The smell of the old paint of the house in Ravenna brought back the memory, the day she’d bent over his desk, the cool shadows of the room, the shameful silence that threatened to drown her with pain as she’d waited for him to open the door and let her in for her first appointment.
Now, months later, that same frisson shivered through her, part fear, part sick, twisted fascination.
It was a Sunday morning. Though few still attended—she’d taken to referring to that region of the country as the ‘Godless Northwest’—she remained acutely aware that somewhere in Seattle, people were attending church, communing with God, finding their peace.
While she cooled her heels in the shadowed room, awaiting her chance to commune with a very different sort of deity.
A vengeful, lust-driven deity.
She’d made a deal with the devil. And the devil had proved to be most seductive indeed.
Sitting in the hard wooden straight-backed chair in front of his study desk, she tried not to think about why her inner thighs were already slick, that despite the trip-hop of her heartbeat, her nipples had already tightened, almost aching against the fabric of her blouse.
Had it been the memory of what he’d done to her the last time she’d been in that room? Or was it some sort of sick anticipation of the pain, shame, and yes—forced though it would be—pleasure.
What did that say about her? That the man who’d essentially made her his sex slave in some dark, twisted gambit to get revenge for her stealing what—to him—was a truly trivial amount of money?
It couldn’t be about the money. His intensity, the way his focus seemed to have fixed upon her to the exclusion of little else, that told the real tale. He’d been affected by their arrangement. Somehow, she knew it. But it didn’t matter, as long as she found herself in such an impossible position.
Will held all the power. And as much as it galled her, part of her—the part dripping its essence, soaking her inner thighs—liked that power imbalance just fine.
It didn’t matter that it was wrong. It didn’t matter that she shouldn’t want this.
None of it changed the truth. It just was. He acted upon her—and her body. And she reacted, just as the desert bloomed after a hard rain.
The grinding sound of the key turning the lock at the front door—he’d ordered her to lock it shut behind her—snapped her back to the present.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered, her fingers already beginning to tremble. She clasped her hands together in her lap to hide the shaming indicator of her anxiety.
Don’t you mean anticipation?
His footsteps were heavy, unhurried, the executioner’s boots upon the tile of death row. He was coming for her, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to run screaming, or drop to her knees and welcome her conquering.
It wasn’t doom she would be welcoming though. It was a surrender. A surrender to the truth.
He made her face what she was. What she was becoming.
What he was making of her.
His tall, broad-shouldered form filled the frame of the doorway. He had on a white polo, the white tennis shorts showing off the heavy muscles of his well-tanned thighs to such an effect that made it entirely too difficult for her not to stare. The clean smell of his sweat was strong on the air, the very faintest patches of perspiration darkening the polo across his broad chest.
Instead, she concentrated on her orders, snapping her gaze to the wall next to him. The directive had been issued to her on Friday afternoon as she’d knelt before his desk, her hands on her head, a thick line of his hot cum sullenly running down her chin. He’d stood over her, tucking his still half-erect member back into his slacks as he’d said the words.
“I want you at the Ravenna house on Sunday morning. You remember where it is. Nine o’clock sharp. Work attire. You’re to wait for me in the study. If you’re late, you’ll be sorry.”
Now, the tension in the air almost crackled as he stood there, watching, the silence of his intense regard only amplifying her anxiety still more. They both knew why she was there. His order for her to dress in work clothes—despite there being no work on Sunday—had only one purpose.
To enhance her shame.
The wooden chair creaked slightly as she rose, her mouth going dry.
“Take off the blouse.”
Her breath hitched a moment at the sound of his deep voice, but she knew better than to protest. The fact he hadn’t ordered her to bend over his desk again itself had her off-balance. In her mind, she’d worked up so much expectation that she was going to get her ass whipped again, that upon hearing something entirely different, she wasn’t sure she’d actually heard the words.
That new uncertainty didn’t do anything for her anxiousness either.
Quickly, she slipped the buttons, letting the navy silk whisper to the floor. Unsnapping the front clasp with trembling hands, she folded her bra neatly, dropping it atop her blouse.
“Lace your fingers behind your head. Keep your chin up.”
This was… something he hadn’t ordered before.
New or novel rarely boded well for her when it came to Will Ellsworth.
Purposely avoiding his gaze, she stood still, the seconds slowing to something between glacial and tectonic. She knew he was looking at her breasts, and though she knew he liked them, it didn’t make her shame any easier to endure.
He liked that it was hard for her, that no matter how many times she’d been naked before him, being forced to strip under his avid gaze was never easy.
His need was to force her, to coerce, to bend her to his lusts. He wanted to make her his, that much was obvious.
But why did she have to respond to it in such a… visceral way? Had he somehow known it? The secret needs a woman like her harbored? The urges and drives she didn’t dare tell a soul about?
He was either a mind reader, or he was far more like her than either of them were prepared to admit.
She wasn’t entirely sure what he intended, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched him. The way the hard, packed muscles of his back rippled and flexed under the white shirt as he bent over slightly, the gentle screech of the wooden drawer being pulled open at the right side of his old office desk.
Her breath caught in her lungs at the sight of the jet black leather, contrasted with a bright blood red.
It was a flogger.
Standing before her, he shook out the falls, combing his long fingers through the leather tongues, straightening them so that they might better impart his message of ownership and pain.
“Turn your head to the side. Keep your chin back. More than that. Good girl.”
The heat of her blush only amplified her conflicted feelings at the sound of those words.
It shouldn’t have mattered. His praise, whether false or genuine, it should have only angered her.
But it did anything but. It made her want more of it.
You’re irretrievably fucked-up.
She took a deep breath, silently glad she couldn’t see the way her breathing no doubt had her naked breasts rising and falling. He’d love that too, love the way her nipples had already hardened, the impudent tips aching, extending as if to cry out for the lash.
Her belly flip-flopped as the cool air washed over her, the flogger flailing through the space between them once, twice, a third time.
The whirring sound confused her at first, then she stiffened, waiting for the acid kiss of those leather strands. But the first few strokes were practice only, harmlessly stirring the air about her hard nipples, causing gooseflesh to erupt across her skin.
“Stay very still,” he murmured.
The flogger landed with a surprising thud across the top slopes of her breasts, and she grunted, more in surprise than anything else. In truth, the blow hardly hurt, only stinging slightly.
She knew that was soon to change.
Again, it impacted her flesh, harder this time, the weight of the leather sending her breasts bouncing upward as the falls wrapped under her flesh. He whipped each breast individually then, the strikes only stinging mildly.
A harder stroke had her jerking, her hands coming up instinctively.
“Lower them or I’ll tie them behind your back,” he barked. “At your sides.”
She obeyed, not wanting to make this worse than it had to be. The blows continued apace, evenly spaced, at about one every couple of seconds. With each one the intensity increased, heat building just under her skin, until with each fiery caress of the lash, she was whimpering.
“Stay still… let it burn.”
His voice was a gravelly, sadistic rumble, and she hated the way it made her clit almost sing with it.
Her breasts bounced to and fro continuously then, her teeth gritted, the air of each stroke making her hair jump and wave on the current. Sweat was beading at the hollow of her throat, the tickle there signifying the nearing of a shaming droplet threatening to course its lazy, meandering trail down the valley between her tormented—and now throbbing—breasts.
He paused now and again to caress her bosom, to weigh each globe in a palm, a low sound rumbling from deep in his throat as the rough pad of his thumb tested the rubbery stiffness of her hard, aching nipple.
Slickness—and shaming heat—grew between her thighs with each further punishing stripe of the flogger across her chest. Occasionally, a length of supple leather caught one of her nipples and she bit off a shriek, the white-hot pain making her clench her jaws tight, her vision going watery. But still she remained in position.
“Good girl,” he intoned, never stopping the disciplining of her soft, helpless breasts.
She was panting with exhaustion before he finished up with a final flurry of hard blows, back and forth across her tormented flesh, sending the tortured globes bounding in all directions.
Then it was over, and she hung her head, tears of relief and anguish spilling over, their tracks hot and stinging as they coursed down her heated cleavage.
The flogger was pressed firmly to the join at the top of her thighs, the short skirt doing precious little to protect the soft, seething sex from the cruel hardness of the leather.
“It’s time to admit it, don’t you think?”
“A-admit what?” Her words were breathless, little more than gasps. She didn’t know if it was from the bee-stung hurt of her breasts, or the fiery cauldron that was now her pussy.
“You want me.”
“I only want you to… leave me alone.”
He ground the leather harder against her mons, her clit dangerously close to being frictioned directly. She wouldn’t be able to survive it. Such a thing would end her, right there.
“That’s not what this says. No, it says something quite different, doesn’t it? So, admit it.”
She met his gaze then, her heart freezing for an instant at the cold, animal lust in his dark eyes. It was the male animal, in firm control now.
The very animal her body cried out for with a need she neither welcomed nor understood. He was extorting her, even brutalizing her.
And though her words said she wanted to stop, they were false. They were what she was supposed to say.
What she needed was something she shouldn’t want. And yet, she did.
He spun her around then, and she nearly lost her balance, his strength as overwhelming as it was sudden. His hand in her hair caught her up before she could topple over, and it was with this grip that he held her as he sat down upon the straight-backed wooden chair.
He dragged her across his lap, and she yipped as he smacked her ass through her skirt.
“Take this down.”
She clawed at the thin fabric, miraculously finding the zip despite her position upended across his hard, muscled thighs.
As she worked the skirt down, in her vain hope that her alacrity might confer a tiny bit of mercy, he gently squeezed one of her wrists. “Leave the panties.”
More heat burned at her cheeks, as she revealed her naked ass to his gaze. “I… I didn’t wear any.”
The smile was obvious in the self-satisfied rumble of his voice. “You are a slut, aren’t you?”
“I… I didn’t think I was… allowed. You told me not—”
“Your excuses for your sluttiness are useless with me. You’re a whore, who dressed in a way that would make it easier for me to discipline her. Or fuck her. Or both.”
“Yes.” He smacked her bare bottom, the heat blooming across her skin. “There aren’t any secrets with me, slut. Not here. Not anymore. You won’t hide anything from me. Not ever. Your days of hiding anything from me are over.”
Without further preamble, his hard palm crashed against her bottom, her flesh jiggling and bouncing with each hard smack.
He held her brutally tight by the hair, growling at her to cross her wrists at her back, even as his hand slapped her buttocks with ruthless efficiency. Laying hard, firm blows across every inch of one cheek, he switched to the other, giving it an identical dose of pain.
Between storms of smacks, his fingertips played at the entrance to her cunt, making her gasp. He worried the entrance to her bottom, tracing the whorl of her sensitive anus over and over until she moaned.
Then he began again, the heat and stinging rising by the second in her now very well-spanked bottom. He bent her more tightly over his thighs, moving her this way and that, seemingly in a bid to get a better angle, to increase the sting of each blow against her soft, defenseless buttocks.
“Don’t squeeze them. Open.” He smacked her hard across the lowest curve of each cheek, and she cried out. “Loose, slut. I want to see them move as I punish them.”
“Do as you’re told.” His huge hand squeezed one of her buttocks cruelly tight, the fingertips digging into her flesh. “Obey me, girl.”
Against all odds, she managed to relax, his pleased hum the only sign that he was satisfied with her compliance.
The spanking resumed, and within moments, she was pleading, twisting across his lap once more as he smacked her ass still more.
Letting go of her hair, he pinned her wrists to the small of her back, driving the breath from her lungs as he showed her the true extent of his great strength, holding her body utterly still across those steel thighs as he continued to discipline her bottom cheeks.
With sharp, loud slaps, he raised agonizing fire in her flesh, and soon enough her anguished pleading turned to hopeless, watery crying, her tears soaking her face, her dignity gone. Soon enough, she laid limp in his grip, hoping her abject surrender might appease his dark lusts, might convince him of her acquiescence to his will.
He caressed her ass, even as he painfully gripped her hair once again, yanking her head up. “I know what you need. The question is—do you have the courage to ask for it?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffled, the salt of her tears strong at her lips. She struggled against his grip, though it was as futile as it was half-hearted.
“Admit it, slut. Tell me what you want.” His breath was hot at her ear, his voice a harsh rasp. “Are you ready to beg for my cock?”
She froze against him, and the words were on her tongue. Her pussy was an ocean of hot slickness—he had only to dip a single finger between the lips of her sex to find the proof of it.
He did know what she wanted, no matter how humiliating it was. No matter how wrong it was.
You want it because it’s wrong. Why lie to yourself?
“Say it, whore. Beg for it.”
It was a huge, hard bulge, jutting against her lower belly. His arousal only made her spiral higher, and her resistance seemed to come apart then, the lies she told herself melting like tissue in the rain.
“Please… please fuck me, sir.”
“I didn’t hear you.” He nipped her earlobe between his teeth, the bright pain making her hiss.
“Please! I… I need… your cock.” Her pleas came in panicked gasps. “Please give me your cock!”
He held his lips to her tearstained cheek, his breath flowing over her flushed skin, his voice rich with lust and male arrogance.
“You haven’t earned it yet.”
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