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Besides, the goal of this spanking isn’t to punish Christina.
It’s to excite her.
It’s to get her so wet she can barely think straight.
It’s to get her so turned on she can’t do anything but beg me to fuck her.
“How are you doing?” I ask her, rubbing her bottom.
“It hurts,” she whines.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” I slide a finger inside of her again, then another. She grips me tightly as I slide my fingers in and out of her body.
“Oh my dragons,” she groans. “Fuck, Sir, oh…”
Her sounds are music to my ears. The little noises she makes are incredible, wonderful, fabulous.
I want her to make more noises.
I want her to come.
I want her to cry out my name and then I want her to come over, and over, and over.
I move my fingers faster, harder, deeper. Soon Christina is wiggling on my lap. I hold her in place as I play with her body, as I bring her to the edge of orgasm, and then she cries out as she comes.
She explodes.
She has the most beautiful, most intense orgasm, and then she melts against my lap, exhausted.
“Zack,” she whispers. “That was…wow.”
“That was only orgasm number one, princess. We’re just getting started.”
Chapter 13
Christina
When I play at Anchored, I usually have an orgasm and my partner usually has one, but two? Three? More?
That never happens.
Not for me.
Not for Christina.
I’m not clueless. I know the other players at Anchored called me the Damsel. I know they think I’m a lost cause. I know they think I can’t be saved, but somehow, when I’m in Zack’s arms, I kind of think everything is going to be just fine.
I kind of think this is how a BDSM relationship should feel.
I kind of think this is something I could get used to.
By the time he’s done spanking me, my ass is sore and my body feels like putty. My orgasm was intense: much more intense than any I’ve had at Anchored, and certainly much more intense than any I’ve given myself.
Zack helps me lay in the center of the bed, and then he just looks at me like I’m beautiful, like I’m gorgeous, like he can’t take his eyes away for a second. He stands up and strips out of his clothes slowly. I watch eagerly, ready to see what my prize is going to be.
“You have tattoos,” I say. It’s a stupid thing to say, but I’m surprised. Somehow, I thought Mr. Attorney would be clean-cut in every way.
“So do you,” he says, nodding at my thigh. A purple butterfly rests there: a reminder to myself that I can do anything, a reminder that I can be strong.
