by Trent Evans
He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his eyes dancing under the dark brows. “You know what to do.”
Her hands trembled as she unzipped her skirt. If she deviated even one iota from the strict somatic dance of the ritual, she’d been punished. He’d insisted she perform it until it was rote memory, but she still trembled before him during every performance.
She lowered the skirt’s zipper slowly, turning her hip toward him so that his avid gaze could follow every movement. She skimmed the tight skirt down her thighs, careful not to roll down the tops of her charcoal thigh highs with it. With the skirt pooled over her bare feet, she was naked from the waist down.
She turned to face away from him, giving him the view of her ass she knew he required, and keeping her legs straight as she bent over, ensuring him plenty of opportunity to enjoy the rounded curves of her bare bottom as she stepped out of the skirt. She was thankful she didn’t have to navigate the maneuver in sky-high platform pumps, but even in bare feet she still stumbled, her cheeks heating at the shiver of her plump buttocks as she regained her balance.
For once, she was grateful to be turned away from him. She could feel his amused smile at what he regarded as her endearing coordination issues. A surge of moisture slickened the lips of her pussy at the thought.
“Turn back around. You know what’s next.”
He didn’t normally talk. This was different.
She kept her gaze on the floor as she turned to him, her hands clasped at the small of her back, standing once again at attention.
“Legs,” his voice rumbled.
Lacey swallowed, noticing the obvious bulge at the crotch of his slacks as she spread her thighs shoulder width apart — nothing obscene, just enough to offer him an unimpeded view of his property.
Her cunt.
“You aren’t shaving often enough,” he said, leaning forward, staring at her mound. He looked up at her. “Do we need to go back to our schedule?”
“No, Sir.”
When he’d first ordered her to start shaving her pubic hair, she’d resisted, always looking upon a bald pussy as somehow dirty or slutty. It made her uncomfortable.
He’d offered to help her with it, and the first couple of times it was one of the most erotic things they’d ever done — her thighs widespread over the arms of the chair as he used a brush and foam to soap up her wiry thatch of pubic hair. Her pussy had been a seething ocean of lust by the time he was finished with her.
Eventually, it had become more work and less enjoyable. He’d ceased doing it himself, and expected her to keep herself scrupulously smooth for his daily inspections. She’d asked to use hair removal cream or to have it removed permanently with laser treatments, but he demanded she do it via shaving. He wanted her daily shaving ritual to remind her of whom that particular part of her anatomy belonged to, and when she failed in that duty, she’d be punished. The first time she’d taken six with his heavy oak paddle, she’d resolved never to let so much as a single hair grow there again, but now she’d failed in that, too.
He scratched a fingernail though the fine stubble. “Maybe I need to punish this too? Is that what it’ll take to get it through to you that I want this pussy smooth?”
“No, Sir. Please.” Just the thought of his flogger slapping down onto the tender flesh between her thighs sent her trembling anew. He’d never done it but he’d threatened, and she had no doubt he was seriously considering it.
Not for the first time, she berated herself for biting off a fuck-ton more than she could chew. Giving her loving husband ownership of her body, while making her cunt melt, sometimes had a (painful) downside.
She winced as his palm slapped her thigh, the heat radiating outward. He straightened and said, “Get on with it, girl. I don’t have time to flog that cunt for you today.” He winked at her. “Maybe next time, though.”
Troy returned to his perch on the ottoman, wagging his finger at her to proceed. Lacey shuddered, pulling the tank top over her head, her full breasts bouncing as they came free of the restrictive clothing. She clasped her trembling hands behind her head, careful to keep her elbows back to ensure he had an unobstructed view of her charms.
Her nipples pebbled into aching stones under his gaze, her thigh-high stockings her only covering left. He regarded her unhurriedly, her nearly naked body his to admire at his leisure.
“All right, get over my lap.” He pointed to his thighs, that familiar coldness hardening his visage once more, and she obeyed immediately, knowing her prompt cooperation was the only shred of hope she had that he might go easier on her.
Lacey tried to ignore her mischievous inner voice insisting she didn’t want him to go easy on her. Ever.
His strong hands clasped her hips as he took his time adjusting her position, ensuring he had her exactly as he wanted as his hard cock dug insistently into her hip. He moved her around as if she weighed nothing, making her feel like a plaything for his enjoyment.
You’re a toy, slut.
His hands, deceptively gentle, circled over the plump moons of her ass, readying her soft skin for what was to come. Fingertips eased between her cheeks, brushing over her anus, and she wriggled at the intimate invasion.
Fingers entwined themselves in her damp hair and yanked her head up and back, forcing an animal noise from her as the pain flared in her scalp.
“Keep still, Lacey.” He shook her head, a small, quick movement. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”
She froze, though her heart jack-hammered in her chest.
“Good,” he murmured, his hands returning to caress her buttocks, squeezing her lush flesh in one hand as the other slipped between her thighs.
“Oh God, Troy,” she moaned.
His hand slapped against her swollen labia with a wet smack. “Keep that mouth shut, Lacey. Unless you need to cry out, you keep it zipped. I’ll gag you if you don’t.”
Knowing he preferred her silence didn’t help when his cruel hand crashed down over and over — asking her to be quiet during a spanking was like asking water to flow uphill.
His hands stilled, one palm stretched over a cringing cheek, the other clasping her waist. She froze, the tension crackling through her limbs. The room was nearly silent, only the faint hum of the refrigerator’s compressor interrupting the almost dead quiet.
“I’m waiting, Lacey.”
Oh God.
“Please spank me, Sir.”
“And?” She could feel the heat of his cock pressed to her, and she wanted to kneel at his feet and kiss it, take him into her mouth, and assuage his lust. Maybe it would save her hide. Yeah, right.
“Lacey!” His hand slapped her bottom, the pain blazing across her skin. She dropped her head, her hair shrouding her face as it burned.
“I – I deserve to be punished for failing to follow your directions, Sir.”
“Yes, I agree.” His hand smacked one cheek firmly, caressed her flesh, then crashed down into the other cheek, making her writhe. He kept up that pattern, the speed and heaviness of his spanks increasing.
SMACK, stroke. SMACK, rub.
Soon, the blows were continuous, the heat in her ass rising rapidly. His spanks became heavier, sometimes stinging the upper slopes of her cheeks, then smacking down onto her sit spot. She couldn’t help but move her hips, the heat growing by the second.
“Keep still, Lacey. Be a good girl.” His voice was thick with arousal, his cock throbbing against her.
His hand cracked down onto the back of her vulnerable thighs as her keening scream accompanied the scissoring of her legs. The pain of it shocked her, and had he not been holding her pinned to his thighs, she would have tried to run from further such blows. But she had no choice but to endure, his strength something she had no hope of countering.
“Ah god, Sir! Please!”
“Shh, that was nothing,” he said, pausing to trace the marks with his fingers. “We’re just getting started, bad girl.”
His hand peppered quick blo
ws down one thigh and up the other, her pained gasps accompanying each strike. She squirmed continuously, his grip on her hip almost painfully tight. Her flesh burned, and she kept her legs apart enough to avoid rubbing her suddenly stinging thighs together.
“There we go, just calm down now,” he said, back to rubbing gentle circles over her inflamed flesh. “We’ve got some nice color.”
His hand glided up the smooth plane of her back, fingers sliding through the light sheen of sweat on her skin. He stroked the nape of her neck. “Just relax, Lace.”
She nodded, trying to get her body to obey. She willed herself to slow her breathing, trying to cope with her burning bottom. He continued stroking her nape, his fingers burrowing into her hair, then tracing the vertebrae of her neck.
“Does it hurt?”
She swallowed down a small sob. “Yes, Sir.”
Troy leaned down, his breath whispering against her hair. “Good.”
His strong hands massaged her shoulders, kneaded the tense muscles in her back. By inches, she relaxed over him, letting her head hang down once more. Fingers slipped under the band of her stockings, easing them down her legs. Her legs trembled as he bade her hold each foot up in turn, removing the thigh-highs.
“Mm, not much to these is there?” He asked, snapping the dark band of fabric at the top.
“No, Sir.”
“But they look fucking incredible.” He placed a soft kiss high up on the back of one thigh, his stubbled cheek brushing against her burning skin. She pressed her bottom up at him, feeling her cleft spread open to his gaze. She hoped she could entice him into assuaging the need a stiff spanking always stirred within her.
Please, just fuck me.
“Ah, ah, ah, you little slut,” he said with a chuckle, giving her ass a slap. “It’s not time for that.” His palm clasped the wet heat of her sex, his thumb circling her anus. “Soon though.”
Fuck.
He pushed her off his thighs, and she eased to the floor. He stood, smiling affectionately down at her. “Get up, little girl.”
She scrambled to her feet, trying to ignore the embarrassing sway of her breasts. Not sure what to do, she clasped her hands behind her head again, and presented her breasts to him once more.
Troy admired them a moment, his hand easing over the bulge at his crotch. He locked gazes with her. “Good idea, but we’ll deal with those later. Come on.”
He grabbed one of her wrists from behind her head, and led her swiftly down the hallway. He opened the door, and yanked her close, making her stumble into the stone wall of his chest. “Get in there. You know what I want. If you aren’t in position when I get back, you’ll regret it.”
He sent her into the darkened room with a crisp slap to her throbbing ass, before disappearing down the hallway.
She gulped, turning her head to look at the dreaded corner as she bent over the footboard of their tall bed. She both hated and loved the time-honored position, as the height of the bed always made her picture herself hanging her naked ass out over the precipice of an immense canyon. The helplessness of the position was equal parts mortifying and arousing, as she knew he’d walk in to see nothing but her too big ass, spread open for him and ready for punishment or pleasure — either one entirely at his whim. With a shudder, she realized he’d also see her inflamed, wet sex, smell her arousal. No matter how many tears she shed, no matter how loudly she cried out, her body would tell him everything he needed to know.
He liked to leave her there to stew, to think — to dread. It might be thirty seconds, or ten minutes. She would wonder, her senses amplified, listening for any sound, any hint he might be coming back down the hall. The snap of the house settling made her flinch.
“You’re ridiculous, Lacey,” she told herself. “You asked for this.” The quaver in her voice told her it wasn’t quite that simple. Had she really asked for this?
She remembered thinking about how to ask him. Just how do you tell your husband you want him to spank you until you cry? What is his reaction likely to be when you confess to harboring deep-seated fantasies of putting yourself in another’s hands, relinquishing all choice, all rights to your own body? She knew though, that Troy was the one. He had a core of steel he let her see every so often. His inner strength gave her hope Troy was the kind of man who could satisfy the dark needs seething beneath Lacey’s “good girl” façade.
So, she’d finally conjured up the nerve to tell him. It was... weird. There was no other way to describe it. She’d pictured one of two possibilities: he’d look at her with a witch’s brew of shock, horror, and revulsion, shortly before serving her with divorce papers; or he’d take it as a lark, and assume his wife just wanted a little more “spice” in their lovemaking.
But it hadn’t been any of that. He’d just looked at her — through her, and simply nodded, his eyes bright and alive, and said, “We start tomorrow.”
“You aren’t falling asleep on me are you?”
Lacey jerked at his voice, jolted out of her reverie. He had a disconcerting habit of moving silently when he wanted to.
“Sorry, I—”
His hand pressed over her lips. “Shh, just be quiet, little girl. I don’t need your words. I need your cries.”
Oh, fuck.
She felt it hit the mattress near her head. She knew what it was even before she laid eyes on that pale yellow length of rattan.
“Troy, you’ve already spank—”
His hand cracked down on her ass, the sound jarring. She yelped at the sting on her still sore flesh.
“I said quiet. I hadn’t intended to gag you, but if you can’t follow directions, you’ll be getting that too — along with the cane.”
Her lips moved, but his flinty gaze and clenched jaw stilled them. She nodded, defeated, closing her eyes tight.
She hated the fucking cane! Hated it.
But Lacey knew he particularly enjoyed it for one simple reason: it hurt her. A lot.
Perhaps most women would be horrified to learn their beloved husband enjoyed inflicting pain on them, but not Lacey.
Though terrifying in a way, the realization he had this need within himself, this dark urge, just further confirmed to her they were meant to be. What were the odds Lacey-the-twisted-closet-pain-slut finds the man of her darkest, fevered dreams? The man who not only knew how to fuck (oh Christ, did he), but a man who complemented her need to feel pain, with his need to give it?
However, it was the other things he needed that she feared most. If Lacey had thought dark, troubled waters existed within her soul, then Troy’s soul held a fucking sea of them. Nevertheless, even as she’d plead, tears streaming down her face as his flogger repeatedly smacked her throbbing breasts, she was always thankful he shared himself with her, and made her dive deep into those waters. He made her lose herself in them — to him.
His hand claimed her soaked pussy in his warm palm. “Ready, I see. Little slut.”
She blushed, hiding her face in her folded arms. Her buttocks quivered as his hand gently massaged the swollen, plump lips of her pussy. Agile, knowing fingertips stroked the tender flesh of her inner labia, spreading then open. He tapped between her buttocks with a thumb and she felt her anus clench.
“Worried?”
She nodded against her arms.
He gathered up the heavy weight of her jet-colored locks and laid them over one shoulder, exposing the side of her face. He’d never let her hide. “What are you worried about, Lacey?”
His fingers slipped between the lips of her burning sex, and Lacey sighed. How she wanted him inside her. If only he’d forego that terrible caning, and just take her. Fuck her until she was senseless, boneless. His. All his.
He moved back to her bottom hole, spreading her copious moisture over the delicate whorl of flesh. He’d never done that before
Would he? In her deepest, darkest of masturbatory fantasies, her imaginary Master had taken her everywhere, staked his claim to every part of her body — regardless of h
er wants and desires. She was his for the taking, and he would take. Selfishly, ruthlessly.
“I’ve never had you here have I, girl?”
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
“No, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please don’t.”
His fingers plunged deep into her sex, probing to her core, and she moaned. She rolled her hips, unable to control it. He felt so fucking good.
Troy grasped a fistful of her hair, cruelly yanking her head up so she could look at him. His broad, bright grin sent chills cascading down her spine, and yet it made her sex clench with need.
He dipped within her yet again, and he brought them up to her face, stroking her wetness over Lacey’s trembling lips, tickling the tip of her nose, her scent filling her nostrils. “You may say you don’t, Lacey, but your cunt is telling another story. You’re sopping.”
‘That’s not fair, Troy,” she said, licking her own essence off of her lips.
Her husband winked at her, and she wondered for a brief moment just why she had the urge to argue, when the little, evil, honest voice in her head was whispering it was exactly what she wanted. But for some reason, she felt she had to fight, to object. She didn’t really know why.
Because you want it, slut. You like to be overruled… forced.
Troy leaned over her, picking up the cane from the sheets. She froze, the terrifying prospect of the cane’s bite paralyzing her. She felt the cold, hard length of it pressed to her burning buttocks, and she whimpered. She couldn’t remember what the cane felt like anymore, it had been so long since she’d had it. She wondered if that dim memory of the bite of the cane was akin to the pain of childbirth. She’d read about theories which postulated that the foggy memory many women have of the exact severity of labor pains was nature’s way of ensuring procreation would go on. After all, might it put a damper on getting pregnant if women really remembered how agonizing the pain was?
She thought it was rubbish, of course. How could a woman not remember? Now as her cruel, but loving husband held the instrument of correction against her cringing buttocks, she wondered anew. Perhaps her not remembering was a blessing… of sorts.