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He bent his head and kissed the palm of one of my hands, then patted my bottom. “How does that feel?”
“Not too tight,” I assured him, wriggling my fingers. They didn’t have that disembodied feeling indicating cutoff circulation. “It’ll take some getting used to.”
“I have bandage scissors in my nightstand. If you feel yourself becoming panicky or claustrophobic, I can cut you out of this very quickly.” He traced a finger down my spine, and over the cuff of rope binding me.
He helped me to my feet and walked me over to his bed. His big hands steadied me, and it all felt entirely surreal, like I was some helpless doll. It was a little scary; without my hands, I was very much at his mercy. The thrill of the safe scare made me giggle, trepidation tickling my clit.
The mattress stood much higher than the one at the W, so when he bent me over the side, with a pillow beneath my turned head, I had to practically stand on my toes, even in my heels.
I watched him walk back to the closet, to retrieve the paddle, and when he returned he asked, “How much do you want this, Sophie?”
My still aching breasts pushed into the thick down comforter on his bed. The pillow beneath my cheek smelled of fresh laundry. My arms were bound, and my cunt was sopping wet from my earlier orgasm as well as my renewed desire.
“On a scale of one to ten?” I asked, wetting my lips and smiling at him. “Twelve hundred, Sir.”
“Twelve hundred seems a bit excessive.” He stepped up behind me and rested the paddle against my butt. I clenched my muscles then remembered to relax. He wouldn’t do it until he could catch me off guard. “But I think we can do twelve.”
Oh. I guess I had misunderstood the question. Twelve seemed like kind of a lot now.
The first crack of paddle against my flesh was more surprising than painful. In fact, it didn’t hurt much more than a firm slap from his hand.
“Are you taking it easy on me?” I asked, lifting my head as best as I could, without using my arms.
“I don’t like your tone.” He smacked me again, this time hard enough to steal my breath in a sharp gasp. The stinging pain blossomed out from the wide point of impact, and I squirmed, pressing my groin against the edge of the mattress.
“There will be none of that,” he warned, holding me motionless with a hand splayed across my lower back. “You’ve got ten more to go before you can even think of touching yourself. Stay still. Now, what do we say?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said, a little breathily as the next blow landed, then two more in rapid succession with no break between them. That was enough to pull a cry of pain from me, and I shocked myself with the loud, ragged sound.
I tried to imagine just what it would feel like if he really let go, if he really gave it to me as hard as he could. Tonight, it was enough to feel the wicked sting of leather slapping my backside, the jarring impact of the paddle nearly knocking me off my feet. My fingernails bit into my palms, and more than once I tried instinctively to move my hand back to stop him. Neil had been so right. Even though I wanted this, even though the wake of every blow sent more blood throbbing into my clit, I would have tried to stop him in the most stupid way possible, and wound up with mangled fingers.
After the seventh and eighth he stopped, brushing his palm over my burning skin. He threaded his hand into my hair and gently tugged my head back. “Four more. Do you think you can take them?”
I moaned, “Yes, Sir. Please Sir.”
What was it about this that made me so hot? The waiting, I supposed, and the endorphin rush that followed in the wake of the pain. But more than any of that, I realized, it was the trust. The sense of doing something dangerous, but not actually being in any danger, because I knew Neil would never hurt me. I could enjoy a hard spanking and a punishing fuck because I knew that while he could make me feel so many things— lust, pleasure, anticipation, pain— he would never actually make me feel afraid. I didn’t fear him, and I didn’t have to fear making him disapprove of me. Everything we did together was for our mutual pleasure.
What, exactly, he got out of it, I had no clue.
The next stroke was lower, across my thighs and labia. That was a shock I hadn’t been expecting, and a strange combination of pain and relief ripped through me.
“Do you like that?” He asked, slipping his hand down to cup me. One finger pushed roughly into my pussy, and my legs wobbled.
