“Lucy,” he said finally.
I turned to look back at him. I can’t imagine what my expression was. Desire. Desperation.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes, Matthew.”
“Don’t you dare come.”
“No, sir.”
He got up, the bottle of lube in his hand. He squirted a generous dollop of it onto his fingers.
Then, holding my eyes with a knowing look, he reached down and parted my pussy lips, and deposited that stinging lube right onto my engorged clit.
“This should make things interesting for you.”
All I could do was look at him and let out a soft sob. He ambled back to the sofa.
“Don’t come, Lucy.”
I clenched my hands into fists, dangerously aroused. My hips began to move an infinitesimal amount, against my will, just carnal, irresistible drive. I looked back at him, my eyes wide and begging as my clit caught fire.
“Don’t. Dare. Come. Don’t do it, Lucy. You know it means twenty. I’ll use the crop on you this time.”
I sighed and turned away from him. I would have given anything to touch my burning hot, wet clit, to rub myself into oblivion. It would have taken me seconds to come. I was almost to the point where I would have taken twenty with the crop just to have that release.
But he wasn’t finished with me yet. No, not Matthew. After five minutes or so of that torture, he crossed to the armoire again. He returned with some tiny silver clips in his hand. I shook my head in denial.
“You are not to come from these clips on your titties. Do you understand?” I gave a quick sob at the same time I whispered, “Yes, sir.” Then I begged. “Please, Matthew—”
“No. Control yourself. I said no.”
He caressed my taut nipples, then took the first between his fingers and put the clip on. I gasped, short frantic breaths. He caressed the other, then squeezed it and clipped it too. I tried, I really did try, but a moment later, I came. I came like a volcano, utterly out of control, my eyes squeezed shut, my hips jerking on the ottoman, pure mindless physical reaction. The orgasm went on and on as my walls clenched around the toys inside me, my nipples aching from the bite of the clips. When I finally came to my senses, I looked up at him, tearful and ashamed.
He looked back at me, shaking his head and tsking. “You naughty, naughty girl.” He took my chin in his hand and squeezed it, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Naughty little slut, always coming without permission.”
I sobbed guiltily because I knew that was what he wanted me to do, just as I knew that he’d actually expected me to come. Wanted me to come, because then he could punish me, exactly the way I liked.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I moaned. He ignored me and went to the armoire for the crop. He held it in front of my face and tapped my cheek lightly with it.
“Twenty. You’ll count.”
Then he started to crop me, hot, merciless slaps of pain, and I counted, helpless, still stuffed in both holes. My hands made fists and I was glad that I was cuffed because it would have been impossible not to shield myself. Halfway through, he grabbed my hands and pulled them up so my back was even more arched, my bottom even more exposed. Each stroke of the crop was a lick of white fire. I counted, half gasps, half shrieks.
After he finished he released my hands and slathered more of that devilish lube on his cock.
He pulled out the toy in my ass, and then he straddled the ottoman behind me and shoved his cock in. I sobbed the whole time he fucked me, pressing back against him to take him deeper. He held my hips hard and controlled every movement I made, reaching around every so often to press on my stinging, aching clit.
Finally he growled in my ear, “Okay. You have thirty seconds to come before I finish.
Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”
With a grateful sob of relief, I bucked back against him, coming hugely before the words were even out of his mouth. He may have chuckled at my uncontrolled howling and shaking, but I was too far gone to know for sure. After that, he put his arms around me, pulled me close, and shuddered against me as he drove deep with his own release. He lay limp across my back for a long time, licking my shoulder, kissing and nibbling my neck. Finally, he released my hands from the cuffs, rubbed my wrists gently in the places they were red. He pulled out of me, helped me up off the dildo, and turned me around to face him.
I was wobbly and drained. Mindless. He kissed me and hugged me close.
“You are such a lovely girl. You’re such a good girl, Lucy. And I really love it, the way you come.”
I shone from the praise, even though my eyes were tired and sex-glazed.
“Now, kneel down here. Look at this.” He pointed at the surface of the ottoman. “You’ll need to clean this up before we head up to bed.”
I looked up at him from my knees, and he gestured again to the upholstery. “Hurry, girl.” So I crawled closer and lowered my mouth to the slick surface and licked that ottoman clean of all my juices, cinnamon flavored juices, like the good girl I was.
Chapter Seven: Used
That night I dreamed I lost my legs, not in an accident or anything like that...my legs just started to disappear. I watched in disbelief as my ankles, my shins, my knees, my thighs each vanished gradually into thin air. I cried bitterly at the injustice of this. I was a dancer, after all.
Then my vision started to go black around the edges, again, so gradually that the horror of it was prolonged. My crying turned to pleading, and then to screams of panic, because my breath was cut off as if a hand was clamped over my mouth. I screamed, but nothing came out, because I had nothing, no legs, no vision, and no breath to give my horror voice.
Well, in my dream, nothing came out, but there in Matthew’s bed, I must have really screamed because next thing I knew he was shaking me awake with a look of consternation on his face.
“Lucy! What the hell are you yelling about?”
“What? I don’t know!” I gasped, pushing at him. “Stop!” He stopped shaking me, but he didn’t let me go. “Are you okay? What the hell!”
“What happened? I was yelling?”
“Yes, you were. Very loudly. Screaming actually.”
“I’m sorry.” My eyes were already closing again. It was so cozy, being cradled in his arms.
“Lucy!” He shook me again and my eyes opened reluctantly. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Matthew... Nothing. It was nothing.”
“You were screaming, ‘ No, no, stop.’ Were you dreaming about me? About us? What I do to you?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth. I wasn’t dreaming of you. If I was dreaming of you, I would have screamed, ‘ Don’t stop! Harder! ’” I smiled at him. I thought that was really funny, but he didn’t smile back.
“I was dreaming about dancing,” I said. “I dreamed that my legs disappeared.” He looked down at me with a frown. “Why did you dream that?”
“I don’t know. I really can’t control my dreams.”
“Don’t be a smartass. If you’re having nightmares about me, I want to know.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare about you. Can I sleep now? I’m sleepy.”
“I don’t want you to sleep. I want you to talk to me. Do you like what we do?”
“What are you talking about?”