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“Walking away.” He reaches for the doorknob and I don’t know what it is about those words that has me panicking. That has made my heartbeat irregular and twisted my stomach in knots.
“You can’t walk away!”
He doesn’t answer.
“Wait.” I swallow. Am I going to do this? “Don’t go. Please!”
He looks back at me. He’s waiting for me to make the next move. He won’t hurt me. I know that. I’ve always known that. He will go to great lengths to protect me.
And I betrayed him.
So, without another word, I pick up his discarded belt and cross the room to hand it to him.
He takes it, watching me wordlessly.
“You’re right. The only reason I stopped was because I was interrupted. Otherwise, I’d have opened that box and looked inside it. I would have taken your secret.” The words are a weight in my stomach. Guilt and dread. I’ve disappointed him. I feel my face fall, feel the tightening in my chest. “I don’t like hurting you either, whether or not you believe it. And I am sorry.”
I walk back to the bed and drape myself over it, my weight on my elbows, unable to look back at him, tense as I submit myself to his punishment.
It takes him an eternity to move. Or maybe that’s just my dread stretching time. But when I do hear his approach, my heartbeats accelerate. I brace myself for a lashing, one I deserve, but what I feel isn’t his belt. It’s his fingers on what I’m sure is a thick stripe of red across my ass. My nipples pebble as he traces it, and I take a ragged breath when I hear the belt drop to the floor. That’s when I turn my head to look at him and watch as he grips my ass and splays me open. When he drags his gaze to mine, his eyes are burning black coals.
Something rattles in his chest. I watch from my position as he strips off his vest, his shirt, eyes locked on me, before reaching to open the drawer on the bedside table and taking out a bottle of lotion.
“I’m not going to whip you,” he says, shifting his gaze momentarily to squeeze a generous amount of lotion onto my lower back. He meets my eyes again as the fingers of one hand begin to smear that lotion into the crack of my ass. Every muscle tenses and my anxiety builds as he circles the hole he hasn’t yet claimed and I understand what he means to do.
I swallow hard.
With this free hand, he undoes his slacks, takes himself out. He’s hard and I can’t help my glance at his cock as my mind tries to process how exactly I’m going to take him there.
“You’re not going to come,” he tells me as he smears lotion over his length, dragging his palm back and forth, back and forth. He shifts his focus to my ass, to spreading me wide and pushing his fingers inside me. To my surprise, I meet the intrusion with a moan even as my body tightens, every muscle tensing.
Santos is unrushed, lubricating me from the inside, readying me. By the time he removes his fingers and brings his cock to my ass, I’m not sure if I’m more aroused than scared.
I arch my back to take him, my breath quivering when I feel him at my entrance. He isn’t rough when he enters me, but he isn’t exactly gentle either, and he’s big. I let out a whimper, claw at the bed, but he keeps my hips in place. Sweat drips down my forehead as he pushes in, all the way in, a low, guttural moan coming from deep inside his chest.
He sucks in a ragged breath. I look back to watch him and I can’t look away. He’s beautiful and powerful and my submission in this moment, this offering of myself, it’s like a sacrifice at an altar. The feeling of giving myself over to him, it’s indescribable and somehow freeing and more. So much more.
Because whatever this is between us, I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of everything.
His eyes are black as he shifts his gaze to watch himself. He grinds my ass against himself, pushing impossibly deeper before he begins to draw out, biting his lip and taking his time, before pushing in with another moan.
“You don’t come.” He reminds me, pushing my legs wide, lifting my hips just enough so my clit is no longer in contact with the bed before he begins to fuck me and when I try to slide my hands between my legs, he takes my wrists and pins them to my sides, keeping hold of my hips as he does.
I understand the torture of his punishment. I understand that fine line between pleasure and pain and feel the coiling of tension so tight I’m desperate for release. Desperate for it as he takes his pleasure from me, using me, denying me.
“Please!” I cry out, needing release as his thrusts come harder, deeper, sensations like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Sweat drops from his forehead onto my back and when he releases one hand to slap my ass, I slide my fingers between my legs. The instant they come in contact with my clit, I moan out my release, not caring that it may earn me another punishment. Not caring about anything at all but this orgasm.
Santos groans, spanking my ass again before closing his fingers over mine, orgasm intensifying as he thickens, laying his body over mine and thrusting once more until I feel the throbbing of his cock, feel his release inside me, his full weight on me, all while my own body is pure sensation, pure pleasure, my vision blurred with it.
When it’s over and we’re both panting, I draw in a shivering breath. He lifts off me and I miss his weight, his heat. He draws out of me, lifting me. My body is limp, my eyelids too heavy.
“I told you not to come,” he says as he lays me down under the blanket and settles close behind me, his arm across my belly.
I nod, sleepy. “Next time.”
He chuckles, draws the blanket over us and holds me tight.
I drift off, feeling drunk. It’s like the orgasm, the intensity of it, has me floating between worlds. “I love you.” I hear the words slip off my tongue, recognize my voice. They’re a whisper in a dream as I let myself melt into the warm embrace of Santos Augustine’s arms feeling protected. Feeling safe.
