by Misty Kayn
I groaned at the sound of leather slapping wet pussy. “One.”
Again.
“Two.”
Again.
I twisted my nipple, and bit my lip so as not to scream in pain. Sir’s heavy hand kept swinging, and caught the momentum where his hand circled and the flogger hit continuously. He worked his shoulder, and I counted the hits but then lost count and simply closed my eyes and bit my lip, trying not to come as the flogger slapped my clit.
My pussy swelled.
My ass heated.
It hurt.
It burned.
And I started drifting to submissive heaven.
Two leather-clad fingers jabbed inside me.
I barely lifted my head.
He pumped, the butt plug in my ass making my pussy even tighter, and I closed my eyes, thinking about my impending orgasm.
Animalistic noises streamed out of my mouth.
“Oh please, Sir, let me come.”
Instead of letting me come, he squeezed my sore ass. He cut the rope with a knife and released the spreader bar, but left the plug inside my ass. From his bag, he got a condom and untied his fly. He left his pants on. I squirmed. My pussy tingled with the anticipation of a big intrusion and the leather of his pants slapping against my ass.
The candles blew out.
His footsteps, the only noise in the room.
We were breaking the rules. No sex in the club. A second later, a gloved finger traced my cheek. I turned my head to one side, and he hit across my cheek, then shoved a thumb inside my mouth.
I sucked it.
I felt his leather pants brush my inner thighs before, with one hand, he supported his body on the bench near my head. I hooked my hand behind his neck so I knew where he was when he said, “Put me inside you.” He slapped my other cheek and rested his hand on the bench.
I reached down and gripped a familiar heavy weight in my hand. I wet it with juices, rubbed my entrance before I guided him inside, and he lowered himself painfully slow so that I felt every inch by thick inch penetrate me. I shivered, exhaled a breath when Sir buried himself to the hilt.
A masculine groan.
He glided slowly in and out.
I traced a hand over scarce hair on his chest. I loved hair on a man. It made all my shaved parts that much more girly.
Sir settled into a rhythm. He glided painfully slow and intimate, his cock big enough to hit my girly spot every time. Heat rushed from my lower belly down to my pussy. “I’m coming,” I whispered. A plea for approval.
He didn’t respond.
“Oh, Sir, I’m gonna come.”
He picked up his pace.
“Oh my God. Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes. It’s happening.”
He didn’t. Instead, he started pounding into me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think about sunsets and summers in the country, but when people danced over the meadow and started having orgies, I knew I couldn’t hold for his command anymore. “Please, please,” I begged.
“Come.”
I exploded, my pussy fluttering around him until my muscles relaxed and I barely had enough strength to keep myself on the bench. He pumped me faster, and I hooked both hands on the back of his neck so as not to fall off. Under my fingertips, his muscles tensed, and Sir stilled.
Inside me, his cock pulsed.
He released a groan, and I ran my fingernails over his strong shoulders down to his forearms and back up so I felt when he dipped his head. Soft lips brushed mine, and I caught his fresh breath before Sir picked me up. I wound my legs around him as he walked to flip on the lights, then sat on the couch. He arranged me on his lap.
With the lights on, and the heat of his chest against my naked breasts, and the intimacy in his hazel eyes, my entire day cleared up. I’d just banged my boss. Blushing, I found the plain golden cross pendant, which hung from his neck, as interesting as the ceiling crack before. Sir hooked a finger under my chin and forced my eyes to his. “You are a needy little sub, so I’m taking you home. Tomorrow is Sunday, and we’ll do this all day.”
“We work together.”
“I have a cane. It needs a willing ass.” He swiped his tongue over my lips.
“You work Sundays,” I said.
“Exactly. I’m gonna work on you.”
“And Monday?”
And Monday,” he said, “you will come to work without a corset under your shirt, because I will put clamps on your nipples and think about the silk of your shirt brushing across said nipples while you squirm in the chair and type reports. You will keep the clamps on for twenty minutes, and then you will come and visit your boss, who happens to be your new Dominant. That’s what’s happening on Monday and many days thereafter. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded.
Sir leaned and buried his face into the crook of my neck. “After work, you will come home with me, so I can play with your pussy under my bedsheets and let you come.” He bit down, and I squirmed on his lap. His cock responded, ready to go again.
Sir leaned back and looked down at his erection. “I’m gonna pay a fine if we stay here another five minutes. You ready?”
I paused for a second. Was I ready to sub for Terrell 24/7? I smiled. “Yes, I’m ready.”
- The End -
Afterword
Hi! Thank you for reading Leather Strokes, a story I wrote for BDSM group on Goodreads 2016 writing event. If you enjoyed it, please spread the word by linking readers to sites where they can get their free copy.
Lace Touches is next in the series. Here’s a snippet.
Every Friday at midnight, this man picked me up at the corner of Hollywood's Sunset Boulevard and Rodeo Drive. A sure paycheck I counted on, even though I knew better than to rely on a man. I should count only the money and think of ways to increase those hefty tips he left me.
And blessings.
I counted my blessings for not falling under a pimp and never having been arrested for working the streets. The phone app, a hook-up service arranged the clients, reduced the risks for me. Besides, I didn't dress as revealing as some of the other girls, and in the winter, my long coat covered the dress underneath.
I rounded the corner and stumbled back from the force of cold wind this evening. I shivered, chilled to the bone, then lifted the scarf over my mouth and pinched my lips, so as not to smudge my red lipstick.
My client was never late. Oftentimes, he arrived early and ended up waiting for me. Like now. I walked across the vacant parking lot and spotted his Lexus. The thought of the heated leather seats warmed my cold buttcheeks. I knocked on his window, and after he unlocked the car, I folded inside—ladylike.
I wanted to remove my coat, rub my hands on the heaters, and tell him my pussy might've frozen for the night. But customers didn't pay for real women, they paid for fantasies.
My baby's daddy should've paid me before he took off. Dickhead wanted a fantasy, while I went into our relationship with real expectations. Like a commitment, which would come after I bore his son. Before he hit the road, all I got from him was his dirty laundry and roaches when he ran out of weed.
So instead of telling the client my pussy got winded and not wet, I smiled a wide one and crossed one leg over the other, making sure I held back the coat to reveal my stocking-clad leg and the lace dress that ended just above my knee. "Waiting for someone?" I asked. Read more…
About the Author
Misty is a pen name of a dystopian romance author who writes fun, sexy & short contemporary reads that won't leave you hanging in the end. Get Leather Strokes epilogue with the canning scene HERE.
Meet me at
mistykayn.com
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