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It was difficult for me to hold his gaze when I so associated spanking with dominance and submission. Usually, I wasn’t allowed to make eye contact during those times, unless I was being ordered to look at myself in a mirror. The pain of his next slap took my breath away, and tears formed, but I stared down at him, even when I flinched and cried out from the burning in my flesh. My cunt clenched with every new strike, my clit pulsed with the intensity of the intimacy between us. The insides of my thighs were wet, but not from the churning water.
He rubbed his palms over my stinging, bruised ass before lifting his arm and spanking me harder, faster, never bothering to move his strikes until he switched to the other side. And then he let me wait for a long, agonizing moment. The corners of his eyes lifted as he smiled.
It took just one more hard strike, and I tumbled over the edge of a small climax, still gazing deeply into his warm brown eyes.
“I think that’s enough for now,” he said with a grin. Releasing me, he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the tub. He patted his thighs, and I eagerly moved to climb onto his cock.
He laughed. “No. Turn the other way. Show him your pussy.”
I sat on El-Mudad’s lap—and not his dick like I’d hoped—and spread my legs a little.
“No, more than that. Look, he can barely see anything at all,” he told me, indicating the screen. I leaned back on him. Then I planted my feet on the edge of the tub and opened my legs wide.
“Much better,” he said, sliding a hand down my chest as I looked away from the phone and reminded myself that anyone alive would have rolls in the position I was in.
I didn’t stay self-conscious for long. I reached between my legs and spread myself with two fingers. My clit, already pulsing from the hands-free orgasm I’d experienced, jumped as the cool air touched it.
El-Mudad rubbed the flat of his hand roughly down my vulva then pushed two fingers inside of me. I clenched on them and let my head loll back on his shoulder. He pumped those fingers, and I swore I could hear my own wetness over the sound of the jacuzzi jets.
He withdrew his hand and brought his fingers to my mouth, slicking my juices over my lower lip like gloss. My tongue darted out to catch him, and he let me suck his fingers clean. “Move your hands,” he warned, and when I did, he landed a stinging slap directly to my vulva.
“Motherfucker!” I sat straight up, cursing. He spanked way, way harder than Neil usually did, and while the pain wasn’t unwelcome, it had definitely been unexpected. “I didn’t realize we were playing like that tonight.”
He soothed the burning away with a slow, gentle rub, sliding one fingertip between my labia to brush over my clit, almost as though it were an accidental contact. “We’re not. Forgive me, I didn’t realize that was only for those times.”
“It’s not!” I said quickly. “It’s not. You didn’t hear me say I didn’t like it, did you?”
He answered with another smack. I widened my legs to invite another, arching toward his hand as it fell. Like Neil, he didn’t overdo it in that area. I got six slaps before he planted his hands around my waist, lifted me up, and aligned my cunt with his cock. I sank down on him, my sore, already bruising body opening eagerly for him.
El-Mudad groaned beside my ear and flexed inside of me. His hardness and the angle of penetration put strange pressure on my pelvic bones. I ground down, trying to take him deeper, as though I could draw him in entirely.
“You’re so tight,” he murmured, his teeth grazing my shoulder.
“It’s called swelling,” I snarked at him. If we had been indulging in an actual scene, that answer would either have never passed my lips, or it would have earned me a hard slap across the face from Neil. El-Mudad didn’t like doing that, and we weren’t playing submission games at the moment, but he did give me a soft little bite on the neck and a growl. I giggled and twisted my head away from him.
“I can’t really...” he made a frustrated noise. “I can’t fuck you properly in this position. How do porn stars make it look so easy?”
“It’s their job,” I reminded him, trying to lift up a little on legs that already felt gelatinous. “They’re frickin’ athletes.”
“I have an idea.”
Whenever one of the men in my life said, “I have an idea,” that idea was usually to my benefit.
“Stand up,” he instructed. I did, reluctantly.
“But it feels so good to sit on your cock,” I whined.
