of her, the jasmine and her own intimate musk from the day’s heat, engulfed him. She placed a stiletto-clad foot on the stool between his legs, the sharp heel perilously close to his groin.
“You’re so predictable,” she whispered, leaning forward, her lace-clad breasts hovering near his face. “All that brooding intelligence, and your body is just a simple, begging animal.”
She straightened and, with a fluid motion, hitched the hem of the sheer chemise she currently wore. She climbed onto the stool, straddling his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. But instead of sinking down onto him, she slid forward, bringing the soaked, lace-covered juncture of her thighs to his face.
“You can smell it, can’t you?” she breathed, grinding the damp lace against his mouth. “That’s what you did to me under the table. You made me wet just thinking about it.”
He moaned against the fabric, the pressure and the scent intoxicating. He tried to turn his head, but she gripped his hair, holding him fast.
“Lick,” she commanded, her voice hard.
He pushed his tongue against the lace, the material abrasive on his tongue, her flavor seeping through. He laved at her, his movements desperate, humiliated, hungry. The chemise grew dark and translucent with his saliva and her arousal.
“Pathetic,” she sighed, a shiver running through her. “My pathetic little pervert. Is this all you’re good for? Serving as my furniture? My toy?”
She rocked against his mouth, her motions becoming more urgent. The lace scraped his lips raw. He could feel the hard nub of her clit through the fabric, and he focused there, sucking and flicking. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
“Daddy’s in his study,” she panted, her hips moving faster. “Working on his portfolios. He has no idea his precious boy is tied up in my closet, his face buried in his stepmother’s cunt.”
The words, the scenario, sent a jolt of shame-fueled heat straight to his cock. He groaned, the vibration making her cry out softly. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling painfully.
“You’ll stay here all night if I want you to,” she hissed, riding his mouth now. “Worshipping this pussy through my pretty little panties. This is your purpose now. You’re my secret. My dirty, little secret.”
Her climax hit her suddenly. Her body stiffened, a choked scream trapped in her throat. Her thighs clamped around his head, and he felt the hot pulse of her through the soaked lace. She ground herself against him, shuddering, until the waves subsided. She went limp for a moment, then pushed herself off his face, leaving him gasping, his mouth wet and abraded.
She stepped off the stool, looking down at him with a cool, appraising gaze. His lips were swollen. His eyes were wild. The front of his trousers was dark with pre-come.
“See?” she said quietly, untieing the knot of the chemise at her shoulder. It slithered down her body to the floor. She stood naked again, victorious. “You don’t even want to fuck me, Julian. Not really. You want to be broken by me. You want to be told you’re nothing.”
She walked to the drawer, pulled out a simple pair of black silk panties, and stepped into them. Then she chose a sleek dress and began to dress in earnest, her back to him.
“Sloane is taking me to the opera,” she said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather. “We’ll be late. Your father has his conference call with Tokyo at nine. The house will be quiet.”
She finished zipping her dress, smoothed her hair in the mirror, and turned. She walked over to him, bent down, and with shocking gentleness, wiped a stray trace of her moisture from his cheek with her thumb.
“Think about that,” she whispered, her emerald eyes holding his. “The quiet house. You, stuck here. Me, out in the world, dressed like this, with the memory of your tongue between my legs.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “And the knowledge that you’d sit here, hungry for me, until I decided to come back and use you again.”
She stood, a beautiful, composed vision. Without another word, she blew out the sconce candle, plunging the closet into near darkness, save for the sliver of light from the bedroom under the door. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.
The lock clicked.
Silence. Darkness. The scent of jasmine, sex, and his own despair. Julian strained against the silk scarves. They gave slightly, but held firm. He was alone, bound, achingly hard, her taste still in his mouth, her words echoing in the dark. The quiet of the enormous house settled around him, a vast, echoing emptiness pressing in. He sagged against his bonds, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a chilling, terrifying understanding.
She was right.