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throbbed and her pulse raced at her neck. She wanted to bury
her face between Haley’s legs. She wanted to lick her slit,
thrust her tongue inside her. She wanted her fingers buried in
her tight pussy, her tongue tracing up higher, to secret places, a
place that Haley probably considered utterly taboo.
Instead, she strapped her again and again, until her ass was
glowing red. Haley sobbed. The noises she made were half
pain, half pleasure. It wasn’t the you’re fucking killing me kind
of noise that someone in distress made. It was the you’re
fucking killing me and I’m going to die of pleasure noises
instead. Claire kept going, pushing Haley, pushing her and
pushing her. The sight of her glowing skin, the fact that Haley
would feel every single second of this when she sat and played
the piano and at her classes the next day and probably even the
next, made Claire want to explode between her legs.
“Your ass is on fire, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Haley sobbed. “Yes, it hurts.”
“But you like it, don’t you? You’re soaked. Your pussy is
dripping down your thighs.”
Haley grabbed for the comforter, twisting it in her fists. The
next time the strap made contact with her ass, she whimpered
and screamed. Her ass was swollen now too. She bucked her
hips into the air and jerked forward and back, trying to grind
into the air, trying to find relief from the burning, relief from
the pressure between her legs.
Normally, Claire would go on torturing her, but she didn’t
have the strength. There was something wrong with her. She’d
never felt the swirling mix of emotions battling in her chest, in
her belly, lower, between her legs, snaking in shivers up her
spine and trembling in her kneecaps.
