As he twisted and drilled those two fingers – crossed over each other as they were – up inside her, he encouraged against her clit, "Open for me, Celia. I'm going to take you, regardless. Make it easy on yourself and yield to me."
She tried to shake her arms, tried to move her legs, but all she succeeded in doing was almost vibrating herself within his open mouth, so she stopped. He was providing entirely too much stimulation as it was – she didn't need to contribute to her own demise. He was hurtling her towards it quite well on his own, whether she wanted to or not.
And that was the worst of it. Nick, bringing her to pleasure, when she didn't want to be, was one of her biggest kinks.
And he knew that.
The jerk.
While proving his absolute dominance over her, he was also fulfilling one of her greatest desires.
She would have smacked him if she could.
How dare he be such a fantastic lover when she was still horribly angry with him and terribly hurt at the same time?
The answer was because he knew that he could count on her body betraying her and joining his side of the argument, anytime he so much as looked at her sideways.
The proof was in the way her honey was flowing down the sides of his hand and past his wrist, practically to his elbow, as well as the music to his ears which were the cries and moans she tried unsuccessfully to stifle whenever he jammed his fingers into her to the hilt, which was every time.
He knew her – because he had studied everything about her responses over the short time he'd had her before – well enough to know that she was getting very close, and he had a quick debate with himself about whether or not he was going to allow her to come. He was unhappy with her prickly, decidedly unsubmissive demeanor and not much interested in rewarding that kind of naughtiness, whatever the impetus, yet he certainly could understand the reason for it.
He knew why she found herself here – her desires overruled her mind, and he intended to exploit that fact to his advantage.
In the end, he decided that she already knew he could punish her whenever he wanted to. Celia also knew that he tended to control her pleasure tightly – which he might well bring her to orgasm when that was the furthest thing from her mind, and he was quite likely to deny her one she would normally have every right to expect.
He knew she didn't want to experience pleasure at his hands or his fingers and definitely not via his mouth, in this weird, awkward position where he was doing it to her while she was standing up – and there was nothing she could do to avoid it.
So Nick decided that the best thing was to bring her off, to drive that point home to her, before driving an entirely different one into her shortly after he took the crop to her behind.
He reached up and tugged at her arms then down to do the same thing to her ankles, just reassuring himself that she was well and truly anchored before he paused for a long second, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her bound, helpless, and awaiting whatever he decided to do to her.
Just after he did, CeCe tugged at her own bonds. "Let me go, Nick! You don't want to do this –"
His highly amused laugh cut her off, especially since he didn't bother to turn his head away from the area he had been very happily teasing, so that everything he said and every movement that his lips made continued the torment, his voice humming against her like a breathy vibrator. "Oh, you underestimate me, my dear Celia. There is very little I don't want to do to you."
"But –"
"Are you going to get yourself into further trouble by lying to me, little one, and telling me some kind of fairy tale that you wish were true – such as that you don't like this?" He poked his tongue out and directly onto her clit, flicking just the tip of it over her – once, twice, three times.
"Tell me you want it. Beg me to bring you off or I'll be just as happy to sit here for the rest of the day and the night and the next day, lapping my tongue over you." He set actions to his own words. "Flicking that impudent little nub of yours and fucking you with my fingers – once we get a few other things addressed. But if you wait too long to bend yourself to my will and beg me for what you know you already want, I will leave you here, unfulfilled, your loins throbbing painfully. I'll leave you bound like this and avail myself of you any time the mood strikes me for as long as I wish to keep you in this position. Either to add livid red stripes on top of the field of them that have been laid before, or to leave you with my cum dripping out of you, mingling with the juices that are the evidence of your unfulfilled longing…"
Was that a growl he heard coming from her? It was very nearly enough to set him off in his pants!
"Nooo, Nick, please!"
"Please what, little girl? You must ask for what you want from me before I can decide whether to allow it. Or perhaps I should guess? Perhaps you want…this?" he asked, withdrawing his two fingers and shoving three inside her fully. Making her whine and cry and try to cringe away from his powerful thrusts, he began to fuck her that way, noting that, after a few moments, she was again moaning each time his hand found its way into her to the absolute fullest as he twisted and ground it within her.
Forcing her to take something that big up inside her, especially since she was normally so tight, brought her clit into even further prominence and her squeals and wails of pleasure increased tenfold at least.
He wondered just how much longer she could last, if she came without asking him before hand, and receiving his permission, and then he would double her punishment.
And a very few, short minutes after that, his ears pricked at a very soft coo, although the words still sounded harsh, somehow, as if they were wrenched from her.
"Please, Nick, make me come!"
Suddenly, he withdrew all stimulation, his hands instead brought around to her bottom, which they began slapping crisply, without saying a word.
"S-Sir! Please! I'm sorry!" she fairly babbled. "Please, may I come?" She had been wondering how long he was going to continue to allow her to call him by his first name, and here was her answer.
It was almost as if she was trying to make things harder on herself!
He continued to swat her for quite some time, allowing the pain to come to the forefront and bleed off some of her pleasure, bringing her down a bit – although not much, he knew – so that he could drive her back up.
Her nates were lovely – broiling hot and swollen hillocks that fit even more perfectly into his hands – by the time he stopped.
Then he turned his attentions back to where they had been. "You may come, Celia, but not for five more minutes." He set the timer on his watch. "If you come before that, I will use the crop on your disobedient clit before I take it to your bottom."
Then he did his best to force her over the edge. Lodging those three fingers of his meaty hand up inside her, he let his index and ring finger find her g-spot and thrummed it incessantly as he pumped hard into her. Although not moving his hand much, as his middle finger gently flicked her cervix, which he knew was a new sensation to her, but he also knew that it was rife with nerve endings, and that it added yet another level of stimulation for some women.
His tongue and lips continually worried her clit, and as the minutes ticked by, he knew he was going to lose the bet. Her vocalizations had fallen off, and she seemed…removed from him.
At least until the little ding went off that signaled that five minutes was up.
Before the sound faded in the room, an unholy groan rose in her throat as she practically tried to climb the door to get away from what lay ahead for her.
But there was nowhere she could go. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her down just the tiny bit she had been able to climb, not allowing her even that small victory against his will. He hauled her back to him, back onto his hand and into his mouth where she belonged, to be pleasured by him, with his permission, as thoroughly his as he could make her at the moment.
When she finally succumbed, he heard it and felt it building within
her, like a storm over the ocean, wild, violent, and uncontrollable. She bucked and writhed and he rode it – rode her – through it, keeping her lady bits filled and surrounded by him as he threw her from one explosion to another, to another, and then more and more and more, until his hands and lips were numb and she was sagging, exhaustedly, against her bonds.
As always, he took care of her first, carrying her into his bedroom and laying her on her tummy, she was surprised to realize, eventually, as he buzzed around her. A straw was placed to lips she hadn't even realized were parched, and she drank deeply as he stroked her head, only removing the straw when she signaled that she had had enough.
"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere," he warned.
CeCe didn't know where he had gone, but then she didn't much care anyway. He needn't have warned her not to move – she barely had energy enough to breath, much less actually move! All of her was still thrumming, her entire lower body still contracting rhythmically, harder sometimes than at others.
When he returned, he put something on the bed next to her that she couldn't be bothered to turn her head to investigate, then immediately offered her more water, of which she took long, grateful gulps.
And then, with the glass returned to the coaster on his nightstand, he drew her wrists together above her head, binding them there then hooking them to a lead that she already knew lived attached to the bed frame at the head, shortening it so that there was no play at all.
Then he tugged her legs down, lashed her ankles together and secured them to the lead at the foot of the bed.
Then he reached over and grabbed what he'd put down on the bed that she hadn't seen.
But she couldn't miss it now.
It was the crop.
Her tired eyes went wide, and she began to try to escape. She'd been subjected to the crop before, and she desperately didn't want to be again, especially considering that her backside was still very tender from the spanking he'd given her while he was bringing her off.
Despite how exhausted she had been, she was so upset at the sight of the crop that she kept turning over onto her back, which he wasn't about to allow. He readjusted her bonds so that she was tied to the four corners of the bed instead, eliminating any chance of avoiding the atrociously painful reminders he would inflict on her bottom with the dreaded crop.
When he stood and began to walk around the bed, she was already whimpering in anticipation, whipping her head back and forth, trying to follow him, trying to read any possible sign that the vicious implement was about to fall.
"Quiet," he growled.
Her mouth snapped shut, but he could still hear the whine behind it.
The crop sizzled through the air three times, landing across the top, middle, and bottom of her cheeks with terrible accuracy, and raising immediate welts where it landed.
"I said quiet," he repeated softly.
The room was silent. Even her weeping was conducted mutely. She did not want to give him any kind of excuse to wield that implement any more often than he already seemed determined to do.
And in that silence, the crop began to rise and fall like a metronome, whizzing through the air to land with a splat against her already rosy rump, making CeCe thrust her hips into the mattress to try to get away from the burning sting. But she was never able to, her cries of uncontrollable anguish rending the air with every connection between the thin, pliable whip and her cringing flesh. He left his marks on her viciously, raising wheals and welts that would harry her for at least a week to come, depending on how quickly she healed.
She was so pale, though, that even if they no longer continued to hurt, he knew she'd be sporting the evidence of this most thorough punishment for much longer than that – not that the lines wouldn't have already been replaced – long since, he was quite sure – by differently shaped, fresher evidence of how someone took care of her.
Nick liked the crop – liked it quite a lot. As a rule, he generally loved whatever implement his lover hated, whatever put that genuine spark of fear into her eyes when he brought it out and set it on the bed, making her spend several minutes – or longer – in dreadful anticipation of what she was about to endure.
And endure his Celia was, her weeping nearly as loud as the now hoarse cries that sprang from her throat every time he slashed the implement down, not really able to get her head about one ruthless slice before another cut into her soft flesh.
And another.
And another.
And another.
This time, he even included the backs of her thighs, which drew the loudest and most vehement protests, the hardest tugs on her restraints, the most mournful sobs.
He knew she must have been wondering why he was doing this to her, so without interrupting his rhythm in the least, he asked, "Do I need an excuse to punish you, girl?" his tone much harsher than usual.
Before the next blow fell, she wailed, "Nooo, Sirrrr!"
"And why can I punish you any time I please, as hard as I please, Celia?"
She began to cry almost as hard at his question as she did at the effects of the crop. "B-be-c-cause I-I'm y-yours!"
With that, he began a truly breathtaking assault on her behind and thighs, lathering her bottom two or three times more often than he had been, driving her into a frenzy but paying no heed, using every bit of his strength to send the whip biting viciously into her tender skin, showing absolutely no mercy.
He didn't stop until his arm was tired.
And when he did, he threw the crop on the bed and unbuckled his belt, watching her entire body start and clench at the thought that he was going to take his belt to her on top of the crop.
But that wasn't what he was after. Instead, he rearranged his clothes just enough and joined her on the bed, reaching down to tuck several pillows beneath her hips – stretching her arms and legs painfully as he jacked her ravaged bottom higher into the air.
Then he grabbed a hold of her hips and used her, hard. She was reasonably wet – although, he supposed he shouldn't have been that surprised. She wasn't gushing as she usually was, but the way was, frankly, slicker than he wanted it to be.
He wanted her to feel every bit of this.
No matter. She was still incredibly tight, her body clinging to him, grasping at him, accepting him even more readily, it seemed, since he had thoroughly wrecked her bottom.
Hmm. Perhaps this was something that needed to happen on a regular basis, just to remind her of who she was, and who he was.
She groaned with each thrust, but he knew it wasn't from arousal – it was from pain, pure and simple – he was crushing the flesh he had just scourged, and he could imagine that it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. He reached down and cupped her throat, forcing her head back so that it would be hard for her to get a sound out as he continued to pound into her, taking his pleasure of her.
Using her.
And her body continued to ease his way in doing so.
"Whose are you?" he demanded as he fucked her hard.
"Yours, sir," she was barely able to croak.
"Say it. And keep saying it until I tell you to stop."
She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream.
But what she did was exactly as she was told.
And he continued to take her violently, even as she confessed the truth of her submission to him.
"I am yours. I am yours. I – am – yours."
She stumbled sometimes, when he hurt her with a particularly brutal thrust, or when he dug his fingertips into her nipples, or yanked her hair back.
Still fucking her mercilessly.
Sometimes, his hand closed a bit over her throat and it was hard to get the sounds out, but she persisted.
Her entire body ached in more places than not, her bottom feeling as if the fire he had started was burning just as brightly as if he was still chastising her, her pussy raw from being stretched and plundered by his fingers and his cock.
And still, she was fucked.
But she
never complained. Tears collected continually at her chin and fell unheeded onto the expensive sheets below as she felt herself let go, to simply be what he wanted her to be, to let him decide how to use her best for his pleasure.
She gave herself to him, totally and completely, in that moment.
She earned the right to do it from him.
It didn't negate the pain. It didn't ease the aches.
But it did soothe her soul to submit to him so completely.
"I am yours." By now, it was a dry, hoarse whisper, but was as much as she could physically produce for him.
"I am yours."
"I am yours."
Nick felt it, the moment of her true submission, and it was what brought on his own blathering, mindless culmination, hips pistoning himself into her, taking her, making her exactly what she said she was.
Nothing more, nothing better – the very base level of whom and what she was, but absolutely nothing less.
Chapter Seven
They never spoke of that week. She never really asked, feeling it was not her place to question him like a nagging girlfriend, who she wouldn't have been, even if that were all she was to him. And he never offered.
It also never happened again.
Since she was a writer, and the office jobs she took were temporary, her schedule was largely her own, and she didn't have a boss breathing over her shoulder nor an office to be at by eight every morning, where she had to stay at till five, or do mandatory overtime.
So, when he needed to go somewhere, from that point on, he took her with him.
They felt their way through their first few months together, her much more than him since he was the one in command. He controlled every aspect of both their lives, and as he watched and analyzed every one of her responses in his head, he was able to easily fine tune and tweak certain elements.
Even though there were challenges – which were ninety-nine percent hers – she loved every single second of it. She had never felt as completely and utterly fulfilled ever before in her life. Given the opportunity – and she was amazed when he did do exactly that one night – to change something, she had to think long and hard about what it might be.
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