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She spread her pussy lips. Even from here, he could see that she was wet. Sitting up and changing position had allowed her body’s natural lubrication to spread from her vaginal entrance up the valley of her sex, coating the inside of her labia and even adding a little sheen to her clit.
Her fingers slipped as she tried to hold her labia open. He waited, knowing she was obedient enough, and submissive enough, to follow his command. She wasn’t a sub who needed second by second explicit directions.
She was counterintuitively relentless in her submission.
Benson glanced at the knife which he’d set on top of her discarded corset, his jaw tightening.
He focused again on her spread legs, the interior of her pretty cunt.
He willed away the urge to scrap his careful plans, pull her over his lap, and spank her until she cried. Spank her until they both hit a point of catharsis.
Bending low, he examined her carefully. Her clit was redder than when they’d started, and swollen enough that even without forcing her to pull her labia, it was well out from under the hood.
Her pussy lips were a darker shade of pink, flushed either from stimulation, or more likely because arousal had increased the blood flow.
He wanted to suck her clit between his teeth and bite. He wanted her crying and begging.
The problem was that she wouldn’t beg him to stop. Mal always begged for more.
A Dom’s job was to know where the line was. But every person’s stopping point was different. Everyone’s tolerance for pleasure, pain, and submission varied.
Knowing when to stop meant knowing where that line was and not allowing the sub to reset their limits in the heat of passion.
No one had ever told him what to do when the system of checks and balances failed. When a calmly planned, well negotiated scene fell apart because the foundational understanding of the scene was wrong.
Irritation and remembered hurt made his shoulders tight. He rolled them as he straightened.
Switching the flogger from his left hand to his right, Benson did a few practice figure eights in the air. It was time to truly engage in some impact play.
“I’ll go slow, and we’ll work up to your pussy. Repeat your safe word?”
“Pumpkin, Sir.”
“Release your pussy. Hands at your sides, palms up.”
She settled into place, her breasts rising and falling with her breaths. The fabric of the virginal white dress was bunched around her waist and wrists. The sacrifice was well and truly into the care of the monster now.
“And where are you now?” he asked.
“Chartreuse.”
Benson blinked down at her. “What?”
Mal’s lips twitched. “It’s a combination of yellow and green.”
Benson snorted in amusement, then tested her inner thighs with his palm, assessing the heat level and checking for any raised welts. There was nothing to be concerned about. Nothing to stop him from continuing.
Benson raised the flogger, bringing it down on the inside of her left thigh. Instead of repeated single strikes, this time he used a sideways figure eight—an infinity symbol—pattern. Each downstroke struck the inside of one leg.
He loved the thwacking sound of a flogger hitting flesh, especially when it became a steady, rhythmic beat.
Benson watched Mal’s face, tracked her breathing. Her upper body was relaxed, her face soft. Her legs occasionally twitched, but she wasn’t fighting to keep them spread.
He started by her knees, lingering there until he was sure she was ready for more. Then he picked up tempo and intensity.
Benson worked his way down her thighs, an inch at a time, the rhythm never changing. He had to tighten up the pattern, using only his wrist, as the space available to him narrowed.
She was beautifully submissive. When she jumped or wiggled in reaction to a particularly powerful strike, she would bring herself back into position without him having to admonish her.
