Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Reunited

"Stay, little one," he commands, a rich chuckle in his voice as you whine.

At least the crackling fire warms your flank, the thick rug under your knees plush, sitting on your haunches submissively, blindfolded, naked, awaiting instruction.

He is sitting in his wingback chair, not far away. Or at least you think he is based on the sounds you hear: the clink of the stopper on his crystal decanter, the pour of liquor into a heavy tumbler, the strike of a match and the earthy scent of cigar smoke tendrils snaking in the air.

"Daddy, please touch me," you pout.

He has been away for five days, and you have missed him terribly. When he swept into the house fifteen minutes ago, he dismissed the household staff for the evening, stalked into the drawing room where you were happily reading, kissed you and gave you your codeword with a challenging glint in his eye. Instantly, you were stripping and obeying, only too keen to play your special game. Panting as he tied a blindfold carefully over your face. But now he hasn't touched you since. You squirm, feeling yourself already so aroused.

"Hmm, no, I think I will enjoy the view a while longer...." his counterpoint echoing into his drink as he takes another sip - his voice a velvet tease, knowing you can feel his stare on your skin, watching your body as you flex, breasts tingling, pussy wet.

"I have been a good little girl," you are trying to entice him. Goad him into getting up and coming to you. Even if it's only to drag you by your hair to sit in his lap.

He huffs bemused. "Have you now? What does that entail?"

"I have not touched myself since you left," you sigh, feeling your pussy clench at the mere mention. It's not true, but you think he'll appreciate the sentiment.

"That's a complete lie," he barks a laugh, and the leather chair creaks as he seems to stand. "Do you know how I know?" he adds, the thud of his riding boots seeming so loud on the rug as he approaches.

"No," you breathe, tilting your head naturally to where you think he towers over you even though you can't see him.

There is a scent of woodsy cologne, cigars and something that is all Benedict as he bends down, breath gusting hot in your ear. "Because you would have made a mess of my rug by now," he whispers hotly, "just dripping at the sound of my voice, would you not?" A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, and you gasp. "I asked a question..." he adds pointedly.

"Yes, Daddy," you answer instantly, attempting to pitch forward and nuzzle against his thigh, but he holds you in place firmly near the base of your scalp. "I am sorry I lied."

"That is alright," he mollifies. "I did not instruct you to refrain from touching yourself this time, so you are forgiven, little girl. But you do need to do one thing in recompense."

"Anything...." you exhale shakily as he releases his grip, pouting as he seems to return to his chair.

"Lay on your back and spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you. All of you," he orders, hearing him take another drag on the cigar, tapping it upon his ashtray.

Scrambling to obey as best you can without sight, the wool rug tickles your shoulder blades as you recline. Pulling your feet up close to your bottom, shoulder-width apart, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb in your clit, the need to touch it so great.

"Wider!"

You instantly shuffle your ankles further apart, allowing your knees to fall to either side, spread obscenely wide now, feeling the stretch in your inner thighs.