She welcomed that too.
She was lost in it. In him. The tug of her hair, the thrust of his arousal, the escalating need between her thighs.
She moved to touch herself, to get some sort of relief from that building pressure there.
‘No,’ he said, tugging sharp and hard. ‘You may not pleasure yourself. Not yet. I will take my pleasure first.’
She shivered, then went back to focusing all her energy on him. And then suddenly, the bucking of his hips became wild, and they both unravelled together. He growled his release, and she swallowed him down, as naturally as if she had trained for it.
And then, she found herself being propelled back, as he righted his breeches. Disguising himself from her.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘But it is not enough to redeem you. You must receive your punishment.’
‘Must I?’
‘Yes. You must, because you were strong enough to withstand it.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
And then she found herself being picked up, turned over his lap. His large hand over the globe of her rear again. He smoothed his hand over her skin, before removing it. And when he brought it back down, it was with a resounding crack.
She cried out. Pain spread over her body, wildfire. And before she could catch her breath, he did it again, and again. But something about the pain brought her focus between her thighs, and the bright hot ache of pleasure there.
And she could not tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. Where the heat turned from a violent fire to an unending need. For it was all the same. Twisting and curling through her body. A torture she never wanted to end. Except she couldn’t endure it. She was wiggling, shifting against him, trying to escape, and trying to get closer all at once. Trying to grind the centre of her desire for him against his muscular thighs.
‘I need...’
‘Not yet,’ he said, bringing his hand down on her hard.
She trembled, shook.
And she found herself going to that place, that glorious place in her that she had built as a girl.
Where no one could touch her. No one and nothing. Because she was the queen of the palace inside her. Because she could handle anything. She could withstand.
Because she was strong.
Because she was a warrior.
She was not weak. She was not broken.
She could take this. She could take him.
It went on and on, and she began to find everything fuzzy around the edges, both more and less real. She
felt wholly and completely connected to her body while also somewhere outside of it. But she was not alone. And that was the most revolutionary aspect of this. He was with her. They were in this together. It was not something being done to her, it was something they were both experiencing. Something holy and completely theirs. That brilliant diamond that she would protect from all else. From all others. It was Beatrice and Briggs, and only them.
And then, he moved his hand, pushing his fingers between her legs and thrusting them deep inside her. She cried out at the invasion, which was perfectly and wholly what she needed. She was slick and accepted him easily, and he thrust forward and withdrew in a steady rhythm, until the combination of being filled by him, and the lingering staying on her flesh tipped her over the edge into a total and complete release.
She found herself shaking violently, unable to stop, babbling incoherently. She grabbed for him, and he gathered her up in his arms. And oh, this was what had been missing. Always. Always.
There had been pain. There had been pleasure. And now he was cradling her as if she was the most precious, singular thing.
He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, where he settled against the headboard, and cradled her naked body across his hard thighs, smoothing his hand up and down her bare back.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
And she went limp, burying her head in his chest as she wept. Piteously and gloriously.