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“Spread those legs a little wider.”
She obeyed, her hips and ankles registering mild protests since she was keeping the soles of her feet mostly flat.
Benson brought the flogger down on the inside of her right thigh, hard enough that a slight sting from the spots where the tips of some strands struck accompanied the thud. She cried out, not in pain—or not only in pain—but in sweet relief that they were now finally really getting into it.
He laid a matching strike on the inside of her left thigh, then two quick, soft hits to her pussy.
“Where are you?” Benson asked, tension in his voice. “What color?”
The phrasing of the question differed from anything he’d used before. A soft, audio memory filter through her mind before she could stop it.
Benson’s voice, a single barked word. “Color?”
“Green,” she replied, forcing the memory away. “I’m green, Sir.”
“Then reach down and spread your pussy open. Two fingers on each side.”
Sweet fear and hot anticipation met, making her tremble. She knew her fingers were shaking as she placed her palms on her belly and slid her hands down between her spread thighs.
It was almost embarrassing how wet she was. Using index and middle finger on each hand, she spread her labia. Her skin was too slick; it slid out from under the pressure of her fingertips.
She wiped her wet fingers against her own thighs and tried again. This time she was able to hold herself open, but had to dig her nails into her pussy lips.
“You can maintain that?”
“Yes, Master Benson.”
He set the flogger aside, draping it over her midsection and forearms. She looked down at the coffee-colored whip. Benson disappeared into the darkness around the edges of the room, returning a moment later.
Unlike with the flogger, he didn’t bother to hide this new implement from her. As soon as he took up his position at the foot of the table, he held up his hand, showing off the short crop. The whole thing was about a foot long, and the folded strip of leather at the tip was narrower than the more classic fat tongue of a riding crop. A long shiver worked its way down her body.
“You’re shaking. Scared?”
“I would be foolish not to be a little worried, Sir. I assume you’re going to crop my clit.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile that was sexy, yet a little cruel.
He ran the crop up her leg, starting at her toes. The leather was cool along the top of her foot, then slid up her shin to her knee. Over her knee, then down her thigh, he paused when the crop touched her wrist, resting against the crease where leg met torso.
She was no longer having trouble holding her pussy open. Being exposed to the air had dried the slick moisture, and she felt even more vulnerable because of it.
He raised his hand and she tensed, eyes focused on the crop, waiting for it to fall.
When the crop lowered, she yelped, tensing. But it didn’t strike her mercilessly exposed clit. Benson teased the just-flogged flesh of her inner thighs. Then he jumped down to tickle her toes with the tip of the crop, even sliding it between her big toe and first toes. Both feet curled in reaction to the unexpected intimacy of that.
“I considered combining pussy whipping with having you suck my cock.”
His comment seemed almost idle, as if he were remarking about what he’d chosen for lunch. I almost had the turkey club.
Maybe he was doing it to torment her, knowing that if he mentioned something she’d picture it, imagine what it would feel like to have her mouth filled with him.
“What changed your mind, Sir?”
“As tempting as it would be to position you with your head hanging down so I fuck your throat with your legs spread while I whipped this sweet pussy…I wouldn’t have a good enough view.”
Benson leaned down between her thighs. Her breath caught and though she knew it was a vain hope, she waited for him to close the distance and press his lips to her sex.
He looked and their gazes met. He pursed his lips and blew a long stream of cool air directly over the interior of her pussy. Mal arched up, teeth gritted together.
