Fighting Attraction
Page 28
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“To call you if I feel the need to cut myself.”
“Good girl.” He gently removes my ponytail holder, and my hair sheets down my back. His breath catches in his throat ever so softly, but before I can turn to look at him, he twists my hair in his fist and yanks my head back.
“You’re right,” he says, musing. “Your back does like to arch. And it brings your ass up all ready to be spanked again, just like it did in the gym. I wanted to spank the sass right out of you the other day, but I thought about how much more fun it would be to do it here, where I could make you scream.” He jerks my head back so hard tears come to my eyes. “Do you like to be spanked?”
“Yes,” I whisper. But only by him.
Jack leans down and brushes his lips over my ear in an intimate caress.
“I can’t hear you, darlin’.”
“Yes.”
Jack gives a satisfied grunt in his throat and smacks my ass over and over, hard and fast with no discernible pattern. I try to breathe through the pain, try not to cry as the blows continue, but I can’t help myself. Tears run down my face, and I cry in earnest. My brain fuzzes, and I feel a rush of pleasure. Suddenly, I’m floating, free of pain and the guilt and shame I carry with me every day, free of feelings of unworthiness that weigh me down. I am…just me.
* * *
RAMPAGE
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I smack Penny’s perfect ass again. She whimpers but doesn’t scream. I suspect she has a high pain tolerance after what she’s done to herself, and I ramp up the intensity, hitting her harder with the next blow. I still can’t believe this is real, my perfect English rose strapped to my table, begging for my hand. Her lacy green thong covers the top part of her ass, an attempt at modesty that serves only to heighten my desire, and with her creamy skin now pink, marked by my hand, I’m painfully hard, my cock straining against my leathers.
Sex and pain. I was taught that hitting girls was not only wrong but also morally reprehensible and against everything we stood for in the South. So when I was thirteen or fourteen years old and started having thoughts that involved inflicting pain but were somehow mixed up with sex, I was appalled at myself. I suppressed those thoughts and urges and tried to be normal. I dated. I fumbled. I had my first sexual encounter with a sweet blond Southern belle named Daisy. But around the time I was seventeen, those thoughts and urges came back, more intense, more disconcerting, and I thought I was twisted, broken. Desperate, I searched the Internet for answers and finally stumbled on BDSM. That’s when I realized there was a different kind of normal and I wasn’t alone.
Still, I’ve never been able to fully accept my kink or get rid of the self-loathing, the incongruity of an upbringing that is fundamentally incompatible with my need to blend sex and pain. Avery didn’t help. Although I knew sadism wasn’t socially acceptable, I wasn’t prepared for her disgust or revulsion. I didn’t expect to be judged by the woman I loved and who claimed to love me. I never even touched her. She condemned me on my words alone. Rejected me. Betrayed me. Broke my fucking heart. Ruined me for women forever.
Or so I thought.
Penny moans softly, and I strike her ass again. Sweet and soft, she shares Avery’s fragile beauty, and yet she is not destroyed by my touch. Her body responds to every blow, absorbing the pain. She whimpers but doesn’t scream. Moans but doesn’t sob. She is aroused even though she didn’t expect it, and her embarrassment at her body’s natural response only fuels my fire. I feel a rush with every strike, like I’m high. My senses magnify. I can smell her arousal and the fragrance of her perfume. I can feel the softness of her skin beneath my palm. I can sense when she needs me to continue and when she needs to catch her breath. I could push her to come with one well-placed blow, but I know that would send her over the edge. She wasn’t ready for this connection, but then neither was I.
I raise my hand to strike again, pulling back when she goes limp on the bench. Awareness swamps me in a rush, clearing the haze from my mind. “Pen? You with me?”
My heart skips a beat when she doesn’t respond, and I walk around to the front of the bench. Her head is turned to the side, resting on the flat surface, eyes closed, cheeks streaked with tears.
“Pen?”
She draws in a shuddering breath. “Tickety-boo.”
“What?”
“Crackin’,” she mumbles.
“Since I don’t have my British–American dictionary handy, I’m going to guess you’ve had enough.”
She opens her eyes and frowns. “Don’t be daft.”
I undo the clips holding her wrists and ankles to the bench. Her hands are cold, her limbs soft. She mumbles British swear words as I lift her and carry her to the couch.
Lust rages through me as I hold her in my arms, and I wrap an aftercare blanket around her, as much to keep her warm as to curb my desire to take the scene one step too far. Her pain fulfills me, soothes the dark passenger who rides my heart, yet for the first time, pain isn’t enough. I want something else—something to fill the longing that burns in my soul.
“I think we went too far. That’s my fault. You were so damn responsive. So brave. So strong.” I stroke her hair as she snuggles into my chest, knowing this intimate moment won’t last. A scene that intense requires some form of release—either emotional or physical—and Penny has had neither.
“Easy peasy,” she murmurs.
I cradle her in my arms. Her curves sink into my body, her ass resting on my painfully erect cock. I never fuck my play partners after a scene, preferring to take my release by my own hand. But right now, if she wanted me, I’d rip those panties off her and take her right here.
She shudders, and I pull her closer, tuck her head beneath my chin, and tighten my arms around her. She fits perfectly into my body, as if she were made for me.
“Oh God.” She stiffens suddenly, thrashes against me, struggling to get out of the blanket as her mind and body become one again. Her ass grinds against my cock, and I can barely breathe with the effort of holding myself back.
“Good girl.” He gently removes my ponytail holder, and my hair sheets down my back. His breath catches in his throat ever so softly, but before I can turn to look at him, he twists my hair in his fist and yanks my head back.
“You’re right,” he says, musing. “Your back does like to arch. And it brings your ass up all ready to be spanked again, just like it did in the gym. I wanted to spank the sass right out of you the other day, but I thought about how much more fun it would be to do it here, where I could make you scream.” He jerks my head back so hard tears come to my eyes. “Do you like to be spanked?”
“Yes,” I whisper. But only by him.
Jack leans down and brushes his lips over my ear in an intimate caress.
“I can’t hear you, darlin’.”
“Yes.”
Jack gives a satisfied grunt in his throat and smacks my ass over and over, hard and fast with no discernible pattern. I try to breathe through the pain, try not to cry as the blows continue, but I can’t help myself. Tears run down my face, and I cry in earnest. My brain fuzzes, and I feel a rush of pleasure. Suddenly, I’m floating, free of pain and the guilt and shame I carry with me every day, free of feelings of unworthiness that weigh me down. I am…just me.
* * *
RAMPAGE
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I smack Penny’s perfect ass again. She whimpers but doesn’t scream. I suspect she has a high pain tolerance after what she’s done to herself, and I ramp up the intensity, hitting her harder with the next blow. I still can’t believe this is real, my perfect English rose strapped to my table, begging for my hand. Her lacy green thong covers the top part of her ass, an attempt at modesty that serves only to heighten my desire, and with her creamy skin now pink, marked by my hand, I’m painfully hard, my cock straining against my leathers.
Sex and pain. I was taught that hitting girls was not only wrong but also morally reprehensible and against everything we stood for in the South. So when I was thirteen or fourteen years old and started having thoughts that involved inflicting pain but were somehow mixed up with sex, I was appalled at myself. I suppressed those thoughts and urges and tried to be normal. I dated. I fumbled. I had my first sexual encounter with a sweet blond Southern belle named Daisy. But around the time I was seventeen, those thoughts and urges came back, more intense, more disconcerting, and I thought I was twisted, broken. Desperate, I searched the Internet for answers and finally stumbled on BDSM. That’s when I realized there was a different kind of normal and I wasn’t alone.
Still, I’ve never been able to fully accept my kink or get rid of the self-loathing, the incongruity of an upbringing that is fundamentally incompatible with my need to blend sex and pain. Avery didn’t help. Although I knew sadism wasn’t socially acceptable, I wasn’t prepared for her disgust or revulsion. I didn’t expect to be judged by the woman I loved and who claimed to love me. I never even touched her. She condemned me on my words alone. Rejected me. Betrayed me. Broke my fucking heart. Ruined me for women forever.
Or so I thought.
Penny moans softly, and I strike her ass again. Sweet and soft, she shares Avery’s fragile beauty, and yet she is not destroyed by my touch. Her body responds to every blow, absorbing the pain. She whimpers but doesn’t scream. Moans but doesn’t sob. She is aroused even though she didn’t expect it, and her embarrassment at her body’s natural response only fuels my fire. I feel a rush with every strike, like I’m high. My senses magnify. I can smell her arousal and the fragrance of her perfume. I can feel the softness of her skin beneath my palm. I can sense when she needs me to continue and when she needs to catch her breath. I could push her to come with one well-placed blow, but I know that would send her over the edge. She wasn’t ready for this connection, but then neither was I.
I raise my hand to strike again, pulling back when she goes limp on the bench. Awareness swamps me in a rush, clearing the haze from my mind. “Pen? You with me?”
My heart skips a beat when she doesn’t respond, and I walk around to the front of the bench. Her head is turned to the side, resting on the flat surface, eyes closed, cheeks streaked with tears.
“Pen?”
She draws in a shuddering breath. “Tickety-boo.”
“What?”
“Crackin’,” she mumbles.
“Since I don’t have my British–American dictionary handy, I’m going to guess you’ve had enough.”
She opens her eyes and frowns. “Don’t be daft.”
I undo the clips holding her wrists and ankles to the bench. Her hands are cold, her limbs soft. She mumbles British swear words as I lift her and carry her to the couch.
Lust rages through me as I hold her in my arms, and I wrap an aftercare blanket around her, as much to keep her warm as to curb my desire to take the scene one step too far. Her pain fulfills me, soothes the dark passenger who rides my heart, yet for the first time, pain isn’t enough. I want something else—something to fill the longing that burns in my soul.
“I think we went too far. That’s my fault. You were so damn responsive. So brave. So strong.” I stroke her hair as she snuggles into my chest, knowing this intimate moment won’t last. A scene that intense requires some form of release—either emotional or physical—and Penny has had neither.
“Easy peasy,” she murmurs.
I cradle her in my arms. Her curves sink into my body, her ass resting on my painfully erect cock. I never fuck my play partners after a scene, preferring to take my release by my own hand. But right now, if she wanted me, I’d rip those panties off her and take her right here.
She shudders, and I pull her closer, tuck her head beneath my chin, and tighten my arms around her. She fits perfectly into my body, as if she were made for me.
“Oh God.” She stiffens suddenly, thrashes against me, struggling to get out of the blanket as her mind and body become one again. Her ass grinds against my cock, and I can barely breathe with the effort of holding myself back.
