by Blake, Laila
I felt him move and when I looked back, I realized he'd grabbed the lube from my nightstand. He smiled at me as he pressed a pea sized blob onto his finger.
"You earned some preparation, pet," he whispered. Brushing a few matted strands of hair from my cheek so that I could see him better, he started to rub the lube around my ring of muscle. It was cold, and good. Almost immediately, I forgot about the pain as he caressed those hidden nerve endings, the ones I'd never expected to make me feel so good.
"Your spanking earned you one finger," he went on, pressing it gently against my entrance, back and forth, back and forth in tiny increments until it slipped in almost all by itself and my hip involuntarily started grinding against him again. "You will earn more."
Clawing my fingers into the pillow, I moaned, kicked a foot up in the air. He was finger fucking me gently but efficiently, fast and smooth, a perfect sensation except for the fact that it brought me right to the place where I almost came, but couldn't, because he was fucking my ass, not my cunt.
"Please..." I moaned, for a moment hardly sure whether I'd finally said it out loud, the chant inside my head. "Please, Sir!"
"You want more, pet?"
I nodded hard and eager, "Yes, Sir! Please, Sir."
"Are you ready to earn it?"
I groaned, hesitated. But the truth was that I could hardly remember the pain and in that moment I would have done anything for one more finger, a single flick against my clit, anything.
"Yes, Sir. I want to earn it."
He withdrew his finger, and my body tensed again. I held my breath, stopping my hands from shaking by raking them across the duvet, by finding a good grip and then, again almost without warning, his palm connected with my already sore skin and I howled before I could stifle the sound. While he'd finger fucked me, I'd gotten used to opening up my throat, to giving him all the sounds of the pleasure he was giving me, but now I had to go back to keeping it down, to forcing it into grunts and moans into the pillow, to biting down on the fabric.
He gave me a few seconds to settle myself before he went on. His slaps echoed in the small room and this time, there was no warming up period. It started out as pain and stretched as pain, a hard rhythm like the beating of drums. I squirmed again and he restrained my hands, pushed them up far on my back, so I could hardly move, but I didn't ask him to stop. This time I had something to hold out for, I had the memory of his fingers, and the challenge to earn another one. That promise kept me strong, allowed me to embrace the pain as it washed over me in cleansing, cathartic waves. Soon nothing existed except for his hand and the pain and the memory, the promise of pleasure. It was a dark, tiny, perfect world.
When he stopped this time, I hardly had the strength to keep myself on his lap. He wrapped an arm around my legs to hold me there as my body went limp and I panted for air. He lifted me up, I could only tell by the momentary sense of vertigo, and then there was the softness of the blanket beneath me and his breath on my ear as he curled up next to me. He let his gentle fingers dance up and down my spine and into my hair. It seemed miraculous that they could dispense something so soft right after that haze of pain and drumming. I closed my eyes and breathed, waited for the fire in my skin to burn down and dissipate.
X
Paul was saying things, soft hazy words that entered though my ear and reached my brain only in their calming effect, never quite registering content. I leaned against his breath, the sound, his warmth. I could tell he was smiling, just a little, by the way the air sounded as it left his lips; I could also tell he was aroused, and then I smiled, too, and our eyes met. We were only an inch or so apart by then, and he brushed his lips over mine.
"There's my girl," he whispered. "Stubborn, brave girl."
"Did I..." I started, but my voice broke when I realized I didn't quite have air enough for a full sentence yet. Paul smiled. He brushed his fingertips over my cheek. It, too, was red and sore from the salt in my tears, from rubbing my face over the pillow all too many times, but his fingers felt soothing against my skin.
"Did you earn another finger?"
I nodded and then he did too, clicking his tongue and letting his fingers tighten on my chin before he picked up a pillow and stuffed it under my lower abdomen.
"You did, pet. You did very well."
I trembled, smiled and thanked him. It was hard to put into words: everything was hard to put into words in that state of mind. But he didn't press. He just picked up the lube again and moved further down my body. Even air stirring over my ass made me wince now, made my body jump forward a little. Paul held me in place, though, and I relaxed again as he rubbed more lube into the circle of muscle that he'd promised to claim as his own. I could feel that it was looser already, that the stretch only hurt a little when he added the second finger, and even that was soon forgotten when he started finger fucking me in earnest again.
It was a magic trick, a miracle, the way the pain just washed away when he gave my body pleasure. It was gone, had never happened, or if it had, then only to intensify this very moment, to make the pleasure mount that much faster, to make me wriggle and moan on the bed so hard he had to hold me down to fuck me properly.
And still I couldn't come. It was torture. It was heaven. It was like an endless string of fireworks lighting and building up, and building up, but instead of going off, each charge was added to the next and then the next, always building until I screamed for mercy.
"Please, oh god, please, Sir!"
He slowed down, pushed in and out more gently, more slowly, so that I could catch my breath. I think I gurgled something like gratitude, or maybe need and the plea for more.
"I think someone really, really wants to come, don't you pet?"
I nodded so hard, my chin chafed on the duvet. "Yes, yes, Sir. Please. Please?"
He hesitated, and then his fingers left my ass and I lay there, feeling suddenly bereft while he walked away. Somewhere in the distance, I heard water running, but I was too shaky, too high on pleasure and pain, to connect it until he came back. His hands smelled like soap and he held a washcloth. First, he ran it over my face, then up my cunt and through the crack of my ass. I felt marginally calmer when he left again to wash it out, and by the time he came back to the bed, I had pushed myself up on my elbows and regarded him, wide-eyed and pleading.
"Yes, pet?" he asked with maddening patience.
"Please, Sir? May I earn... may I earn more?" My voice was shaking and we both could hear it. I wasn't sure my ass could take any more. Still I asked.
Paul smiled. Just for a moment, his eyes weren't like storm at all, but the calm, gentle sea again. He threaded his fingers through my hair. I bit my lip, held my breath and finally he nodded.
"Yes, pet. Yes, you may."
My fingers clenched in panic, but he shook his head when he saw the expression on my face. "You won't earn it on your ass, pet. Not this time. Turn around."
I took a deep breath. Every motion sent pain shooting through my system but I managed to get to my knees. He directed me to lie back down across the bed, so my head was almost at the wall and my feet hung off the side. I winced when the duvet touched my sore skin.
My stomach rose and fell with each breath, and gently, he lifted first one leg and then the other, and set them on the bed frame before he pushed my knees as far apart as they would go. My eyes widened, but he caught my gaze.
"Do you trust me?"
I clenched my hands at my sides, but I nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"Do you still want to earn a third finger?"
I wanted to earn an orgasm, but I had a feeling that was still a while off, and again, I nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl. Then it's time for this." He reached for the leather strap and every muscle along my stomach tightened at the sight. He stood between my legs, his fingers around the leather handle and he looked perfect that way: my Master. My Paul.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Sir." And I wasn't afraid anymore. He brought me
pain and then he washed it away, he cleared my head and then filled it with desire, with him, with lust and love. Of course I trusted him.
"Keep your legs apart as best you can. If they snap back together—and they will—you will open them up again. You will expose yourself to me. I won't make you take it this time. You have to earn it." He sought my eyes, blazing down at me. "Do you understand, pet?"
"Yes, Sir," I breathed, pushing my knees even further apart as if to show I was serious about my promise. Already I could feel my thighs shaking under the strain.
First, he just ran the cool leather down my inner thigh, then over my exposed labia. It slipped between them easily, but he didn't venture near my clit. I thought he'd move over to my other thigh, but instead there was a crack and pain exploded where I'd expected a soft brush. Like he'd told me, my legs snapped together as though on strings and I forced them apart again, shaking like leaves.
"Good girl," he said, smiling dangerously.
He alternated between my thighs, left right, left right, in fast succession. I put my hands on my knees, held them down as I accepted the leather. It was a different kind of pain than before—without the deep soreness already in place I felt each slap sharper, shallower than the ones he'd dealt on my ass. The strap was smaller than his hand, too, and it sliced through the air with a whistle before it cracked down on my skin. With my hands on my knees, I had nothing to stifle my moans and they echoed louder and louder through the room. I was past caring and in the moments he paused to wipe a bead of sweat off his brow, I could feel my hip bucking up into the air, straining to meet his touch, even if it was another slap.
I had calm, perfectly clear moments, in which I watched him as he painted my thighs with thin, parallel stripes that shone red against the pallor of my skin. They wavered in and out of focus and suddenly the pain rolled back over me so hard I pressed my eyes shut and keened a wailing noise against the ceiling. And still he went on and each time I thought I couldn't take it anymore, I forced myself to remember my ass, how that had to have been worse, how it had all been worth it, and then it got better.
"Count to five now, pet," he growled, and somehow the sound penetrated the haze of pain.
"One, Sir," I started, and before I could get to two, he cracked the leather over my cunt.
I couldn't breathe, felt like my eyes would pop out of their sockets and it was several seconds of pressing my thighs together until I could yell out the pain. I stared up at him, and he stared back. Then slowly, he raised a brow and my chin started to shiver. It took everything I had to open my legs again.
"T... two, Sir?" I whispered. He nodded and then he did it again. My legs flew shut and I curled up on my side, clenching my teeth and moaning. It took me longer this time, but he waited patiently, running his fingers up and down the sharp leather until I assumed the position again.
"Three, Sir."
I had told myself that I would take it better this time, that I'd keep my legs open, that I'd stand it better, but once the pain hit, tears streamed down my temples and my hands pressed against my cunt, cradling my pulsing flesh. My lips moved in something like a plea, but I managed to keep it silent. Two more. Just two more.
I don't know how I got to the end, but my head was spinning and I found myself in his arms, as he cradled me against his chest, humming and kissing my forehead. He smelled so good, that was all I could think for seconds, minutes... maybe years at a time. He threaded his fingers through my matted hair, told me how proud he was, what a good girl I was.
In that moment, I was his, thought and heart. Every part of me belonged to him, ached for him, worshipped him. It was that clarity, that beautiful singularity that I'd craved all those weeks without him.
"Are you ready for your reward?" he whispered and a smile, broad and free, slid over my features.
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
He, too, smiled. Then he laid me down, on my back this time. He pushed my legs up sharply, until they pressed my breasts against my chest and he could look down at his handiwork. He blew over my exposed labia, then softly traced them with his finger. They were sore, but more than anything, I could feel how huge and swollen they were, slippery and hot. He dragged some of my juices down to my ass, and I closed my eyes, letting my body go limp with pleasure as he went back to fucking it with his fingers.
I could tell there were more of them now, that there was an aching sensation of pressure, of strain when he slipped in and out, but it didn't matter. Everything was pleasure with him, everything made me whimper and wriggle, and plead.
"Please fuck me? Please, Sir?" I found myself panting, my voice sounding strained under the pressure of my legs. "Please? I need you so much, please fuck my ass? Please? It's yours, please make me all yours, please?"
I didn't think he would, but then his hold on my legs lessened and he looked down at me. I could see it in his eyes, the impatience, the pent up need, and then he nodded and pulled his fingers from my ass.
"Get on your hands and knees, now."
I scrambled around. A moment ago I wouldn't have thought it possible, would have promised I hardly had the strength to move at all but it was easy now, propelled by his demand. I heard the sound of his zipper and the plastic tear of a condom wrapper. I pushed my face into the mattress, spread my knees.
I felt a soft breeze on my red-hot cunt and then something large at the other entrance. I held my breath—not because I was scared, though. I held it because the moment felt sacred, and it extended into the silence like a universe from a single point.
Then he pushed and with every fraction of every inch, he laid claim to me, body and soul. Hazily, I remembered that first time between us, when he had spoken of religious experiences, and that was exactly what I felt when he stretched that ring of muscle, until I screamed into the duvet, until his balls fell hard against my swollen cunt, and both of us paused to breathe.
"You're mine," he whispered hoarsely; his fingers pressed against my sore bottom.
"I'm yours," I breathed, then I craned my neck back to look at him. "Sir."
His hand reached up over my back, but he couldn't quite reach my face. Our eyes stayed locked a moment longer.
"Why'd you have to be so fucking pretty when you cry?" he whispered. His fingers found my hair and he grasped a swath to hold onto. I felt a shooting sensation all the way down to my clit. Then he pulled my neck taut, and he started fucking me in earnest. I groaned some animal sound against the wall in front of me and then everything went dark.
There was lube of course, but it could only do so much to help me accommodate his girth, his driving speed that he'd held back for hours of teasing and touching me. Now it was unleashed, hard and fast and unrelenting. Each time he bottomed out inside of me, he pushed my face deeper into the mattress, as though he was trying to fuck me through the bed, through the floor, somewhere deep into the ground, again and again.
Eventually, he let go of my hair for a better grip on my waist. I bit my own my arm to stifle the sounds, to grasp for control as I braced myself against the headboard—and still he went on. He went on until I gave up on pushing back, on keeping myself upright, he fucked me into oblivion, until he could hardly control my body as I moaned and cried, and begged for release.
I can't say that it felt good—it was too complicated for so small a word. It hurt, and there was pleasure—a lot of pleasure, but above everything I had the feeling that it wasn't about either, but about power, about giving up everything to him, so that he could own it, fuck it to pieces and then put it back together again.
I collapsed when he came, an inhuman groan on his lips, his fingers clamping down so hard on my hips, I found soft little bruises later. I hardly noticed at the time. I just dissolved onto the mattress, and a few moments later, he followed me, wrapping his arms around me as he pulled me close and kissed the back of my neck. I felt his hot, fast breath stir my hair, felt the heat of his arms, and I thought that was how I wanted to spend eternity, all wrapped up in him an
d fucked to pieces.
XI
I don't know if we nodded off for a while, it seems reasonable though. When I opened my eyes again it was dark outside, but I couldn't remember what it had been like before. I was breathing calmly and my body felt warm and sated and exhausted. The immediate need to come had lessened and I relaxed, stretching against him.
"There you are," he whispered. His voice sounded sleepy, too, soft and tender. I turned around to look at him; his face was in shadows, but the lamp left a warm glow in his eyes. Maybe it was his smile, or some magic inside of him.
"How do you feel?"
I nodded first, swallowed, trying to gather my faculties enough to speak.
"Good," I whispered, "really good."
His chuckle was lazy and hardly there at all as he brushed my hair out of my face, then ran the rough pad of his thumb over the sore, puffy spots under my eyes. I didn't flinch, not anymore. I was in a place where everything he gave me was pleasure and I stretched against his touch, like a kitten. He kissed my forehead, then my nose and finally my lips.
"I'm so proud of you," he whispered; his lips landed on each of my cheeks, and something inside me started to tingle, to bubble and glow again as I beamed at him.
"Thank you, Sir."
My cunt contracted at the smile he gave me in return. Then he tweaked my nipple and patted my hip.
"Get up, pet. I'm not done with you. On your feet."
My muscles were rubber, gelatinous and soft as I stretched them, as I all but tumbled out of bed to find my footing. He lay there, beautiful and naked, watching me as I lifted my arms towards the ceiling, then pushed them behind my head as if to see if I was still capable of movement or if all tension had been taken from my body.
"Go to the bathroom. Get yourself cleaned up, sprinkle some water in your face, maybe some cream. And come back with a warm washcloth."