Naughty Bits Part IV: The Highest Bid Read Online Free PDF Page B

all my life.
    She stared at him, her pulse pounding high and hard now for a different reason. It was the truth, and she found no fault with it, no instant scream for therapy from her rational mind. He picked up his tools. “Read your magazines,” he ordered. “Let me know if you get uncomfortable or if you need anything. Anything important,” he amended, that familiar gleam coming to his eye. “Else I’ll have to gag you.”
    * * *
    He worked for a solid two hours. With no access to a clock, she thought it could have been two minutes or two eternities. Time was both irrelevant and excruciating. She did page through one of the magazines, but in the end, she just watched him. She folded her hands beneath her head, fingers idly playing in the links of the chain attached to the collar. Her legs were bent enough she could feel the pull of the other chain on her ankle.
    He chiseled out curves in the wood as sweet as a woman’s. He bored holes, biceps flexing as he put pressure on the tool, and attached pieces with carefully placed fasteners.
    As his work took shape, she saw it was fashioned after the stocks placed in a public square to punish and humiliate someone. It had the usual three holes for head and wrists, but he had it designed so the height could be adjusted, the servant bent at angles according to the desires of the Dominant. He had an additional panel that could be slotted and locked into the top of the stocks. Studying it, she realized the spaced holes were intended for a woman’s breasts. Just like the bench piece he’d shown her the first time she’d toured his workshop, it gave the Master the ability to run a chain between nipple clamps or piercings, so the captive couldn’t pull back, free herself.
    The way he carefully checked the dimensions suggested the woman in question had been measured, probably by her Master. She imagined Logan doing that to her, so he could design furniture to hold her according to his desires. She wondered what he might make, what he’d like to do to her.
    Though he was absorbed in his work, he did glance her way now and then. He didn’t speak, but she thought he might be checking on how she was doing, or perhaps gaining more inspiration, because his gaze would course over the chains holding her, linger on her collar. Once, when he did that, she found herself lifting her chin to display it more prominently. The flicker in his eyes made her fingers curl into the sofa cushions. When he returned his attention to his work, she was nearly breathless.
    She wondered if all craftsmen were as beautiful as the objects they created. He’d shed his shirt, revealing the white undershirt he wore beneath it, and had pulled that free from his jeans. When he squatted to peer up at something from a different angle, denim stretched deliciously over his thighs, his taut ass, his shoulders flexing as he tented his fingers on the ground, holding his balance. Later, when he finished coaxing out the shape of the wood, he began to use the hand sander, smoothing the wood while tiny shavings frosted his forearms. His arm muscles rolled like ocean surf as he performed every step needed to perfect his work.
    She wanted him to come to her, push her back on the sofa, still chained, and take her like she’d imagined. Leave her wet with his seed, and then go back to what he was doing, making her feel used and needed. Though he appeared to be fully engrossed in what he was doing, she’d never felt so noticed, at an intense level she’d never imagined it possible for a man to notice a woman. He was as aware of her as he was his own breath or heart beating. Most people thought they didn’t think about those things, but in fact they were more aware of them than anything else, an integral part of their existence, a constant reminder they were alive.
    At length, he was done for the night. He wiped down his tools, put them away. Sweeping up the sawdust, he dumped it in a bin, hung the dustpan and broom back on