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“Sadie.”
I snap my head up and open my eyes. He kneels on the bed beside me, but he doesn’t touch me.
I can’t speak, so I lift questioning eyes to his. My eyes catch the glimmer of metal in the light. The wheel that looks like a spur sits beside him.
“Remember to breathe,” he warns.
Rearing his arm back, he brings something swishing through the air. I don’t see what he’s holding, but the fire he lights on my ass makes me scream against the gag. But he only strikes once. Leaning close to me, I’m overcome with his masculine, powerful scent when his hand anchors on my waist as he did before.
“You wanted to know what it was like,” he whispers against the shell of my ear. His warm breath tickles, and a shiver runs through me. “Taste my lash.” An invitation.
I brace, knowing he’s going to strike me again before he does. He stands behind me, one hand braced on my lower back, before I hear the whistle of leather through the air and feel a line of pain on my backside. It stings, it burns, but before I recover, another flare of pain follows. With slow, steady blows, he whips me. I’ve never experienced this before, but I know intuitively that he’s holding back, and that he could strike much harder than he is. The large hand on my back trembles slightly, as if he needs to hold onto me to temper the blows, and the spanking continues.
Red hot pain crisscrosses my ass. I wince when the leather strikes metal, the fullness in me flaring. Instinctively I try to turn away but a harsh word I don’t know makes me pull back to the position he put me in, the next strike of his strap the hardest he’s given me yet.
“Do not twist,” he raps out. Three rapid, vicious swipes of the lash correct my behavior, reminding me to keep my position. I tug on the restraints at my wrists, but the belt holds fast.
I cry, but the gag mutes my cries. My cheeks are wet. I blink, surprised, when I realize I’m crying. He doesn’t stop, but the tempo of his punishment changes.
The hand that braced him slides down my abdomen. My hips rise automatically, silently pleading for him to touch me where I need him to. His strong fingers glide through my folds.
“You like this,” he whispers in my ear, stroking faster. My hips buck. I push against his fingers, needing him not to stop. I shake my head. Denying. I can’t like this. Why would I like something like this?
My response is met with another lash from his strap, my muted scream crying out in pain.
“Do not lie to me.” He ceases stroking, and rests his hand on my inner thigh, so close to where I need him, the top of his hand creates torturous pressure. “Do not ever lie to me, woman. What I give you now is a taste. Mercy. If you lie to me, Sadie,” his mouth is at me ear. “I will not show mercy.”
His hand crashes onto my naked skin on the underside of my heated bottom. I wince and cry.
“You like this,” he repeats, not asking, as his touch comes back between my legs. The feel of his fingers makes me moan. I slump against the restraints, spreading my legs wider. Silently begging him to touch me.
“Mmm,” he groans. “There is my answer.” He expertly strokes me with his fingers. “Such a very good girl. I promised you pleasure tonight if you behaved, but your pleasure will be on my terms. Do you understand me?”
I nod, my eyes closing as I succumb to the delicious friction he builds between my thighs. Stroking, stroking, my need builds more intensely with every second that passes.
“No climaxing without my permission, Sadie,” he orders, never stopping the endless pleasure he brings. “If you feel you are close, you are to ask permission.”
I feel him unfasten the gag. It falls, my mouth free. I open and close it and lick my lips.
“Do you understand?”
“No, sir,” I tell him honestly. I’m not defying him. I really don’t understand. I hang my head, ashamed.
He freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I—I don’t know how to tell if I’m close, sir.” When he doesn’t respond, I go on. “You told me I should never lie to you. So I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never—cl—climaxed before,” I stammer. I’m shivering, and suddenly cold. “So how would I know I’m getting close?”
“Never climaxed before,” he repeats.
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
He swears. Then he’s silent for a moment before he speaks again. “You mean to tell me you’ve never even brought yourself pleasure?”
My cheeks flush. I’m mortified. I can’t look at him. “No, sir,” I whisper.
The heel of his palm rests between my thighs, and I throb against him. I want him to stroke me again. I need him to stroke me again. “You mean to tell me,” he repeats, his voice getting deeper, gravelly. “You’ve never experienced any sexual pleasure?”
