He was focused solely on my ass, on making the belt land where he wanted, and I was focused on taking it, on surrendering to the pain, and to him. The blows came further apart, but harder, and I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it out in a giant whoosh, which brought on the first tear. Soon, tears were streaming down my face, but it wasn’t the same as when I normally cry. It didn’t feel so much like crying, sobbing, being in emotional pain, as a release. I was taking the blows and giving back tears, my pussy tightening with each strike.
When Todd told me to turn over, I did so, feeling as if I were watching myself in a movie. “Kiss it,” he said, dangling the end of the belt at my lips. I did, shivering all over as my nipples hardened and my pussy clenched even more. “Someday I’m going to use this right here,” he said, resting the end of the belt lightly between my legs. I watched as he picked it up again and struck me against my nipples, not as hard as he’d spanked me, but hard enough for me to feel the pain clearly, thoroughly. My nipples, it turned out, were pain sluts, just like me, raising themselves higher after each blow.
My breast lashing didn’t last long, but it left beautiful bruises on my pale skin. He knelt on the floor and sucked each nipple until I moaned, combining those frantic sucks with his fingers diving into my pussy. “Give it to me, Amy,” he said, as if I hadn’t already given him enough.
And I did, though I admit that my orgasm was more for me than for him, or maybe it was for both of us. The lines between his and mine got blurred that night, for the first but certainly not the last time. While he fucked me with his fingers, while he sucked my nipples, while he spanked me with his hand and his belt, Todd’s breathing got heavier; his eyes, when I dared to look at them, were layered by lust. Knowing he was getting something equally powerful out of our actions made me warm in a way that was totally different from the visceral heat of his touch. This was a warmth that bloomed somewhere deeper, some place where I’d been waiting to feel adored and pampered. This meeting of souls brought on another kind of tears, ones of kinship.
For all my racy fantasies, I’d never dreamt it could be like this. I’d thought I was a pain slut, a big girl looking to feel, for a moment, smaller, safer, in the hands of a man who was more than willing to give me the pain I craved—and perhaps some I didn’t know I craved.
“Oh yeah, Amy, that’s right,” he said as he bit my nipple, his teeth sinking into my flesh, driving another finger into me. He was grunting now, using all of himself to get me off, and I went with it, fully, completely. I stopped trying to look at him, to second-guess his emotions, to figure it all out. I spread my legs wider, exposing my thighs, my core, my everything. When I came against his hand, the pleasure wove its way from my pussy all the way down my legs, making them tremble, then upward, making me lightheaded. He eased his hand out and then wrapped his arms around me.
I kept on trembling, and another burst of tears rolled through me. I’d thought it was over—that he spanked me, and it was everything I’d wanted it to be and more. But this was like an aftershock, a tinier but no less powerful tremor. “Wow,” I said when I finally raised my head from his shoulder. “That was . . .” I couldn’t finish the thought.
“I know,” he said, gently kissing my forehead. “And there’s more where that came from.”
We didn’t make love until the next morning, and this time, only after I took a spanking bent over his kitchen table, and he’d made me look in the mirror and admire my ass from every angle. “Touch it,” he said, and I smiled as the heat there greeted me.
Todd isn’t who I thought I wanted to meet. He’s not the perfect, sexy, handsome, smart, mindfucking, sadistic dom of my dreams, because I’ve learned that that man doesn’t exist. Oh yes, he’s all of those things, but I didn’t conjure him up, and he doesn’t simply spank me on command. It’s a constant give and take, a constant surrendering of what I think I want for what I hope we can achieve together. Todd can see through me like nobody else, can see deep inside to where my deepest fears reside.
Ever since that first night, he’s been able to take those fears and twist them into fantasies, to use the fear to guide me into a world I couldn’t have even dreamt existed. He doesn’t need to spank me to get me there either—sometimes it’s a look, a word, a smile, a snap of his fingers. Sometimes I just know. And that’s made me walk taller, prouder, armed with the knowledge that even if no one else sees past the girl with the sweet, chubby cheeks and dimples, bright red lipstick, and cat-eye glasses, there’s one man who does.
I’ve learned that submitting isn’t about spanking per se, or being ordered around, or even topping or bottoming exactly, but about acknowledging that someone else can know you better than you know yourself, can unwrap the layers you cloak yourself in to strip you down to your barest, rawest, most vulnerable self. It’s the same thing good music does, making everything else disappear, then giving you back a better version of you. That’s worth waiting for, no matter how long it takes. I get to be a giantess and a little girl—sassy and submissive, bold and bent over. And he gets to be all the variations of dominant he can come up with, even when he’s sick in bed and I’m cooking him soup. That oldies song, “Big Girls Don’t Cry”? It was wrong. Big girls do cry, and beg and bite and scream and cook and strip and fuck and love. We do everything we want to, and sometimes everything you want us to, if you’re lucky.
I think we both are.
Marked
BY ISABELLE GRAY
After he courted her for six months—a reasonable time for a couple to get past awkward fumbling, missed opportunities, and incompatible urges—Gideon sent his girlfriend, Felicia, a note.
He crafted this note carefully, selecting a thick, cream-colored cardstock and a fountain pen filled with silver ink. He wrote with purpose and clear intent. As he wrote, at the drafting table in the corner of his bedroom, Gideon allowed himself to enjoy the scratching sound of the pen as it followed the whorls and loops of each letter in each word. When he was done, he held the paper just below his nose and inhaled deeply, smelling nothing, enjoying that nothingness.
He put the note in the mail the next day. He waited.
Felicia received the note two days after it was sent. She read it once, then slid it into her briefcase and left it there for the next week. She had not forgotten about it, nor had she paid it much attention, but at the end of each day—after she came home, slipped out of her shoes, and rubbed her stocking-covered feet against each other—she gave it serious consideration.
Felicia lived a life that was neither average nor exemplary, and the same could be said of her relationship with Gideon. Their time together had been better than adequate, but what she and Gideon had shared thus far was not the most exhilarating relationship of her lifetime. She had not yet swooned.
Gideon was an architect by trade—an artist who obsessed himself with details. As a junior associate in a large firm, he spent most of his time designing parts of a whole—stairwells, bathrooms, windows. The work was more complicated than one might think. His designs had to correspond with several others, all of which had to fit within the overall concept for a given project. After three years, Gideon had begun to treat each part of his life in the same manner, coordinating his relationships and ambitions as individual units that, together, equaled the sum of all parts.
Once ten days had passed—ten days filled with eleven phone calls, three dinner dates, one movie, two hours of television, and six sexual encounters—Felicia finally broached the subject of the note. They were in bed, still sweaty, just after that sixth sexual encounter, her back turned to him as she stared at the blinking green colon on his alarm clock. She slid an arm behind her, resting her fingertips against Gideon’s sharp, ever protruding hipbone. She inched closer toward him, considering the contrast between them, the long lean length of him, the soft fullness of her own body.
She said, “Yes.”
And as that word fell from her lips, she felt the beginning of something. She felt li
ke she might swoon.
Gideon smiled in the darkness. He remained silent, but his heart pounded; he could practically see it trying to beat itself out of his chest, even in the dark. The next morning, as Felicia brushed her teeth, he handed her a leatherbound portfolio and told her to select the three designs she enjoyed most—the three designs she wouldn’t mind marking her body with for the rest of her life, the three designs he could trace with his fingers or tongue or eyes, knowing she would always be his. Felicia dragged her fingertips across the portfolio’s cover.
Everyone had recommended Jake, a former football player who found something new to do when his knees gave out. He had a solid name, suitable for a solid-looking man wrapped in muscle and ink. He was tall and bald; brawny and loud. He had big, steady hands, and he always sang as he worked. Though you wouldn’t expect it of him, the word “artist” was never used lightly where his tattoo work was concerned.
Felicia sat quietly as the artist held her ample breast in the palm of one hand, his tattoo gun in the other, carefully inking the sharp edges of the first design she chose: three black, thickly curved lines and one red one on the outside that began from the same point, right on top of her right collarbone, rolled to the outer edge of her breast, then back toward the small separation between her breasts, finishing with a flourish along the underside. Her body was, until that moment, unmarked by anything but a birthmark on her left hip, a scar just below her left knee from a bicycle accident when she was a young girl, and a small constellation of freckles in the small of her back.
As he worked, the artist grinned. “You’ve given me a lot of canvas to work with.”
Felicia’s face reddened hotly, and she sat stiffly. Jake paused, held his hand up. “I meant that as a compliment. There is no joy at all in inking a woman who is all bone. I like to sink my needles into something that can give way.”
She relaxed again, breathed deeply, and closed her eyes. She thought about Jake’s words, about bodies giving way. She was lulled by the constant, sharp moan of the tattoo gun and the hum of pain vibrating through her body. As he worked, the artist sang. Sometimes she recognized the song, sometimes she didn’t, but the man had a good voice, and he knew how to mark a woman’s body. When he finished his work, he stood behind her as she admired his work in a full-length mirror. Jake whistled. She smiled at his reflection.
As she left, Jake said, “I hope you’ll be back.”
Felicia didn’t turn around.
That night, Felicia went to her lover. She went to give her body over to him. When Gideon opened the door, no words were spoken. He stepped to the side, and she ducked under his arm and into the foyer. He took her coat. Her breast throbbed as her body tried to make sense of what had been done. Gideon pushed her to his bedroom, even though his hands did not touch her. The room was dark, cool, the comforter folded in half like he had expected her to show all along. She turned to look at him and quickly undressed, throwing her clothes into a corner of the room. She bared her breast, the border of the new, black edges red, tender. He closed the distance between them and held her breasts in his hands—held them firmly, allowed himself to enjoy the soft heaviness of them, how some of her skin spilled through his fingers. She hissed softly. Gideon lowered his lips to her unmarked breast. She liked how he appreciated the heft of it as he drew his lips back and forth across the smooth expanse of skin.
Gideon paused, and her skin felt colder as he pulled away, lonelier. He nodded to his left, and she understood. Felicia crawled onto the bed and stretched, wanted him to see all of her, touch all of her. She studied his eyes carefully, wanting to see how he would take her in. She saw only desire, as always, and she exhaled slowly. He undressed, too, his body dark and lean, tightly muscled. He stretched alongside her, and when she turned to look at him, their lips met in a soft kiss, and then a less-than-soft kiss. As he breathed into her mouth, she closed her eyes.
Her nipples had always been sensitive. That night, every inch of her body was turned inside out for him. Gideon rolled the nipple of her unmarked breast between his fingers with just enough pressure to make her ache pleasantly. He took her other nipple—the one below the dark curves that ran across her breast and then down the valley between, toward her navel—and suckled it so sweetly, so steadily, lavishing her wetly with his tongue. She arched into him, clasping his neck, wanting him to feed from her. The thought of it was perverse and thrilling. She kept expecting him to pull away, but he never did. He simply continued suckling, sometimes softly, sometimes with a brutal ferocity, sometimes biting her nipple with the sharp edges of his teeth. When she realized she was going to come merely from his perfect ministrations to her nipples, her eyes flew open, and she gasped. She watched the circular motion of his head and luxuriated in his sloppy sounds before closing her eyes again. The way he licked her nipple felt like he was drawing his tongue up and down the damp cleft between her thighs. She groaned as she imagined him tasting her.
Felicia wanted to come, but more than that, she wanted his permission to come, wanted to give not only her body but also her voice to the way he wanted her marked. She wanted to give him that surrender. When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she tightened the grip of her hand on the back of his neck.
“May I come?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he began sucking her nipple harder and harder. Her clit throbbed. Felicia spread her legs widely and longed to touch herself, longed to press down on her slick and swollen nub until she felt bone beneath her fingers.
“Please,” she said breathlessly. Gideon stopped, lifted his head and stared at her with such intensity, she wanted to look away but knew she couldn’t.
“Please what?” he asked. “To please me, beg.”
“Sir,” she said. And how the word, that small and simple word, made her whole body feel electric and strange. She wanted to say it over and over again, to give in to the word and to him and to everything it meant when she said it to him—this quiet man who asked her to mark herself for him, who with one simple letter changed everything she knew about him, about herself. “Please, sir, may I come?”
Felicia was not used to asking for permission, not for anything. Most people liked that about her—such willingness to live on her own terms, without apology. Now, her entire body hot with desire, her breasts aching sweetly, she wanted nothing more than to ask for permission for everything, to let him control her body and her heart and maybe something more. Gideon ignored her pleas with a particularly vicious bite, sinking his teeth deeply into the soft nipple flesh. Felicia shrieked but arched, offering the whole of her breast to his mouth. Gideon squeezed her marked breast in his hand, harder and harder, the pressure making Felicia’s body feel like her flesh was in an unforgiving vice. A curious, not unpleasant pain began to rattle in her rib cage. Gideon squeezed harder still, now flicking his tongue lightly against her nipple. The room was thick with the smell of her desire, his. Her thighs were slicked wet, and the hard length of Gideon’s cock pressed insistently against her bare thigh.
“I need you inside me,” Felicia said. Again, she was surprised. Suddenly, she wanted to feel his thick cock stretching her and filling her and reaching those parts of herself she wanted to give over to him even more than she wanted release. She grabbed his narrow shoulder, piercing his skin with her fingernails, spreading her legs wider, the heat from her body wrapping them together tightly. Felicia gritted her teeth. “Please. Sir. Let me come. I need it. I need you.”
Gideon paused and pulled away. A cool slip of air passed between their bodies, and Felicia shivered. Gideon stared at her body, from her round face to her long neck, her breasts red and hot, the swell of her stomach, and lower, the neatly shaved triangle of her pussy, the lips parted, damp, her thighs thick and strong, her muscular calves curving into her ankles. When he finished enjoying the sight of this woman splayed open next to him, Gideon looked into her eyes. His gaze, the intensity of it, how his green eyes seemed different now that she had marked herself fo
r him—it all made Felicia shiver more, want more, need more. She turned to the side, closed her eyes. Once more, she said, “Please.” Gideon lowered his lips once more to her nipple, and just before he wrapped his mouth around her, he said, “Yes.” Felicia breathed deeply and held Gideon’s mouth against her breast as she imagined his tongue between her thighs, his cock buried inside, his fingers in her mouth, the man beside her touching all of her. She raised her hips as the pleasure finally became unbearable and allowed herself one soft moan as she came.
“I am pleased,” Gideon said, lightly slapping her freshly tattooed breast. Then he covered her body with his and sank into her sweaty skin and the wet of her cunt. He said, “Mine.”
The next month, Felicia found herself at Jake’s once more, lying on a low, vinyl-covered bench, her back bare. Jake sat next to the bench, one arm resting against the rise of her ass to hold her skin taut as he inked a new design from the middle of her back all the way down to just above her ass. The tattoo was large, spreading all the way across Felicia’s back. Along her spine was a series of small circles—purple, red, pink, and stretching in both directions from her spine—marks that looked like bright streaks of paint with uneven edges that reached around her sides toward her navel.
When he first looked at the design, Jake had grunted. “This is ambitious,” he said.
Felicia smiled and nodded. “It was designed by an ambitious man.”
The artist had muttered to himself as he transferred the design to thermal paper and then to Felicia’s skin. “A lucky man,” he finally said.
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