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“Cum now,” he demanded. His fingers toyed with her.
She strained to comply, not quite at a peak, too many discordant harmonies singing every which way, all clamoring to find the common melody of her body’s natural peaking rhythms.
She fought with herself to find the edge.
It was right between her legs, where his fingers prodded and his hand tugged nastily at her labia. He spanked her, slapped her, drove her toward her end—though the end did not come in his time frame. He pushed her hands away, and punished her pubis with more slaps and pokes and pinches.
They were groin to groin now, face to face, her body tense, his relaxed. His control held her captive, as if she was just another piece of him, and he wouldn’t settle for her fretful, headstrong attempts to regain control. “Cum bitch now,” he ordered. He pinched her clitoris, while her hand rubbed, and knowing she was about to orgasm, he pushed her hands away and rubbed himself.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah yes… ” Her face contorted, a silent scream issuing from her open mouth. Whimpers followed, as waves of pleasure rolled through her, enveloping them both in a cocoon of electric unseen energy. Tangible to touch, invisible to the eye.
“It’s never happened like that before,” she said, in a quiet thereafter the next morning when they were in his lush conservatory, surrounded by the fragrant green. She was sitting on his lap. She felt the warmed skin of her bottom with her hand, where he’d just spanked her. It was punishment, just the beginning of punishment. He informed her of that, said she “deserved it” for exposing her cunt in the club three nights before without permission. She thought he was half-kidding, just an excuse to redden her oh-so tender flesh again. But he was serious.
“What’s never happened like that before?” he asked.
“Last night, it defies description,” she said. It was something that she thought about for hours after he had fallen asleep next to her. “Everything that’s happened before, with everyone else—the cameras, Martine, Damien, all the bitchy ladies—it was never like it was last night. And still, I can’t describe it.”
“You belong to me, maybe that’s the difference.”
“But I’ve belonged to you before.”
He shook his head no. “You belonged to your imagination, and every dime-store sex novel you could lay your hands on, and every rumor of abusive lust fulfilled in alleys and anonymous beds. I gave you that,” he said, “and a good deal more. But last night, we gave each other something else.”
His expressive eyes were noncommittal, neither flashing darkly or brimming with affection—just wholly sincere.
She understood and said no more. Some things are impossible to define. She decided that, and so had he. She might have sought that perfect definition, the way to say it in words, but words didn’t work here. Only feelings mattered. How could she put into words what passed between them, the ebb and flow of eroticism, submission, succumbing, that abused her, filled her, and brought her such peace. No, it wasn’t necessary to define, even if it were possible.
“I belong to you,” she affirmed, as his hand reached inside her blouse and fondled her breast, and played with the stud that pierced her there.
