by Desiree Holt
After looking over the implements for a moment, he selects something softer—but not the absolute softest thing we have—plus the extra soft one he always uses to warm up my skin. We return to the bedroom, and I hold out my hands.
Our eyes meet as he passes the floggers into my possession.
“On your knees.” I gesture with the handles towards the foot of the bed.
Ian takes a deep breath, then does as I’ve ordered. He faces the footboard just as I have countless times before, and kneels at my feet.
Idly, I run the tip of my thumb up and down one of the handles. I’ve caught glimpses of Ian when I’ve knelt for him, when I’ve surrendered to his command, and his eyes are almost always heavy with arousal by this point, his expression and his posture radiating a kind of power, a primal hunger that only awakens when we play like this.
I…don’t feel much. Nothing, really. But I’m still getting the hang of being in charge. Walking in stilettos took a while before it was second nature. So will this.
With the softer flogger, which is little more than flat, deerskin tails that only leave a mark with a hell of a lot of effort, I smack the back of his left shoulder. Right. Left. A faint hint of pink blooms on his skin and, after a few minutes, I decide he’s sufficiently warmed up. I set the implement on the bed beside its more severe counterpart.
Sliding my hand over the back of his neck, I whisper, “Can you handle more?”
Ian nods slowly.
“Answer me, Ian.”
He clears his throat and lifts his chin enough to look at me through his lashes. “Yes,” he says. “I can… I can handle more.”
I smile. “Good.”
His eyes track my movements as I reach for the other flogger. The stiffer tails hiss against each other as I pick it up, and Ian shudders.
He breaks eye contact first, bowing his head as he rolls his shoulders.
I stand behind him and raise the flogger.
Avoid the spine, the other Dom’s voice echoes in my head from months ago, and the kidneys. And don’t let the tails wrap around.
When the tails land on his left side, Ian grunts. I bring them down again, this time on his right side, and he recoils, sucking in a hiss of breath. A third strike, and now every muscle in his back and arms quivers, but his ribs don’t move. Only after a good half minute or so does he release his breath, and his chest slowly shrinks with the long exhalation. I let him draw another, hold it, and release it before I raise the flogger again and let fly.
He grunts again, swearing quietly.
“Like that?” I ask.
He pulls in a breath, and again he holds it. His body tenses.
“I asked you a question, Ian,” I say sharply.
“Yes,” he says. “I…like it.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “Do you want more?”
For only a second, he hesitates before answering, “Yes.”
But it’s that second of hesitation I hear, not his answer, and I lower the flogger. This is hot, I can’t deny that, but…not in the way it should be. I want him to savour the pain the way I do, to cry out when the tails hit and then beg for more before they hit again.
The fact is, he doesn’t like it. I suspect he’ll tolerate it if he must but, if I give him a choice now, I’m certain he’ll choose to stop this. He won’t say anything on his own, though. The nipple clamps must have been far more than he could handle if he had to resort to a safe word.
It’s not hypocrisy. Ian has no qualms about giving me all the pain I desire because I want it. He knows I want it. But, as he braces for the next hit, I can’t ignore the obvious—he doesn’t enjoy it. Not the way I do.
I lean past him to set the flogger on the foot of our bed. Ian keeps his head bowed but turns it just slightly, watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Stand up, Ian.”
Using the footboard for balance, he rises, pausing as if to make sure his legs will keep their promise to hold him up.
“Turn around.”
He does, and our eyes meet. His are wet—he’s not crying, but the bite of a flogger will make anyone’s eyes water. Sweat glistens on his flushed face, neck, and chest. A single drop slides down his temple, and he sweeps his tongue across his lips.
I moisten my own lips. “Put me on my knees.”
Ian blinks. “I… What?”
“You heard me, Ian.” I take a breath. “Put me on my knees.”
His eyebrows jump. For a moment, his expression is the very picture of confusion. I waver between commanding him and begging him to do as I’ve told him, but I can’t bring myself to speak at all.
After a moment, he tightens his jaw. Raises his chin so there’s a greater height difference between us. He lifts a hand and, for a moment, it hovers in the air inches from my face. I lower my head in the faintest parody of a nod, and Ian curves his hand around the back of my neck. He moves it up to my tightly bound hair. My scalp tingles in anticipation.
Taking a breath, he slowly closes his fingers around the base of my ponytail. His grasp is gentle, undemanding, uncertain, not even enough to sting.
His eyes search mine for permission. For guidance. For something.
I grant him nothing.
He tightens his fingers around my hair, gripping it firmly but not roughly, and my heart pounds. Seconds tick by.
Then Ian twists my hair in his hand and forces me to my knees.
Chapter Four
From where he stands and where I kneel, our eyes meet again. My heart keeps time with the seconds that tick by while Ian and I remain silent and unmoving.
He moistens his lips. “I’m…not sure what you want me to do.”
My heart beats even faster, and I speak softly. “I think you know what to do.”
His fingers twitch in my hair.
Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I can barely breathe as he strokes himself slowly with his free hand, his cock hardening just inches from my face as his tight grip on my hair keeps me from getting any closer.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, and the sharp edge of his voice sends a pleasant shiver through me.
Forcing myself to look away from his growing erection, I flick my eyes upward. “I want whatever you do.”
“Good girl,” he growls softly. I squeeze my thighs together as his eyes narrow and a grin spreads across his lips. “I want you to suck my cock.” He lifts his hand from himself and his other out of my hair, and adds, “Right now.”
The last two words aren’t even off his lips before I have him in both my hands and my mouth. The relief of this simple shift, of going from inaction to stroking and sucking my husband’s—my Dom’s—cock, is as powerful as a hard-earned orgasm. Someone moans, and I realise it’s me, and my blood pounds and my pussy aches as the heat and salt of his skin on my tongue arouse me beyond words. He groans, and my scalp stings as he grabs my ponytail again, and that mild pain drives me on. I give him more, and he grips my hair even tighter.
“Oh, God, yes,” he breathes. “That’s perfect. Just perfect, Bridget.”
His approval brings another moan from me. Every inch of my skin is covered in goose bumps, and my heart is beating so fast I’m sure he can hear it, just like I can feel his pulse against my tongue and palms.
He starts moving his hips, rocking them back and forth like he’s fucking my mouth, and when I pick up speed, so does he. I grip him tighter, flutter my tongue faster, and he is almost thrusting now, almost forcing his cock into my throat. My jaw aches, but I don’t care. Not when Ian loves what I’m doing. I don’t dare stop until he tells me to, and I silently beg him to let me make him come.
“Yes, you beautiful fucking whore, just like that,” he slurs. My heart beats even faster, especially when his cock gets even harder in my hands, and the telltale saltiness that meets my tongue nearly makes me lose control.
Please don’t tell me to stop. Please, please, let me make you come. Please…
Ian groans again, and he murmurs, “
Oh God, Bridget, yes…” just before semen floods my tongue. Heat radiates from my clit as his orgasm and his approval drive me insane.
He stops me with a hand on my forehead and, when I look up, he nods, so I release him and sit back on my heels. Ian shudders, rolling his shoulders as he catches his breath.
Then he reaches down and strokes my hair. “Nicely done. Exactly what I’d expect from my dirty little whore.”
Shivering, I smile. “Thank you.”
He returns the smile. Then his fingertips brush my ponytail holder. “Take that out. You don’t need it anymore.”
I reach up and carefully slide it off. Then I set it in his outstretched hand as my hair tumbles over my shoulders.
“That’s more like it,” he says, and tosses it aside. “Now stand up.”
I push myself to my feet, resisting the urge to wince as blood rushes back into my feet. As soon as I’m standing, Ian cups my face in both hands and kisses me. He’s not forceful or demanding now, but I suspect that’ll change soon enough.
He breaks the kiss and nods towards the full-length mirror on the wall. “Stand in front of that.”
I turn to go, and he slaps my ass hard enough to make it sting. I yelp in surprise, and throw a grin back at him as he follows me to the mirror.
When I stop, he wraps his arms around me from behind. For a moment, he says nothing. He watches our reflections as he runs his hands up and down the corset, as he traces the thin strip of black satin connecting my thigh-highs to the garter belt. He slides his palm over my stomach, the thick leather keeping me from feeling more than the faintest vibration and dull pressure, but my muscles contract as if he’s just dragged his nails across them.
“I love the way this thing looks on you,” he growls, meeting my eyes in the mirror as he hooks a finger beneath the bow at the top of the laces. His stubbled chin grazes my neck. “But I don’t want anything getting between me and your skin. Understood?”
“Yes.” I bring up both shaking hands and tug at the laces. The bow unravels and, as Ian kisses his way up the side of my neck, I nearly unravel with it. The laces vibrate as they slide through the eyelets. As the corset loosens at the top, I can breathe deeper, and it’s a damned good thing because the way he’s kissing my neck—soft, light, letting his hot breath and abrasive stubble brush my skin—is driving me insane, and I suck in a deep, dizzying breath when his teeth find my earlobe.
The laces separate, and the corset slides down.
“I think we’re done with this,” he whispers, his breath rushing past my ear, and he tugs the corset until it falls to my feet. Warm hands meet newly bared skin, and I feel more than hear him say, “Much better.” Locking eyes with me in the mirror, he adds, “You know what I see when I look at you like this?”
I swallow. “No.”
“I see a blank canvas,” he purrs. He trails his finger along my collarbone, touching just lightly enough to make me shiver. “All kinds of marks and welts”—his hand drifts down towards my breast—“just waiting to happen.”
I whimper, as much from his words as his finger drawing a featherlight circle around my hard nipple.
He goes on, “I can already see all the lines I’m going to leave on your back.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. “And I plan to leave all kinds of marks tonight.”
Closing my eyes, I whimper again as a shiver ripples through me. Ian is always true to his word. As long as I obey him, he’ll do exactly as he’s promised.
Keeping one arm around my waist, he shifts so he’s beside me instead of behind me. He slides his hand between my thighs, and I shudder as his fingertips drift lightly along my pussy lips. Then his middle finger bends, probes gently, slips inside me.
“Oh, Bridget.” He drops a light kiss on my shoulder, and I open my eyes to meet his in the mirror again.
“You are so…”
A second finger.
“So…”
Both fingers slide deeper.
“Wet.” He turns his head, so I turn mine, and now our eyes meet without the aid of the mirror, and his fingers bend just right inside me as he whispers, “I am going to fuck you so goddamned hard tonight, just the way a screaming, moaning slut likes it. Because that’s how you like it, isn’t it?”
I can only moan, and he silences me with a deep kiss in the same moment his palm presses against my clit.
He breaks the kiss and, when he speaks again, his lips just touch mine. “You like this, don’t you? Doing every fucking thing I tell you?”
Swallowing hard, I nod. “Yes.”
“And you like pain,” he murmurs, and I’m distantly aware of a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Almost as much as you like”—he presses harder with his palm and moves his fingers faster—“being fucked, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whimper. I force myself to open my eyes and meet his. “I love it.”
He kisses me, and I squirm as his fingers slip free of my pussy. I have to bite back a protest when his palm leaves my clit and, as he completely breaks contact, everywhere his body had been touching mine is cool with the acute awareness of his absence.
He nods sharply towards the closet. “Nipple clamps and a flogger. Now.”
I step over the corset that’s been around my feet, and I practically sprint across the short expanse of space to the open closet door. My hands are unsteady with excitement as I get out the clamps we used earlier. I get one of the soft warm-up floggers along with my favourite of everything hanging on that wall—a stiff, knotted cat-o’-nine-tails. That thing is always sure to hurt like hell, and my mouth waters just imagining it.
With the requested toys, I return to where Ian is waiting for me. He takes them and sets the floggers on the bed, but keeps the clamps in his hand.
He cups my chin with his other hand and lifts it, so we’re as close to eye to eye as we can get. “Do you want me to flog you, Bridget?”
“Please,” is all I can say, but then I somehow manage to add, “if that’s what you want.”
“Good girl.” He smiles and, still grasping my chin, leans in to kiss me. “I think you should be rewarded for that blow job you gave me,” he says, pausing to tease the corner of my mouth with the tip of his tongue. “That kind of obedience, and that kind of talent, should never go unrewarded.”
And out of nowhere, without warning, a clamp sinks its cold, metal teeth into my nipple. I gasp and throw my head back, shuddering violently as that focal point of pain awakens every nerve ending in my body. Before I can even think of recovering and adapting to this shift in reality, another clamp bites into my other nipple, and I grab Ian’s shoulders as my knees buckle. My breasts press against his chest, which only stimulates my burning nipples that much more.
Though Ian supports me with an arm around my waist to keep me from collapsing completely, he says sharply, “Stand up, Bridget.”
In an instant, my knees remember what to do, and I stand on my own two feet. Still shaking, still reeling, but standing.
“Good girl,” he says with a slight nod. “Much better.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“All’s forgiven.” He kisses me again. I pull in a breath as he cups my breast, drawing light arcs with his thumb that narrowly miss my nipple and the clamp holding it. “And now I’m going to put you on your knees”—he flicks the end of the clamp with his thumb, sending a red-hot lightning bolt through me—“and flog you.”
Between the pain and the promise of more, I can barely breathe, never mind speak, but I manage to say, “Thank you.”
He kisses me one more time. “On your knees in front of the footboard.”
I nod. Ian lets me go, and I kneel in the same place I had him kneel earlier.
“Hold on to the rail,” he says. I reach up and close my fingers around the top rail.
He warms up my back with the softer flogger. This step is necessary, I know it is, but it frustrates me. Doesn’t really bore me—the anticipation of more is enough to keep me on pins and needles—but e
very flat, painless slap of the wide tails makes my teeth grind. I want pain, damn it. I want it to hurt. I want it to burn.
Finally, he stops, and he says the words I’ve been dying to hear. “Are you ready for more?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please. Please, more.”
He puts the handle of the flogger under my chin and lifts it, making me look straight up into his eyes. “I said, are you ready for more, you fucking slut?”
I sweep my tongue across my lips and swallow hard, which presses the underside of my jaw against the flogger handle. “If you want me to take more, yes.”
Ian smiles, his approval sending sparks down my spine. He draws the flogger up, letting the tails brush my clamped nipples, and he laughs softly when I whimper.
“Stay there,” he says.
My pulse soars when he reaches for the cat-o’-nine-tails. The stiff, knotted tails rattle as he takes it from the bed and into—then past—my peripheral vision. I’m tempted to lick my lips, but I resist that urge. I need this too much to ruin it by biting my tongue and inviting an entirely different brand of pain. So I close my eyes, breathe slowly, and wait.
The first blow is so painful it borders on orgasmic. I’ve been craving it, aching for it, and now I have it, and the release is dizzying.
Ian’s voice is distant as he says, “You like that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. And louder this time, “Yes. Yes, I love it.”
I’m rewarded with another smack, another sting, another burning arc across my left shoulder. A second later, my right. Each blow is harder than the last, raking across burning flesh and driving cries, nearly sobs, from my lips. Everything in my field of vision blurs, and my eyes keep rolling back, so I finally give up and close them, and the darkness focuses all my other senses on the next strike. And the next. And the next.
My back bows in response to the intense, delicious pain. My clamped nipples brush the cool rails of the metal footboard, and I suck in a breath as more endorphins flood my saturated system.
“Oh, you’re so fucking hot like that,” he says in a hoarse, barely audible whisper. “I’ll bet you’re wet enough to fuck, aren’t you?”