“Good girl,” he said, his eyes bright with approval.
It was Saturday night. Now that his ban from The Gallery had been lifted, we could have gone there, but he didn’t want to.
I didn’t want to, either. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Well, not exactly where I wanted to be. I moaned as I shifted on the lubed phallus. “How long will I have to…”
He put a finger over my lips. “Enough. Don’t make me gag you.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” I bit my lip, trying not to talk so much. We were still working on that.
“Hold up your wrists for me,” he said.
I obeyed, knowing I was about to give up all control of my body. Or rather, his body, the body that belonged mostly to him. I still used my body to work for Goodluck, to move around in the city, but I’d come to think of my body as Fort’s, so it was only on loan while I was away from him. When I returned home, when we were together, I was his. He loved me, just as he promised.
And he hurt me, but we both liked that part.
He held my left hand, turning it over against his palm. “We’d better take this off before we get started.”
I’d been wearing a watch since shortly after we’d returned from Pisa, a timepiece that rarely left my wrist. Goodluck might not like watches, but I treasured mine.
Fort unbuckled the thin, black leather band, the watch face reflecting the stark light in the ceiling above me. The face was clear, just a thin sheet of glass, so all the miniscule working parts inside the watch were bared to the world. Fort had designed it for me, a promise to be open with me, to connect even if his inner workings were complicated. The fact that the style became a runaway bestseller, the season’s most coveted accessory, well, that was wonderful. But not as wonderful as the symbolism of that watch around my wrist.
He placed it on a shelf, near enough that I could keep an eye on it. Even when he took it off my wrist, I didn’t want it out of my sight.
“Okay, Sparkles.” His rough voice thrilled me. “Arms by your sides.”
I couldn’t see his face as he leaned down to fasten my wrists into cuffs at each side of the chair, but I imagined he wore the dangerous, assessing look I’d come to know well. He moved behind me then, and I squeezed on the shaft inside me as I heard him undressing. He reappeared at my side, yes, wearing that look—and nothing else.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Maybe. Probably. “Yes, Sir,” I said aloud.
He knelt in front of me, a pair of sleek, black, over-the-knee socks in his hands. “Then let’s get you dressed.”
He held my gaze as he gathered the first sock and pulled it onto my toes. He smoothed the thin cotton up my legs, over my calves, then up over my knees where they ended in a line of embroidered flowers. Sometimes there were bows instead, and sometimes sewn-on jewels. I hoped the flowers meant he was in a romantic mood.
“How does that feel, baby?” he asked. “Are you getting ready for me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He started putting on the other sock. “After I hurt you, where does my cock go?”
“In my ass, Sir, because I’m a maso-slut.”
He smiled, giving the second sock’s cuff a playful tug. “You are, aren’t you? Thank God.”
He spent a few minutes pinching and twisting my nipples. It hurt so much worse than wearing clamps. At least clamps only gave one burst of pain before my nipples settled into numbness, but with this type of play, the pain went on and on. When I moaned for a break, he slapped my breasts instead, making me squirm on the unforgiving shaft in my ass. My hands were cuffed, so the fists I made were useless to push my tormentor away.
“Do you want more?” he asked. “Or would you like to move on to your caning?”
My ass clenched and my legs trembled. “You just caned me last week.”
“Oh, no. Don’t you want the cane?” He started unbuckling my cuffs, not really sounding all that sympathetic. “How about a strapping instead?”
I studied him, wondering what the catch was. “A strapping and what else?” I asked.
“A strapping, with a strap. Because I’m a kind sadist, I’ll let you choose between that and the cane.”
“You’re not really a kind sadist.” I whimpered as he lifted me from the chair. The shaft slid out of my ass, leaving me empty, yet full of dread. He was still going to fuck me there, after he did something hurty, because he liked me to be all opened up with pain.
“Okay, not a kind sadist,” he admitted. “But I’m a sadist who loves you. So you get to pick: cane or strap?”
“I’ll take the strap, Sir.” Was there any question? Strappings were much easier to handle. They stung and they were painful, but they didn’t feel like your ass was being slashed to ribbons by slices of fire.
“The strap it is,” he said, leading me to the St. Andrew’s cross. “Of course, since you chose the less painful option, I think I’d better use some naughty cream too.”
My eyes went wide, and a flush heated my cheeks. “But you didn’t say—”
“No, I didn’t say, but you don’t have a choice if I decide to do mean things, do you?”
I moved my hands behind me to cover my butt. Naughty cream was a pepper-based compound he rubbed into my ass cheeks to intensify the heat of a spanking. Even after the spanking, the burn from the cream lingered, sometimes for hours.
I mashed my lips shut so I wouldn’t get myself in trouble by begging for a reprieve. He was already screwing a punitive attachment into the X-frame, a short, rounded bar perpendicular to the frame that I had to straddle. Of course, it was placed in such a way that any slouching or squirming resulted in uncomfortable pressure against my pussy.
When he was done, he stood back, gesturing to the rack. “You know what to do.”
I swallowed another whimper and fitted my stomach and thighs against the wooden structure. The bar pressed between my pussy lips as I straddled it. Fort checked to see if it was snug enough, then tsked. I was so wet.
“I think you liked my idea about the naughty cream,” he said.
“No, Sir. Please—”
He swatted my butt, parted my pussy lips, and ratcheted the bar up another notch. “I can go higher if I need to,” he said. “I can force you onto your toes.”
I shook my head, for all the good it did me. Any movement pressed my tender pubic area against the hard bar between my legs, and once he applied the stinging cream…
I took deep breaths as he strapped me down tight. Wrist cuffs made my arms reach high, ankle cuffs spread my feet below. Ow, ow, the bar, my pussy…
He bound my stomach against the front of the cross with a belt around my middle, cinching that tight as well. His cock poked against me as he worked, but he wouldn’t take me yet, not until I was tearful and marked.
He stepped back, taking a few moments to appreciate my helplessness as I stood in my bonds. I was pinned to the cross like a butterfly, my pussy hurting now, instead of my asshole. I leaned my head back, feeling my loose curls slide across my should
ers. I heard the snick of a cap and the rustle of a latex glove. Lube? God, I wished it were lube. No, it was the stinging cream.
He applied it right in the middle of each cheek, small smears that he rubbed in with gentle fingers. The first time he’d done it, I’d thought, oh, this is nothing. Now I knew better.
He put the cream away and took off the latex glove, then produced the strap, giving each of my thighs a series of slaps while he waited for the cream to heat on my skin. Each slap made me jerk, pressing the bar against my slit. My clit felt swollen and hot—and not all from pain. I bucked against the front of the cross as the heat increased, but I couldn’t touch my clit to anything, which was by design. I’d receive no relief until the punishment was through—and if I didn’t take my punishment well, I’d receive no relief at all, no orgasm permitted. Too horrible to think about.
My ass was heating up in earnest now, and Fort commenced strapping me on my burning bottom. I cried out at each stroke, then twitched and tensed in agony as he made me wait for the next.
“Oh, God,” I gasped, bouncing on the bar. “It hurts. It hurts.”
But it wasn’t enough for it to hurt, not for either of us. He strapped me until I squealed, and then screamed, and then broke down in tears of supplication. It wasn’t that the strokes got any harder or more unbearable. No, it was just that they continued falling, and my ass got hotter and hotter, and I couldn’t move or escape or do anything but beg and cry.
Whack. Pause. Whack. Pause. Whack. Please, please, please.
I bobbed on my toes, ignoring the ache in my pussy, wishing only for this to end so I could get away. When my begging tapered off and I broke down to only crying, he relented and put the strap away. He pulled my hair back, nuzzling my tears.
“Does your ass burn now, baby?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, Sir.” The strapping had ended, but the naughty cream ensured that the sting went on and on.
“I’m going to let you go now. Tell me the rule.”
“No touching my bottom.”