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As she fondled his sagging mass of balls, her lips and tongue discovered the sensitive places that made him gasp and his hips squirm. Leaning back in his chair, he let her be slave to his rising demands until he was ready for her cunt. Then, he pulled her into his lap, where she squatted over the tumescent organ, and let it slide into her wet home. Her tongue made a sensuous journey around his lips, winding their way in and out of his mouth, almost as if she was pleasing a woman’s cunt.
Grasping her rear cheeks, he hung on tightly, squeezing the bruised flesh with such deliberate force that the pain, once subsided, rose again. She groaned without protesting. Rocking on Miles’ cock quelled her discomfort, bouncing, half with the strength of her muscled thighs, and half on the strength of his arms moving her up and down. Her clit rubbed against his pants, igniting the fire at her strategic center.
Miles jerked faster as he came, while Tessa squeezed his spewing prick as tightly as her muscles would allow.
“Auuuuugh! Tessss,” he groaned from his inner depths, sensation tearing through his body, his voice reverberating in her ears.
She ceased her grinding motions so that Miles could catch his breath, and to her delight, discovered that he hadn’t grown soft at all. Moving against him, she exploded into orgasm, squirming, writhing, grinding her pussy on his cock. “Yes, yes, oh yes, Oooo!” She spasmed. “Ooooh ahummm, yes.” Again and again. “Yes yes,” she murmured fitfully. She rocked joyously against him, burrowing down into his crotch until every spasm died away.
Tessa fell against Miles’ chest, pressing her bare breast to his flesh for a first taste of his skin, his aroma, and the softness of his cheek. They remained locked in an exhausted embrace until Tessa’s aching legs became uncomfortable.
“Go to the mirror,” he told her.
“Now?” She wondered why.
“You know the price of hesitation,” he warned.
Smiling sheepishly, Tessa pulled her limp body from his and stretched enough to get the feeling back into her limbs, then gazed again at her nakedness, at her tattered stockings and twisted garter belt, and the rat of tangles that had become her hair.
Miles was on his feet behind her, his sketchbook ready for more work. Apparently sex inspired his creativity.
For nearly two hours he sketched her in various poses, modeling for him with arms over her head, arms behind her, and then with her looking over her shoulder at the marks on her bottom. She bent down in a lewd reprisal of her submissive punishment posture, and forced her to gaze at her bottom for nearly a half hour, confronting the stripes on her ass with curious fascination. For all Miles’ fierce work, there were only four strikes that cut into her with enough force to leave distinguishable remnants, and then another on the side of her thigh that was particularly noticeable. (That was the one he’d laid on when she tried to get away, and had failed.) Each mark was red, the skin unbroken, and from beneath the surface of her flesh, a line of bruises appeared. Running her hands over her wounds produced a most pleasing sensation.
Though such marks are not a common sign of affection or devotion; to Tessa they were as stunning as the gold studs, and as loving as the orgasm that had given her physical pleasure. Unlike the studs, these were personal, unlike the orgasm, they were more lasting.
Late that night, after Miles was finished with the sketches, he called her close to him again. “Before I leave, a reminder,” he said. He picked up the buggy whip that had been lying on table with his charcoal and his paints, and flicked it against her thigh.
“You said you would, didn’t you?” she replied despondently, wincing with fear. The prospect of another punishment was not as exciting as before, now that she understood the depths of pain he required of her.
“You’ll get used to it. Soon, you’ll beg for it Tessa, trust me,” Miles assured her. “But this time, I’ll be kind, you can bend over the back of the chair.”
Motioning her to his overstuffed chair, he pushed her over the back where the cushion comforted her pussy. To her dismay, however, the strikes of the whip hurt even more this time. Not preceded by the warming thongs, she wasn’t primed for pain and the blazing cuts came out of the blue like arrows shot into her flesh.
The six strikes were sheer torture. Only the brief pause between them helped to settle the instantaneous agony that leapt to its feet in her unsuspecting body.
“Gaaaawd!” she shrieked after each one landed. And though she howled with pain, Miles didn’t silence her. When he was finished, tears were streaming down her cheeks. Pulling her to her feet, he surrounded her with one arm, and cupped the new marks so that he could feel the rising welts. He kissed her on the mouth, feeling her soft lips and the tears that threatened to move his dominant heart.
“There’s a bed to sleep in, and plenty of food, I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.
“You won’t be here?”
“You wouldn’t want me to be,” he said shaking his head, a dark smile replacing the tenderness in his expression. He dressed while she silently watched.
When he left, Tessa was consumed with sadness, feeling empty, as if he’d taken something away she couldn’t have without him. And yet, he’d left something special in his wake: the wounds, the stripes, the bruises that marred the perfection of her lovely skin. Just before she lay down to sleep, she viewed them in the mirror again, touching them with her fingers, allowing the intensity contained inside the aching remnants to nurture her fantasies of submission.
Chapter Five
The next three mornings, Miles came to the garret with coffee and something from the bakery to eat. When they’d finished their breakfast, he laid another half-dozen cuts on her ass in ritual fashion; then for several hours she posed for him while he sketched. He kept her naked, except for a silk wrapper she wore when it was too chilly to wear nothing,
Each morning, Tessa waited expectantly for Miles to arrive. Her day didn’t begin until she saw his face and felt her body rush with its now familiar sensuous upheaval. Sequestered in his artist’s garret like a kept woman, she was as selfless as she’d ever been, in a state of bliss she’d only dreamed of when she was most sexually aroused.
Her ass became so tender from the buggy whip that she couldn’t touch her bottom without feeling pain shoot through her. She’d peer at her cheeks in the mirror for long periods of time, sometimes just to view the recent additions as the stripes increased in number. At other times, she wondered where he would mark her next—her thighs, her hips, perhaps her breasts—a thought that made her squeamish and afraid.
Miles liked her inspecting the stripes as if they were trophies. He enjoyed it even more when he was watching her in this little ritual. Becoming aroused, Tessa would play with her pussy, running her fingers teasingly over her labia and between her legs. Several times, he watched her as she brought herself to an orgasmic edge and looked up wondering, asking permission to come. Sometimes he allowed a climax with her body bucking frantically against her hands, her eyes half-shut, ecstasy written in the finished expression. But more than once he went to her when she was at the edge, and stopped her. With a small crop, or diminutive leather paddle from his trunk of tricks, he tortured her anxious, needy body. It wasn’t torture of a painful sort, meant to leave the cutting punishment of the buggy whip; but torment, as he pushed her skillful fingers from her cunt just as her orgasm was about to descend, and replaced them with a half dozen sharp whacks on her puss. The torment stung, and she struggled to get away, though she would be bound by his surrounding arms and forced to stay.
“Ooo, I hate this! Miles,” she pleaded every time.
But he didn’t stop.
