My favourite and his preferred one. Returning from the bedroom, I knelt back down and offered it to him on the palm of my outstretched hand. After he’d accepted it, he indicated with a twizzle of his finger I should kneel facing away.
He brushed my hair from roots to tips. Made from natural fibres, not plastic, the hairbrush took effort to force through my tangles. I sat still, refused to wince, and let him work out the knots. Each pass of the brush align
ed strands as if they were soldiers on parade. By the time he had finished, my head felt light, and my scalp tingled.
He reached round and undid the buttons of my blouse. Having removed my blouse, he snapped the clasp of my bra, and I shook my breasts free. Taking the brush, he stroked my back with the bristles. Neither a ticklish nor a painful sensation—his actions existed in an ambivalent world of in-between. Down my arms and spine, he grazed the fibres, and I arched my back in response. Nudging me onto all fours, he lowered my jeans then my knickers, leaving me naked. The skin brushing continued.
“Lie down,” he commanded.
Lying on my belly, he worked the brush all over me, sometimes pressing down, other times barely touching and it tickled, forcing me to giggle and squirm. Rolling me over, he did the same, paying particular attention to my breasts and pubic area. I turned pink, the skin hot and sore. Joining me on the floor, he brushed as I rotated, aware of the increasing discomfort.
“Oh God,” I murmured.
The sensual torment drove me wild, and my pussy tightened, the juices coating my inner thighs. I didn’t dare look at him, in case it undid me completely. I swivelled back onto my knees, arms stretched out in front of my head, and he entered me from behind, gliding in with one swing of his hips. Then he drew out slowly, almost tenderly until the tip of his erection lingered inside my vagina.
Thud!
He knocked back into me with a slap. The brush remained in his hands and, while one hand held me in place, the other continued to scrape the fibres down my back and thighs. Repeatedly, he withdrew slowly and slammed back into me. Over and over, he raked my tender skin in a perverse duet to his fucking. How I loved the rhythm of pummelling thrusts and scrapes of bristles, torturing me with pain then pleasure. To hear him grunt with fearsome exertion then almost chuckle as the brush tickled my bottom, electrified my pussy.
“Do you want to come?” he asked.
Come? I wanted to explode. My toes curled up and my legs wobbled, ready to give out from underneath me. “Please, Master.”
“Why?”
“My orgasms are yours, Sir, only yours. All of them.”
“Mine,” he moaned. “So come for me, babe.”
He’d hit my orgasm button, and I writhed, breath held and calves twitching. He continued to fuck, undeterred by my quaking. The sensation built again, stronger, and my pussy contracted. He flung the brush away and picked up the pace of his thrusts. Shaken about, my breasts swung while he scrunched my buttocks. I hovered on the brink.
“Wait.”
“I can’t, I can’t!” I screeched.
“You will, baby,” he growled. “You will for me.”
He grasped my beautifully brushed hair and twisted it about in his fingers until he had a keen grip on my strands. He forced my head back, requiring me to arch my back and straightened my arms.
“How much do you want it?”
A lot, truly I wanted that second orgasm so much. “For you, Master.”
“How much do you want it?”
“I want it. I need it!” I shrieked. “Do what you want, do it to me, I don’t care....” I ended my plea with a whimper.
“Oh I will, my little subbie. Don’t you worry, I will.”
I lost control and came wildly, unable to contain my climax, and my legs buckled under me. The orgasm ripped through my body with wave upon wave of contractions leaving my clitoris throbbing and super sensitive.
He slapped my bottom hard, jolting me. “It’s going to be a long night for you, babe. A long night.” He withdrew, saving his orgasm.
In the morning, I lay next to him in bed, and he checked over my fading marks and discolorations. Something floated into my memory, and I leapt up with a heart-stopping thump of recollection. “You said something about a dinner party,” I cried.
“Yes, we’re going to be hosting for our kinky friends. You were supposed to be planning it while I tormented you—a distraction. It seems my suggestion didn’t work.”
“We planned it during a scene?” I remembered drooling on the floor and saying “Yes, Master,” a great number of times.