Now she squealed in earnest and stepped off the bed, rubbing the spot. He crouched on the bed, his eyes narrowed, staring her down like a predatory cat. Demurely avoiding his gaze, she was surprised to discover her other hand slipping in front and gently rubbing herself.
His nostrils flared, as if he could smell her sex in the air, and he lunged, all hesitation evaporated. As she slipped out of reach of his grasping hand, the belt struck her across the lower legs and then the belly. Scampering around the foot of the bed, she tried to protect herself with her arms as he followed, swinging at her.
He was no longer trying to catch her, only keep her in range of the belt. She crawled across the bed again, as fast as she could, but he followed, the belt snapping at her like a hungry tongue. The blows were measured and controlled, never achieving more than a sting. But she could feel the power they concealed, like iron under velvet. The threat made her squeal, trying to appease and divert the force before it came, but his hard leer did not soften.
The third trip across the bed, she felt the thrill of fear, the vision of his bulk advancing on her as oppressive as a heavy wave, and the snapping and biting of the belt a constant fire. She no longer fled from him, but only retreated from the blows. She tried to spread her legs, to surrender, but he hit her again, and reflexively she flinched away. But his pursuit did not waver.
Falling off the edge of the bed, she gave up all hope of flight, and curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. For what seemed like an impossible length of time, he stood above her, lightly lashing her covering arms and legs and back, but it was really only a few strokes. Then he reached down and caught her by the hair.
Lowering her arms in surrender, she let him lift her head up. Opening her mouth and closing her eyes, she transformed herself into a willing receptacle. But something else happened. The belt looped and dropped over her head and shoulders, down to her breasts, and then he drew it tight.
Now she was lassoed, arms pinned to the side by the leather harness. He lifted her up by it, and the pinch on her breasts made her rise with him. When his cock entered her mouth, she was more than willing, eager to appease him. That he was already hard did not surprise or delay her. She thrust herself at him, trying to impale her throat and suck out his power over her.
He made contented sounds for a time, letting her strive at pleasuring him. She began to hope he would claim her throat again, even though the angle was wrong. Instead, she felt the leash tighten, and he hauled her up onto the bed.
“I think you’re ready now,” he said, and her body signaled its agreement, although she did not know for what. It didn’t matter. She was ready for anything he wanted to do.
Dropping her on her back, he pushed her legs apart with his other hand. Then he penetrated her while she spread as wide as she could. Holding onto the belt with both hands, using it as an anchor point, he pounded her with deep, hard strokes, over and over and over. Helplessly bound beneath him, the buckle of the belt pinching at one breast, her arms trapped and her legs wide while he rode her like a wild calf, she climaxed easily.
He noticed. His face was on fire, but he did not come yet. Instead he pulled out and rolled her over. When he gently entered her anus, she found herself wishing he would just shove it in and get on with it, but the encircling grasp of the belt robbed her of speech and all she could do was grunt. She pushed upward, impaling herself, and he crushed her back down to the bed with his answering plunge.
Again the helplessness of her position overwhelmed her, trapped and bound while he violated her from behind. She was no longer in control of her reactions, and could only observe as her hips strained upwards to match his thrusts. The unfamiliar penetration filled her entire body, which synchronized to his, and her climax was just an extension of his.
Lying beside her, breathing heavily, he let go of the belt. Now it only draped loosely around her, but she was trapped by his arms instead. Turning onto her side, she pressed her back into his chest and squirmed deeper into his grasp. He held her tightly, but it did not feel like she was trapped inside. It felt like she was protected, as if she wore him like a suit of armor against the world. Her fears could find no entry here, and sat nattering outside the room, until his breath in her ear robbed them of even that small voice.
Chapter Eight
Saturday morning, snuggling in bed with him, she suddenly cried out in pain. Examination revealed a bruise on her arm, small but ugly yellow and black. She remembered it now, the belt wrapping around her arm when she tried to block it, and the tip snapped into unexpected fury from the leverage.
He studied it with severe displeasure, while she made excuses for him.
“People will think I beat you.” His eyebrows said he was only joking, but the words made her quiver inside. This was the perfect chance to make him feel guilty, to seize control and force him to stop, but instead all she could think was, you don’t beat me nearly enough.
He changed the subject. “Why don’t you ever open this window?”
“It’s stuck. It’s always been stuck.”
With a happy smile, he went over to fiddle with it.
While he made plans for his new project, she cooked them breakfast. Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee while he went on about window sashes and caulking, she realized she was at peace. He was like an anchor, a steady point that she could revolve around without being weighed down, crushed and trapped, and without being cut loose, adrift and uncertain. Taking him to the hardware store, doing laundry while he hammered and sawed at her window, she felt like a sailor rediscovering what solid ground was like after too long at sea.
And rediscovering innocence. His boyish pride in fixing her window made her smile genuinely and without calculation.
That afternoon, he went out to take care of some business matter or another, and she had to reassure him it was all right. She couldn’t blame him. Every time he left her alone, she started to retreat. She resolved not to let that happen again, and went to the store to buy something special for dinner.
But inexorably, she felt herself making space. Angered and frustrated, she pushed herself to close the gap, to remain exposed to him. By the time he got home for dinner, she had worked herself into extremes.
She met him at the door, wearing nothing at all, eyes cast down and hands demurely behind her back. With a huge grin, he reached out for her, squeezing her breast and nibbling on her ear. The feel of his clothing against her bare body was electric, magnifying her nakedness and vulnerability. She stood still while he stroked and fondled her like a favorite toy, taking pleasure in his possessive enjoyment.
Then she was afraid he would ruin it, because his hands went to his belt and began unfastening it. She didn’t want him naked yet, she didn’t want him on equal ground with her.
“Do you need a beating?” he asked, the belt free and loose in his hands.
“No.” Her breath was short and shallow with arousal. “I’ll be a good girl, I swear.”
He let the belt fall against her body under its own weight. The contact made her quiver, and he was satisfied.
“A reminder.” He looped it over her head, around her neck. Then he fed the tongue through the buckle, and she was leashed. He gave a gentle tug, and when she responded promptly, he laughed and petted her hair.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
She led him into the kitchen, careful not to put any strain on her leash, walking at the pace he chose. His eyebrows raised to see a single plate in front of the burning candles, a single chair waiting at the table, but his firm lips said nothing. Dropping into the chair, he released her leash and put his hands behind his head, relaxing.
She served him, pouring a beer into a crystal glass and filling up his plate with a ridiculously large portion. Then she knelt at his side and waited patiently, watching him eat.
“This is delicious. Perfect. You should try some.” He cut another piece of the glazed pork, but paused just before the fork reached his mouth. “Wou
ld you like a bite?”
“Yes, please.” She opened her mouth receptively.
With a wicked grin, he finished the bite. Chuckling, he cut another piece and almost ate it, but then relented and brought the fork down to her. When she leaned forward to take it, he pulled it away. Hunger and frustration made her pout.
“Open your mouth.”
This time she waited for him to bring it all the way to her. He held it there, in her open and salivating mouth for a few long heartbeats.
“Close,” he ordered, and she did. Pulling the fork clean from her mouth, he went back to eating while she chewed.
After that he fed her between his own bites. She had never realized how much some freedoms were taken for granted, but having to eat at his pace and his choice aggravated and aroused her in ways she had not imagined. He let her drink from his beer several times.
For dessert she brought him a bowl of his favorite—strawberries and cream, fresh and cold from the refrigerator. But when he offered her a spoonful, she shook her head and pressed her face into his lap, begging for her own favorite dessert.
Laughing, he undid his pants and pulled out his cock. She took it into her mouth eagerly, pressing up against his leg and straddling his workboot. He pulled her head back and gave her a spoonful of cream, some spilling and running down her chin. His eyes glowed at the sight, and she felt his approval in the stiffening of his cock.
The mixture of flavors was intoxicating, and she found herself suckling at him, wanting him to climax and add a new flavor. Again he fed her a spoonful of cream, but his hand was less steady, and she felt a cool splash on her breasts. She moved her head in eager thrusts, grinding her clitoris against the rough leather of his boot, her fists clenched behind her in ecstasy.
She could tell he wanted more wetness, more depth. He tugged at the leash around her neck, pulling it down. She bounced between its pressure and his stiff cock, in time with his labored breaths, until he locked his hand on a downward stroke and held her still. Then he came in her mouth, the hot, wet, salty water of life pumping into her in spurts and gushes.
Crushed against his boot and spilling wetness even as he filled her mouth, she climaxed so hard she forgot to swallow. Afterwards she did, hugging his leg, and licking him clean until his cock was soft and gentle again. He stroked her hair and made contented sounds while she put his cock away and fastened his pants. Then she laid her head in his lap, and felt at peace again.
Slowly he finished his beer, taking his time. His hands seemed unsteady for a while. He offered her a drink, but she turned it down, preferring the memory of the taste of him.
He showed her his empty glass, so she stood up and got him another beer. When she came back with it, he pulled her into his lap, so she curled up there, her head on his chest, while he drank at an easy pace. She was happy pressing up against him, drawing warmth through his clothes, watching the kitchen grow dark as the day faded into night.
“You really were a good girl,” he said finally. Together they stood up, and he took the leash in his hand and led her into the bedroom. Guiding her onto the bed, on her hands and knees, he tied the belt to a bedpost. Then he dropped his trousers and knelt behind her, rubbing his cock between her legs until it was stiff again. She was still wet, had never really stopped being wet, so he penetrated her easily and comfortably. He fucked her from behind, humping her like a dog, until they both came again, gasping together for breath.
He had the strength to pull the belt over her head before he collapsed onto the bed. Freed, she pulled up the covers while he lay insensate, and cuddled up against him. He wrapped an arm around her, and together in the dark room they drifted into sleep.
Chapter Nine
He spent the next week sleeping at her place. Their interactions were easy and normal, and so was the sex. Simple intercourse, comforting and pleasing, with plenty of hugs and kisses. It should have been perfect, it was, actually, in every way, and yet as the week ran out, she felt the distance creeping back.
She hid it from both of them with expertise borne of long practice. How could he know, when even she did not? How could he speak what she would not acknowledge? To pretend everything was fine was so much easier than facing the subtle ghosts of discontent. Like any man, he could only read the surface, and so he was happy while she secretly rebuilt the walls of despair.
Or so she thought, until Saturday morning. He was frisky, but she pushed him away, telling him he could at least wait until bedtime.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and of course she said yes. But he had only asked to get her attention. Watching her closely to see her reaction, he opened the leather satchel he carried his work-gear in and brought out two objects. They dropped on the bedspread in a pile, with the shimmering clank of loose metal.
Handcuffs. Two pairs of them. The mere sight of the flat gray metal sent electricity down her spine. They made her think of the belt buckle.
He had not missed it. “Take off your clothes,”
She could stop it now, but she didn’t. Even while she tried to think of the words that would make him flinch and pull away, her hands loosened her nightgown and let it fall. The belt was there in his hands, idly sliding back and forth, already doubled and ready to feed on her soft flesh. The sight mesmerized her.
“Get on the bed,” he commanded, his voice dark and low.
She managed some resistance, standing still at least. But he came up behind her and whispered in his ordinary voice, “We both know what you need.” With that she crumpled, climbing onto the bed on her hands and knees.
He pulled her back until she was sitting on her heels. Then he guided her left hand back so she could grasp her left foot. The same with the right, and he brought up the cuffs, fastening one pair to each wrist and ankle. The cold metal on her skin prodded at her consciousness, a strange and incomprehensible sensation.
He pushed her head forward, so her hair hung loose and flowing around her face. His fingers trailed gently down her back, barely touching her, and she shivered.
“Tell me what you need.” The darkness mixed with tenderness in his voice. “Tell me what naughty girls get.”
Beaten until they scream, her heart pounded. But what she said was, “Fucked.” Let him sate himself on her, so that the darkness of her true desire would go unnoticed.
Teasingly, his fingers gently stroked her pubic hair. “Fuck me,” she begged, and a single digit pushed its tip inside her.
“Yes,” she moaned, making all the sounds of desire. But her clitoris would not lie for her. It did not swell and moisten at his touch.
“That’s not what you want.” His logic was hard and unyielding. “Not yet.” His finger probed at her.
“Yes,” she pleaded, making her voice wet and inviting. “It is. Fuck me hard.” Men liked it when you talked like that. Soon he would force his way into her, and then everything would be under her control again.
“Maybe I don’t want to fuck you. Maybe I just want to beat you.”
Her body responded with immediate lubrication. Betrayed, she still hoped that he would settle for sex, right up until the belt lashed down on her back.
She bit her lip, stifling a cry. Now she was truly wet and ready. Surely he could tell, his finger still inside her.
But the belt struck again, and she whimpered.
“Tell me what bad girls get,” he asked again, and now his voice was dangerous with darkness.
“Beaten,” she whispered, her own voice coming out a well of blackness and desire. Paradoxically, she hoped that he would be appeased by her surrender and take her now, even while something deep inside her whispered back, not yet.
As if he could hear that inner voice, he chuckled and hit her again. She had no defenses, no hopes, she could only submit until he was done with her.
She lost count after the third lash, her concentration focused on the finger still inside her. From its subtle position, she could tell when a blow was about to land, and how hard it would be. Mi
nistering to it with her thighs, stroking and pleasing it, she tried to placate the belt. But it did not work.
“Please,” she sobbed at last when the pain was almost more than she could take. Her back was on fire, her muscles sore and aching from the tension of fearing the next blow. “Please,” she cried, without adding any negotiation or condition, no calculation in her plea for mercy.
The belt paused. She could feel his finger still stirring inside her, hear his heavy breathing. But the minute she formed the hope that he would now fuck her, she knew it was too soon.
He pushed on her shoulder with his right hand, the belt negligently brushing against her burning back and making her tremble. His penetrating finger pulled up, and she had to fall forward, her face into the bed, her buttocks high in the air. His left thumb went into her anus, and he gripped her like a vise. Holding her in place, he proceeded to beat her buttocks with the same measured blows.
She sobbed in frustration that he had found a way to continue torturing her, but soon enough the stinging pain dominated her again.
This time, she did not have to speak, her glowing buttocks and choked sobs speaking for her. His hand drew out of her, but immediately returned in comfort, massaging her red and glowing cheeks.
She had given him everything, submitted to his discipline and punishment. Surely now he would reward her with sex, no longer just a cessation of the beating, but a prize earned by her suffering. But even as she felt it, she knew it was still short of what he demanded. Or rather, what she hoped he would demand.
“Lie down,” he said, tenderly. She fell to one side, and he helped her roll over onto her back. Then he pressed her thighs apart, exposing her like a butterfly.
He dangled the belt over her, dragging it slowly up her body, sliding between her thighs, across her belly, bouncing off her breasts, slipping over her throat and onto her face.
“Kiss it,” he commanded, and when she did she could taste herself on it, a little wetness from below.
La Ceinture Page 5