Xquisite

by Ruby Laska

“That was very provocative, would you not agree? Nothing to cover your slick hot little slit? Teasing all those men who cannot have you?”

  She gritted her teeth together, waiting for his hand on her, aching for it. Heat pooled in her abdomen, radiating out in white-hot need.

  “But, on the other hand, you were a good little girl, getting waxed for me,” he mused, carrying on this conversation almost with himself. “You’re all smooth now and ready to be used properly, isn’t that right? You made yourself all ready for me?”

  She nodded, snuffling against the bed. Her arms were stretched over her head; her hips rested at the edge of the bed, her knees barely touching the floor. She’d never felt as exposed in her life. She’d always been proud of her comfort being naked, but now she realized that the comfort came from being in control. A man could stare at her, longing for her, lusting after her, but as long as she was in charge of if and when he touched her, she was able to keep herself at a distance.

  This was nothing like those other occasions.

  “My dirty little whore,” Ricardo said in English. Then he slapped her, as hard as he had earlier, twice in rapid succession, once on each buttock. She cried out in pain, but his hand was between her legs, suddenly gentle yet insistent, spreading her, opening her. She felt the shock of air against her skin and, without thinking, moved against his hand, needing to feel his touch.

  He slipped one finger very lightly up to her clit and circled it tenderly before sliding his finger inside her. She convulsed against him, the feel of his firm hand against her swollen, yielding flesh irresistible. He moved the one finger slowly in and out, and she bucked against him, needing more. “Please,” she whispered.

  Instead, he withdrew his hand and slapped her once more. The skin was tender from the previous blows, and she stiffened against them, her muscles contracting in pain and shock. This time, he fingered her with his other hand while he continued to rain down blows.

  The combination—his excruciatingly gentle ministrations of her pussy combined with the increasingly brutal blows—was unlike anything Chelsea had experienced. She heard a low humming sound and realized it was coming from her, the sound of her cries melding into each other, finding the rhythm of her pleasure and pain. She moved against him, against the bed, desperate to be taken harder, but he held himself back, giving her only a taste of pleasure while he worked over her ass. “Please,” she said again, using the last of her senses to form the word.

  “Please what, putita?”

  “Please fuck me…sir.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and sonorous, and took his hand away. The blows stopped. “It’s not nearly time yet, little one. But I appreciate your good manners. Now ask me nicely what I’m going to use on you next.”

  “What…what are you going to use?” Chelsea asked.

  “These…now you just keep your arms where they are, so I can tie you tightly.”

  She felt the mattress give way under his weight as he sat next to her again. He slipped objects into both her open palms, and began to loop rope between her forearms, the smooth nylon cord sliding along the delicate skin of the underside. As he worked, tying a series of knots from her elbow to her wrist, she moved her fingers over the objects, learning their contours, imagining what they might be used for.

  One was composed of thin strips of what felt like leather, attached to a long, slender handle. A flogger—Chelsea had seen them before, even used one on a man she met while visiting a client in San Diego. She hadn’t allowed him to return the favor.

  He’d been nothing like Ricardo. For one thing, he had begged her to use it. Ricardo didn’t ask for anything…he just took what he wanted. Her body shivered at the thought.

  The other object was smooth and cool in her hand, curved gently, sized to fit easily in the palm of her hand, narrowing at one end to—

  A final yank tested the knots, and the objects fell from her hands. Ricardo ran a finger along the rope lacing her arms together, and the individual strands vibrated like the strings of a violin.

  “I trust you are comfortable,” he said, taking the objects from the bed. Something rattled on the tray; a lid was twisted open.

  It hadn’t been a question, so Chelsea didn’t answer. A scent of spice and sandalwood filled the room. She bit her lip, wondering what was coming next.

  It wasn’t what she expected.

  Ricardo placed his hands on her buttocks, coating them with the scented oil. He massaged the oil into her skin, kneading expertly, reaching every inch of her ass and working the lotion into the small of her back and the crease of her thighs. It felt wonderful against her skin, cooling the burn of the blows. She was relaxing into the massage, letting her thoughts fragment and drift, when Ricardo slid a finger down from the small of her back, over the rise of her buttocks, and down into the cleft between them.

  He slid his oiled finger slowly over her asshole, igniting forbidden sensations, and up to her pussy, where he delved gently before returning to his explorations. His fingertip played and teased at her ass crack, and she found herself relaxing to him.

  Chelsea had never liked anal sex. She’d tried it, of course; she’d tried everything she could think of, leaving no stone unturned. But she felt too exposed, too vulnerable when taken by a man that way, and besides, it hurt. To each his own she’d finally decided and turned down subsequent offers of that kind of pleasure.

  But Ricardo didn’t offer. And she knew better than to refuse him. Instead, she tightened herself against him and hoped he’d get the idea.

  A drizzle of oil rained down on her back. She could feel it puddling and beginning its slow, inexorable slide down toward her hole, coating his finger as he stroked her. He wasn’t going to give up. Just as she had that realization, she felt him push inside her.

  The pain gave way almost instantly as he eased back out, then in again, slowly and gradually. The oil warmed her both outside and in, and she allowed herself to be lulled by the steady rhythm, her muscles relaxing against his insistent touch. Just as she began to crave more, to move against him, lifting her hips to meet him, he withdrew.

  She expelled her breath in frustration—he read her so easily, so completely—and then caught her breath as something cold and hard pressed against her. There—where he’d been touching her seconds ago—and she thought of the cool, smooth shape in her hand. The glassy object was now pressing against her opening, and Ricardo didn’t let up as she cried out against the pressure.

  It slid inside her, filling her, molding to her. “Yes,” Ricardo whispered. “Take it. Good girl. Take it all.”

  If Chelsea had spurned butt plugs in the past, scoffing at the notion that a woman would willingly endure such torment, she was undergoing a major realignment in her thinking. She shifted her hips against the bed, the plug nestling inside her. Ricardo gently twisted it, holding onto the knobbed outside, and she moaned with pleasure and tried to reach to stroke herself before remembering that she was bound.

  “Be still,” Ricardo commanded, all tenderness gone from his voice. She felt the feathery touch of something light and teasing against her ass—and then a smattering of tiny shocks as the flogger flicked out and its dozens of fronds bit into her skin.

  The feeling was far different from his hand on her; it was like a dozen smaller, sharp blows at once, like being touched in all directions, unable to differentiate between them as a new chorus of sensation slammed into her. She writhed underneath him as he sped up, coming at her from the right and left, above and below, allowing the occasional glancing hit to come close to the cleft between her legs.

  “This one is made of suede,” Ricardo said calmly while he worked. “It’s good for a beginner. That’s what you are, aren’t you, little putita bella? Just a beginner, not ready to be used hard yet. Not ready for the big girl’s playthings. I have another—here, you may play with it—for when you show me that you are ready.”

  Into her hands was placed another, thicker flogger. The strips at the end were made of
leather, larger and stiffer than the soft suede. As Chelsea ran her hungry fingers over the piece and wondered how it might feel, slamming into her skin, biting at the tender curves and hollows, Ricardo pushed her thighs apart.

  “Lift your ass for me,” he said.

  She did as she was told, the plug inside her shifting as she moved, causing waves of pleasure to radiate out: toward her pussy, now slick with her juices; her clit, swollen so that she knew she would come if only she could touch it; and up through the rest of her body to her fingertips. She had dropped the “big girl” flogger that he didn’t think she was ready for; her body protested, aching with need. She got her knees up on the edge of the bed, her face pressed against the mattress, her hips in the air.

  Before she could beg him to use the leather on her, he began making tiny flicking assaults on her pussy lips. She spread her legs farther, desperate for the tiny pinpricks of pleasure as the suede ribbons flicked against her. One errant blow landed so close to her clit that she gasped and shuddered.

  He stopped.

  “Not yet.”

  “I am ready,” she mumbled through chattering teeth, her ass quivering. She needed that firm leather on her skin; at the same time, she knew she’d been reduced to begging. How had it happened, that he had played her so skillfully? What magic did Ricardo de Santos possess that could wipe away everything she thought she knew—and replace it with nothing but pleasure and need and urgency? “I am a—a big girl. Please. I can take it.”

  He said nothing, but she heard him moving around the room. In a moment, he was back.

  “You will take it,” he said, in a low and dangerous tone. “You will take whatever I give you. Whatever I force on you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  A hand in her hair, rougher than before, grabbing at the tenderest strands near the nape of her neck and pulling hard enough to make her yelp with pain.

  “For the rest of this night, do not address me without calling me sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl. Very good. That plaything will wait for another time. You’ve earned something else.”

  Then: she heard it before she felt it, a whizzing sound, the cleaving of the air in the room as the thing came down. It sliced her skin, Chelsea was sure, wide open; the pain was focused and sharp and excruciating, extending along her left buttock.

  She bit her lip and tasted blood.

  “Too much?” But he was testing her, mocking her. Waiting for her to give in.

  She said nothing.

  A second blow, on the other side. Whatever he was using, it was hard and thin and sharp. A cane? A whip? A crop? She twisted her head from side to side, trying vainly to see past the silk blindfold, and was rewarded by his hand on her hair, pushing her face down.

  “Be still,” he ordered her and struck her again.

  Harder.

  There may have been twenty blows in all—or two hundred. After a while, Chelsea lost track. When she flinched from the pain, the plug inside her shifted so that every sharp sting was followed by this new, enveloping pleasure. The combination was exquisite, the sharp contrast of opposites, and Chelsea innately knew that at the place where they met, ecstasy waited. She imagined him in her mind, standing above her, strong, strict, equal to the task of taking her. Was he hard? Did he feel the same urgency she did? Or was this his gift to her, a chore he undertook for her pleasure alone?

  When he finally stopped, she was so tightly wound that even a fly landing on her skin would have provoked a physical response. She heard him moving and wondered what he could possibly have in mind for her next. Her ass ached and stung; the earlier blows had been overlaid by dozens of sharper ones, and she wondered what sort of marks he’d left on her. At the same time, her pussy was now throbbing with the dull ache of need long past critical. She slid her hips down, trembling with fatigue until her knees were once again resting on the floor. Maybe, if she rubbed against the bed while he was occupied….maybe his back was turned…

  His hand stilled her, fingers splayed on her tender hip. “Be still,” he said. “Relax.”

  And then he reached gently between her cleft and slowly pulled the plug from her. The sharp discomfort was followed by a crushing sense of disappointment. She searched for the words to beg him to put it back. Couldn’t he see how desperate she was, how she needed to end this torment? Would she actually lose her mind if he continued teasing her this way, unmindful of the desperation inside her?

  She heard the leather snap of his belt being unbuckled, the sound of his zipper and went limp with relief and anticipation. Now he would turn her over and take her; maybe he would slide his cock into her mouth the way he did the other night, pounding against her while she still wore the silk over her eyes, plunging his fingers inside her. Maybe he would remove the blindfold and let her see him, standing above her, over her, overpowering her. Maybe he would touch himself, taking his time, working his huge cock ever harder and faster toward his own release, splashing his hot seed on her stomach, her breasts, her face…

  As her mind whirled through one hungry fantasy after another, she felt him lower himself to the floor, pushing her legs apart with his knees. He gathered her into his arms, holding her against him, so that she felt his heat, his muscular chest against her back…his rock hard length pushing against her thigh.

  He kissed her gently along the side of her neck, tiny kisses that trailed up to the hollow under her ear.

  “Whose property are you, putita? Who do you belong to now?”

  You, the answer came quick and indisputable. But how could that be? She’d spent a few hours with him, a few nervous conversations. He’d been there when she was at her most vulnerable; he’d seen her fall apart. Was this some false intimacy born of fear and relief? Had she imprinted on him like a baby duckling cleaves to its mother, the first safe place her blinking eyes had come to rest?

  “Who owns you?” he continued, and his kisses became more insistent, sharp little nips that made her jump. He settled into the crook of her neck and suckled, gently at first, and then hard, harder. She felt his teeth abrade her skin, the powerful shape of his mouth against her, and her entire body responded, arching against him.

  “You do,” she gasped.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chelsea’s breath came hard and shallow. “You own me. I’m yours.”

  He released her, and she fell against the bed, the place on her neck throbbing and aching.

  “That’s right. And now I’m going to have you. I’ll take you any way I want, anywhere, anytime. Isn’t that right?”

  “Y-yes.”

  His hand, rough and insistent, slid up and down between her legs, coating itself with her juices. He slipped his finger up between her ass cheeks and drove it deep, joining it a second later with a second finger. Chelsea felt herself being stretched and used, and she moved against him, needing him deeper. Needing more.

  “You know it, don’t you, you little whore,” he growled, and then his fingers were replaced by the head of his cock, rubbing and shoving and demanding entrance. Chelsea saw nothing, only the endless black of the blindfold; her hearing seemed to telescope down to a dull roar of her own desire. All her senses shut down except for touch as she concentrated on the sensation of him demanding entrance inside her.

  Giving herself to him.

  He pushed past her opening, his cock coated with the slick oil, and then slowly, slowly eased to a stop. Chelsea couldn’t bear it; she needed him deeper. She arched her back and gritted her teeth and silently begged him to fuck her harder, and when he pushed a little farther, she cried out in incomprehensible pleasure. More, she tried to communicate, and Ricardo understood her urgency if not her garbled words and drove himself all the way to the hilt, taking her utterly, more deeply than anyone ever had. He reached around her and slid two fingers down to her clit, and touched her engorged flesh so lightly that she thought she would scream. No, wait, she was screaming, the dueling sensations of his cock rammin
g her hard up the ass alternating with the feather-light touch against her clit, teasing and tormenting.

  “Come for me, my little alley cat,” Ricardo murmured in her ear, his breath hot against the tender place on her neck. “Come hard and dirty like the needy slut you are.”

  His words, the things he called her, unleashed the wave, broke the locks, let the tempest out. She was vaguely aware of him plunging a finger into her pussy as he drove himself ever harder inside her, filling her everywhere, taking every part of her for his own. She went rigid with pleasure, juices splashing over his hand, fucking him for dear life, needing it harder and deeper as her climax built wave by wave to a thunderous peak. She heard him behind her: his sharp, hard sounds as he came powerful and deep inside her. It went on and on, every pulse of his cock met with her own gasp of pleasure, until finally, finally, it was over, and he very gently, very slowly released her, her body puddling on the bed, his spent cock sliding out of her. He covered her with his body, holding her while her pleasure subsided to the occasional tremor, her skin slick and cool as the blood receded from her core and her pulse slowed. She felt ripped open and exposed, lacerated and used and defiled.

  And deeply, deeply comforted.

  She was barely aware of him untying her and removing her blindfold, then lifting her into his arms, pulling the bedcovers down and tucking her into cool sheets. He adjusted a pillow under her head and gently smoothed her hair away from her face before lying down next to her. He didn’t get under the sheets, however, and Chelsea somehow knew that they would not spend the night sleeping together, that she would not wake in the morning in his arms.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “You are perfect. My little one.”

  “Yours,” she murmured. She wouldn’t waste a second regretting what she couldn’t have—she would only be grateful for what Ricardo had given her.

  “I am very sorry to say that I cannot stay the night. I have pressing business that cannot wait.” He traced a fingertip along her back, making small circles and loops. He sounded genuinely regretful, and Chelsea wondered if tonight could have meant to him what it meant to her.