I supported him as I best I could. After all, I was the asset who distracted, entertained, and relieved him of burdens.
Suddenly, he moved, flipping me over onto my belly and lying over me. My heart pounded, and my lungs were crushed by his weight. He sniffed my hair while, below, his rock hardness pressed against my bottom. The warning had been given—he wanted to unleash himself on me.
“Do it,” I blurted.
I recognised the signs. The lack of foreplay, sexual nuances, or anything smacking of a romantic warm-up. He didn’t need my permission. Quite the contrary, he could take what he wanted without any consideration for me. Nevertheless, I was his wife, and he had to hear my acceptance from time to time, especially when his sadism reared its head. Not an ugly head. I found it quite fulfilling and alluring. However, I needed to warm to him.
“What do you want?” he asked, as if I had the choice.
I hated making those kinds of decisions. It served to remind me I submitted and he liked me to feel helpless. “Whatever you want, Sir.”
He opted for flogging me. The softening up of my tender flesh. He laid the flogger across my back and bottom as I lay naked and face down on the bed. In the end, the hard surface of the hairbrush met his requirements. I buried my face in a pillow and took his blows, counting them out in a muffled voice. Such a hussy, I was sopping by the time the handle of the brush broke off.
“Shit!” He tossed the two pieces to one side. “Iron-clad arse, is that what this is?” He squeezed my fiery cheeks.
“It’s not my fault,” I whimpered.
He snorted in a derisory fashion. “How many did we reach?”
We? “Eighty–five, Sir.”
Days like this showed me my pain threshold shifted meteorically upwards. He rubbed oil into my inflamed cheeks, cold lubricant between my crack, and entered me.
Pausing to let me accommodate his girth, he snarled in my ear, “I’m going to get one of those inflatable butt plugs and pump you up inside. Stretch this arsehole wide for me.” My belly flip-flopped at his threat, and he pushed past my sphincter muscle with ease.
The sensation of fullness overwhelmed, and I moaned with the sensations—sore arse on the outside, soon to be sore on the inside.
“Yes, Master,” I said, while thinking do it, do it, do it.
“Are you going to come for me?” He grunted between the exertions and the robust dips of his cock.
“Yes. Yes!”
“Then start begging, and I might let you.”
Begging! How I loved to beg.
“I’m yours, Sir. Please let me show you.” I repeatedly offered my orgasm as if it was a sacrifice for him.
Each time he greeted my plea with a “Wait,” and accompanied his demand with a tickle of my sensitive clitoris. He moved his finger around, lifting my little organ out of its covering, exposing it to his merciless teasing.
Stimulated to the point of euphoria, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I muttered small sounds of delirium, shaking in a fever of arousal. Sheets crumpled in my hands and, above me, Jason bore down, enjoying my crippling hunger for an orgasm. I squeezed his cock. I could drive him wild, too.
Sliding in and out, he increased his pace, using the full length of his shaft to delve into my belly, forcing me to become more pliable and giving. Smacking his hips against my bottom, his rough antics continued until he relented. “You are mine. Mine. Show me.”
I did, quite spectacularly, as if I was his puppet on many strings yanked all over the place. He pumped his vital fluid, bathing me with his hot and creamy essence, which, I suspected, would leak out for some time to come.
Nestled in his arms, I asked, “Is your day any better, Sir?”
“It’s ending quite well,” he admitted.
“Seriously, you are alright? I worry.” I nuzzled against him.
“Gem, what’s with the anxieties?”
“You go to the gym, you eat well, and all that. But healthy-looking people drop dead when they’re stressed....”
“Babe. I go for a checkup every year. My doc things I’m inhuman. Work…is work. I can deal with it while I have you.” He kissed my forehead.