“No,” I whined against the metal links.
“Yes. You need it, bad girl.”
He started flicking the whip’s tip right along the center of my pussy. I cried. I bawled. No, no, no. It hurt so bad, and I was so wet, and I hated him for reducing me to this groaning, terrified, needy creature. As I fought and strained, he started alternating his method of depravity. First I’d feel the hot, hard licks across the backs of my thighs, and then the thwack on my pussy.
“Do you want the clamps off?” he asked. “Listen to me.” I could barely focus through the haze of my agony. “Do you want the clamps off?”
I nodded frantically. Yes, yes, please, off!
He put my legs down, spread them wide, and forced me back with his hands when I tried to sit up.
“Don’t,” he said in his evil voice. “Don’t you dare move. Don’t you dare get up. Keep your legs open for me. Show me how bad you’ve been, how badly you deserve to be punished.”
My arms ached from being tied behind me. My nipples felt like they were going to fall off, and my pussy and thighs throbbed from the damn whip, but I lay back, my eyes locked on his, and opened my legs, baring myself to whatever horrible thing he might do next. My chest rose and fell in frantic pants, and a noise leached out of me, a warbling, fearsome sound I couldn’t control.
“Jesus,” he whispered, staring down at me. “You’re magnificent like this.”
I expected him to whip my pussy the way he’d done earlier. I lay there waiting for him to whip it to shreds, but instead he reached out and started to stroke me. I was so wet. I think that’s why he did it, to show me how wet I was.
He fucked me with one finger, two fingers, three fingers, and it hurt and felt good, two feelings at once. He half knelt, down on one knee, and shoved my legs so wide open that my muscles strained. His fingers dug into my inner thighs, each fingertip a point of domination. As soon as his tongue touched my clit, I knew his goal was to make me die.
I thought he would be rough, like his fingers were rough, and his whip was rough, but he ate me out with the delicacy of an expert. He used the perfect pressure, the perfect teasing variation of taps and strokes and fluttering caresses. I wasn’t groaning and crying from pain now, but from pleasure.
Without stopping, he reached up and undid the nipple clamps. They hung, forgotten, from my mouth. I was too distracted to spit out the chain. Blood rushed to my poor, blood-deprived nipples, resulting in a burning frenzy of feeling. All it meant to me was more of his power, more of his torture. More of him.
His fingers rested on the whip welts, intentionally, I was sure. I hurt and I burned, and his tongue was miraculous. He was a silent, intent predator and I was the prey animal tossing in his grasp. Dying, slowly but surely. My hips jerked in time with his tongue and then the orgasm broke wide, making me tremble with a complete loss of control. The bliss of it felt sharp as a whip stroke. The chain slithered from my lips as I gasped through my open mouth. The death throes, escaping through the lying hole in my head.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. He left and put on a condom, and came back to the bed. He pulled up my limp body and turned me over, and arranged me face down. The tie binding my arms made a nice handle for him to grasp.
He thrust inside me, and even as wet as I was, he felt big and scary. He pounded into me, jerking me back against him. I was still sensitive from the orgasm, not to mention the whip. My nipples hurt from scraping across the comforter, soft and luxurious though it was. The bedside lamps seemed like spotlights, intensifying every humiliation.
Ow, ow, ow. I’d had my pleasure. This excruciating finale was his pleasure. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me until I chafed, until I started to go dry, and then he finished with even more force than he’d started with.
Somewhere in the middle, I’d started crying. There was a big wet stain under my face, smeared with makeup, foundation and eye shadow and mascara. I blinked down at the stain as he untied my arms. He was still inside me, even now that he’d come. I had this thought that maybe my body would never be mine again.
I had another thought: he wanted me, literally. He wanted my body to be his. Not only had he insisted on an exclusive arrangement, and stalked my personal life. He was also methodically and intentionally ruining me for other men by making sure they could never be as perverted, as passionate, as forceful as he was. He was devouring me with his desire, his charisma. He was taking from me until he had all of me and I had nothing left.