by Nikki Sex
Oh, it’s ecstasy all right. She climaxes with a scream so loud, I worry my neighbors will call the police.
Renata explodes into a mind-blowing orgasm. It crashes over her. Shuddering and trembling, she jerks with convulsions as though she’s touched a live wire.
I throw myself upon her, embracing her so she doesn’t fall off my lap. I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t expect her to come, not from pain! Abruptly, her entire body relaxes, she collapses over me, draped across my lap like a limp rag.
Jesus, have I killed her?
I stare at her observing her with fear. After brief seconds, I know she’s still alive. I can feel her breathing.
That was spectacular! Shit.
Yet, as I look at her lying there practically lifeless after such a violent physical display, I can’t help but be concerned. I gather her up in my arms, walk her over and lay her down on the bed. Her eyes are closed.
“Renata?” I gasp, anxiously shaking her.
Lips parted, her eyes open slowly. Hooded, dark, dark, blue, they are super dilated. She’s looks drugged. Dazed.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Mmm… best orgasm I’ve ever had,” she slurs.
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.”
I’m strung out with roiling emotions from confusion and anxiety, to awe and pride, yet one primal impulse overtakes everything. My poor, neglected cock reminds me that I have to bury myself inside of her now.
“I need to fuck you, sweetheart. God, I have to fuck you hard and fast. Do you mind? Can you go again?”
“Knock yourself out,” she murmurs in her hazy afterglow. “I think I owe you a kidney or some other vital organ… definitely something." Smiling, her eyes half-mast, Renata’s face is flushed. She looks more relaxed than I've ever seen her. “I’m up for anything… after that,” she says, as her eyes close in bliss or exhaustion.
“I’m going to pound you so fucking hard,” I warn her.
“Mmm,” she breaths.
Good.
Limp and boneless, I place her exactly as I want her. I spread her legs, bend her knees up and position myself between them. After drenching my cock with her slick, silky arousal, I tease her folds and circle her clit.
I can tell she likes that as she whimpers and arches toward me, but I know what she’ll like even more. With one quick thrust, I slam inside of her with a grunt of profound pleasure.
As I enter her welcoming heat, she makes a soft cry of enjoyment.
So swollen, so tight.
Balls deep, I freeze, allowing her time to accommodate me. My entire body hardens, every muscle straining as I force myself not to move. The sensation of having her firmly stretched around my dick almost makes me come. I ache, but I withhold myself, resisting the urge to rapidly and repeatedly hammer myself into her.
I need to fuck her hard, and fast, and right the fuck now.
“Look at me, darlin’,” I pant, struggling to concentrate.
Her dreamy eyes open, they focus on me. She raises one languid arm, runs her hand through my hair… and smiles.
“Christ, you feel so good,” I rasp.
“You do too.”
She’s OK—there’s no reason to hold back. Thank, God. My cock feels as though it’s swelling further, pulsing hot with blood. My balls are so damn tight. It won’t take long for me to climax.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, darlin’. Your legs are going to be jelly. I’m going to have to rent a wheelchair for you to use for the rest of the week, because you’re not going to be able to stand.”
She snickers joyously at this threat.
Enflamed beyond arousal, I grip her hips tightly as I begin to ravage her. She cries out each time I pound into her. My hips slap against hers and her body lifts off the bed with the impact from every punishing thrust.
I used to be concerned over the sensual, yet savage demands I make on her body. I don’t worry anymore. Renata’s up for down and dirty.
She loves quick, rough sex.
To my surprise, her back arches. Her fingernails claw my forearms. A cry of intense arousal escapes her lips as she begins to strain and buck, her muscles trembling.
Sweet baby Jesus, she’s right there with me! My horny little slut is every bit as feral an animal as I am. God, I love that about her. She's going to climax, again!
I do this to her, I make her feel this way.
It’s extraordinary. I’m so glad I’m a man. I’m glad I’m alive. A powerful sense of purpose fills me. I’m here for her. Renata is mine. Mine to love, cherish and to fuck into oblivion and beyond.
I reach my thumb down to massage her clit—it’s slick and swollen, as hard and erect as my cock. As I tease, tap and masturbate her sensitive flesh, her gasp of delight ratchets my need.
Tight and hot, her inner channel begins to pulse along my shaft, squeezing and milking my dick.
“Fuck,” I shout, slamming into her as deep as I can. “Fuck. It’s too good.”
Her body is trying to make me come, it wants my seed. Renata feels complete when she sucks in every drop of my cum. Not only that, by gripping me, I know it won’t be long. She’s going to come again, very soon.
Shutting my eyes, I think about her beautiful ass—its shape, its softness and the handprints I left, marking her as mine. I visualize spreading her butt cheeks and pressing the head of my cock against her rear entry. With each powerful thrust, I imagine taking her there, driving myself deep into her dark, forbidden hole.
“Oh, shit, oh, God...” she wails in a broken sob.
“Come for me,” I growl, pressing my thumb down on her swollen nub. “I want to feel you squeeze my cock, right now.”
Instantly, we both explode into orgasm.
I throw my head back as I slam into her, shuddering with pure pleasure. Her tight channel clenches, bearing down on my shaft almost to the point of pain. Her frenzied cry of completion excites me further.
My mind is filled with images of her perfect backside. I see her round, white buttocks moving with my every thrust. She cries out with pleasure, louder and louder each time. Her ass is marked pink with handprints from my own hand.
I imagine I’m coming, pounding inside of her tight, hot asshole.
Squirming with need, in my mind I swear I can hear her begging for it. She’s on her knees, her face pressed against the sheets, her soft breasts bouncing. Desperate for my cock, she holds her butt cheeks apart with each hand.
I imagine her screaming, ‘Fuck me, Grant! Deeper! Harder! Yes! Yes! I love your thick cock! I love you filling my ass!’
Fierce and unrestrained, savage with need, in my mind I am taking her there.
My hips jerk as I jackhammer into her, shooting my seed deep inside of her. With a feral growl, I snarl her name as the orgasm continues to tear through me. My groan of release is long and loud.
Mindless with pleasure, blind with ecstasy, I pump my cum into her again and again and again.
Chapter 53.
“We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.”
— Anaïs Nin
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Renata can’t stop talking.
She talks while we shower, while we dress, while we eat. We go outside to play with Mitten and do some gardening. All the while, she speaks nonstop. I listen and nod frequently when it seems appropriate. Occasionally, I ask her to clarify something—but mainly I say nothing. I don’t know how to respond.
What if I say the wrong thing?
She speaks so fast her words seem to crash into each other in their hurry to escape her lips. Clearly, she’s realized something significant. Whatever happened was cathartic. By talking, she’s unloading, connecting the dots and putting the puzzle pieces of her childhood together.
We kneel side by side, working together on the garden bed of azaleas with weeding forks. Not much work is getting done, but I have to keep my hands busy. Our eyes meet often, yet I can’t sit across from her, just
looking at her. Not while she tells me such intimate truths.
Terrible thoughts and shameful secrets boil out of her. This strange desire for her to confess is just the tip of the iceberg. Will my wound up little motor-mouth ever run down? I can listen all right, I’m used to that, but I have no idea what to say.
I’m not a counselor.
I’m not trained, not experienced in this. My upbringing was the antithesis of communication, a virtual black hole, where any attempt to express myself or be heard was sucked in and obliterated.
Purging herself, I’ve never heard Renata talk so freely about her life. I think I understand what’s happening. It was like when I finally figured out I was afraid of my father—she’s having realizations about her life so thick and fast she can barely articulate them. In my case, I’d been shocked, not at all happy about what I’d discovered. At first I had trouble speaking at all.
Renata’s reaction is the polar opposite. It’s like she’s on drugs. She’s high as a kite!
She tells me how she had been spanked before. Her dad used to catch her backside when she took off at a run, frantically trying to escape his murderous temper. These memories flowed through her mind as I was spanking her.
“I’ve lived my life always feeling so guilty,” she admits.
“What?” I interject, unable to let that go. “Why?” I add in a softer tone. What could she be ashamed of? What sin could she possibly have committed?
“Whenever I ran away from him, my father took his anger out on my mother. Logically, I now know his irrational tantrums were not my fault. But back then, as a child, I felt I should’ve stayed. I’d hide, put my hands over my ears and feel ashamed. I should’ve let him hit me, rather than her.”
“No,” I reply vehemently. “Your mom wouldn’t have wanted that.” I shake my head. “No mother would.”
Our eyes meet.
Her grateful smile squeezes my heart.
“You’re right,” she says. “You’re so right, thank you, I never thought of that. My mother loved me. She tried to protect me. I guess I’ve just never looked at it from my mom’s point of view. I was so stuck in my own fear, guilt and shame. I felt everything was my fault.”
I sigh with relief. Pleased and encouraged, I decide it’s safe to say more. “I’m going to tell you something you once told me. You said, ‘You were only a child. How much responsibility can a child take?’ I’ll never forget that.”
She laughs and nods, amused to have her words thrown back at her. The musical sound cheers me. Maybe I can do this counselor thing.
Delving further into the topics of shame and guilt for a long while, she then returns to how she felt when I was reluctantly punishing her backside.
“Holy shit, Grant, that orgasm you gave me with that last spank ripped me apart,” she says enthusiastically. “Talk about taking me to a place I never knew existed!”
I nod, faintly following her train of thought. She leaps from subject to subject like a skipping stone jumps over water.
“All the while you were spanking me there was this struggle happening inside my mind. I was fighting myself, yet also kind of outside myself. You wouldn’t believe all of the terrible memories I had to wade through. The fear… the violence.” She shrugs, then grins. “I just had to go through it.”
Why does she look so happy?
Confused once more about my role, I blink and try to figure out the correct reaction. I feel my facial scars pull taut as I force a smile. Why? Because she’s smiling. But why is she smiling?
“Ah… the spanking brought those memories back?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. The whole time. It was like reliving my childhood—but not.”
“I didn’t know,” I say.
I understand now why she quivered and shuddered through those first few spanks. At times I couldn’t figure out if she was aroused or terrified. All the while the poor woman had been taking a walk down nightmare lane. Yet, at this moment she’s so happy, I can’t help but try to be happy for her.
“It was difficult, but I could do it with you there, Grant. You made it easier for me.”
“That’s my job,” I say. I’ll always be there for her. Even though I was afraid to hurt her, I’d never want her to experience that kind of ‘physical’ therapy with anyone else.
She laughs at my statement, then blithely continues, confiding more graphic details from her past which I find difficult to hear. Incidences of beatings, of trips to the hospital with broken bones. Being coached what to say to doctors and teachers. The place high in the wardrobe in a cardboard box where she used to hide and how she managed to live her life while in constant, crippling fear.
Listening to this is killing me.
If only I could've taken those beatings for her. If only I could beat the hell out of him. I force myself to be present and engaged. I'm here for her, to listen and support my darlin’ girl through what is quickly becoming our shared pain.
Oh, Renata, I wish I could've been there to rescue you from the dragon of your childhood.
I wonder if I should be taking notes to discuss with André later. She’s heard my terrible upbringing, now it’s my turn to listen to hers. However, as much as I genuinely try, I can’t keep up with her. Each incident, each concept she confesses is so intense. It takes time to wrap my brain around and process it.
Part of my delayed ability to absorb everything she's telling me is probably due to my reluctance to hear and understand her horrific childhood. I can’t help but blame her mom, yet the poor woman was a victim too. A victim of domestic abuse, then a murder victim.
But why is Renata so happy?
She’s nearly manic in her euphoria.
For just an instant, I hope I haven’t driven her over the edge with that spanking and driven her crazy. No. I smile, recalling that earlier I thought I might’ve killed her.
“I was afraid of pain, you see?” she tells me, barely pausing to take a breath. “Petrified. Terrified. Every day I’d dread being hit by my father. Fear of pain consumed my mind, turning it into fear of everyone and everything. Reduced to an open nerve-ending, I lost all perspective, Naked and raw, laid bare, I had no protection, no way to cope with the fears that bombarded me. I could never appreciate anything. The absence of pain was merely more time spent beating myself up with guilt and anticipation of more pain.”
“You were only a child,” I repeat, jumping in to defend her. “You should have been protected from a man like that.”
“Yes, but now, for the first time, I realize I wasn’t really afraid of pain,” she explains, meeting my eyes. “I was scared stiff of my father, especially when he was drinking. To my mind, pain equaled my father—pain equaled shame, vulnerability, guilt, regret—pain meant dread and fear and possible death. Do you see?”
Nope. Not a clue, but I can’t tell her that.
I straighten, put the weeding fork down and wait patiently for her to enlighten me.
“André was so right,” she chatters on. “Pain didn’t frighten me, it was the implication, the meaning I assigned to pain. Pain itself isn’t the problem. When my father beat me, it was his hatred and his desire to hurt me that made it so horrible. It was not knowing how far he'd go. It was feeling utterly helpless. It was being at his mercy of his rage and his loss of control.”
I take off my garden glove and wipe my brow. Am I like her father? I enjoy having her at my mercy—yet, hitting her isn’t what turns me on. I don’t want to give her pain. What I crave is the sense of power I get from her compliance… and today I enjoyed focusing on her luscious ass.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to understand what she’s saying. Surely, no one likes pain. You’d have to be a head case to seek it. My own memories of punishing myself, wanting to suffer and enjoying pain, flash through my mind.
It seems to prove my point.
Aware I’m not getting her point, she explains, “You know how when you’ve exercised hard, and you’re really sore? That’s pain, but it’s a
good pain. That pain means you pushed yourself and did as you planned. It hurts, but it makes you feel proud of yourself.”
“OK.”
“When you spanked me, you did it at my request. I know you didn’t want to hurt me, but those little slaps stung and began to burn. You did hurt me. Yet, because it was you doing it, the pain was just pain. It wasn’t wrapped up in shame or humiliation. I didn’t feel frightened, violated or guilty. You weren’t acting out of rage. What I actually felt through that pain was a shockingly intense orgasm!”
Oh yeah, she sure did. And didn’t that surprise us both?
I nod. “OK,” I say again, grasping for understanding while trying to formulate an appropriate reply.
She smiles. “For me, all pain brought me back to my childhood, a terrifying time of vulnerability and guilt. Now I can separate it, you see? The funny thing is, pain never changed—I have!” She throws her arms up in victory, emphasizing her point. “I couldn’t see the pain for what it was—I saw it for what I was.”
Shaking her head, she smiles. “I don’t know if I’m making sense, Grant, but it’s as if you’ve set me free. I’m going to enroll in a self-defense class. Pain is OK—it’s only pain—it’s not all the other stuff I had connected to it in my muddled mind. That’s what you helped me to understand. I don’t have to be afraid anymore, do you see?”
“Ah,” I murmur. I nod more than once, finally getting it. “Yes. That makes perfect sense.”
“I should have listened to André,” she says. “I don’t know why I put this off for so long. I guess I was scared.” Lips pursed, she stares at me for a long moment. I smile, tilt my head and meet her gaze. Her expression softens. “Wait a minute; I do know why I put this off.”
“Oh?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“I think I was waiting for you.” The grateful look she gifts me with makes my heart lurch. “I’m safe with you. I’m brave with you.” She pauses then says, her voice trailing off into a whisper, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
This open comment must surprise her. Suddenly she averts her gaze, shyly shrugging off a rare moment of vulnerability.