Beauty in the Broken

“Pick, Lina, unless you want me to pick for you. Trust me, if I do, I’ll fuck your clit, pussy, or ass—maybe all three—with the stick-end of this whip until you give me what I want.”

“W-what do you want?”

“Your orgasm. You have until three. One.”

Her fingers flitter to her clit. She rubs in a circular motion, like I’d done with the stick. She’s slick. Her movements are fast and the sounds wet. Crouching down for a closer look, I inhale her scent. She smells of sweet poison and sex. Her head is thrown back and her brow pleated in concentration. She goes faster. The sound of her fingers rubbing over her slick flesh makes me harder. She works herself up to a crescendo, her neck muscles pulling from the strain, and then she collapses.

“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “I can’t make myself come if you watch.”

The leather strip comes down so fast she doesn’t know what’s hit her. It falls between her legs, covering her clit and slit. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but she squeezes her legs together and cries out in fright. At least she didn’t fake an orgasm. For that, I cut her some slack.

“What did I say about your vocabulary?”

“I can’t come like—”

Smack.

“Ow!”

“That was for I can’t.”

She’s angry now. “What do you want from me?”

“Try harder.”

“Why?”

“I had my turn. Now it’s yours.” Smack. “Show me.”

She cries out again, covering her pussy with her hands.

“Two, Lina. When I get to three, I’m fucking you with the whip, and I choose which hole.”

Her chest rises and falls with fast breaths. In direct contrast, she opens her legs in slow motion, her fingers going tentatively back to her clit.

“Tell you what. Since you didn’t try to fake it, I’m going to help you out.”

She doesn’t ask. She watches me as she fingers her clit while I push the stick end inside, fucking her lightly as she plays with herself. It’s hot to watch. If my dick rubs up against her, I’ll blow. Before she knows it, she’s going to let me stick my dick in every hole in her body. Her outer labia clenches around the thin intrusion, telling me what I want to know. I already know from the paddle incident how to rub her up inside, and it doesn’t take long. Her globes pull together. Her ass lifts off the floor. Every muscle in her lower region pulls tight. She comes with a silent gasp, refusing to give me sounds. That’s all right, because I have her pleasure.

Her hips collapse. She looks spent. Gently, I remove the handle, wiping it clean on the inside of her leg. I straighten without covering her, because I’m not done looking. Our gazes are locked. There are questions in hers, so I give her the answer.

“This is who I am.”

Lina

Who is my husband? Who is the man carrying me to his bedroom in warm, strong arms, so careful with me, as if I could break, when he’s just broken me on his study floor? I was right. I don’t know him. I do know I’m not immune to his hands or the way his eyes turn dark with lust when I orgasm. No, I don’t know much about him, but I do know he’s not the boy-man who told me he was going to marry me. He’s a grown man, manipulative enough to force me into marriage and perverse enough to take what he wants, no matter how shameful. Most of all, he’s a dangerous man. He not only survives the battles of life, he thrives on them. He loves the fight. I see it in his brooding eyes every time he forces me to resist, only to keep me hovering on the brink of pleasure before pushing me over ever so slowly.

Every time he spars with me on his desk or floor, I see the sinister satisfaction in his eyes when I lose the battle, when my body gives in and comes. It’s not that I’m not fighting the climaxes. I do. I fight giving him what he wants with every ounce I’ve got, but he’s clever at dissecting me, at reading the signals and figuring out which buttons to push. The one I’ll never let him get close to is my heart. I take comfort in this notion as he carries me into the bathroom and lowers me to the rug. He can have my pleasure, hurt me until it feels good, and make me peak with paddles and whips, but he can’t touch what’s not physical. He can’t touch my feelings.

The violent lust has left his eyes, but he’s still hard. If he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t force me, not with his cock, I would’ve been scared. He smooths his hands down my arms. An involuntary shiver runs over me when his fingers brush the scars. I can’t stand any caresses on the mutilations. The urge to pull away is so severe my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. It takes all my self-control to stay put.