Vanquish (Deliver 2)

Her arms wrenched against the restraints, and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh God, it hurts. Take me back.” A howling wail. “Need inside, inside, inside...”

Her chant ebbed into a mumbo jumbo of hiccupping sobs and indiscernible words. He'd read that panic attacks could last anywhere from minutes to hours. Sooner or later, she'd wear herself out. Or pass out. The latter wouldn't save her. Not anymore.

When her ankles were locked down with rope and tied to the trees on either side with two feet of space between her feet, he checked her limbs for blood flow, making sure the cuffs weren't cutting skin. Then he stood before her in the spotlight of the full moon, made brighter by the beams of floodlights illuminating the yard.

Her body faced the woods, her back exposed to the swath of lawn between the cabin and the tree line. The placement gave him enough visibility and room to maneuver. He'd also hear the house alarm if the perimeter wires were tripped.

Strangled noises coughed in her bucking chest. She was beyond speech now, seemingly lost to the frenzy in her head. Brown ropes of hair clung to her frame in sweaty strands, her eyes bulging as she fought for every rasping breath.

Seeing her dark hair and agonized features flared a deep, long-buried memory. His mother used to wear the same defeated look before the drugged haze of detachment had permanently emptied her expression. He would not allow the same thing to happen to Amber.

He paced out eight steps behind her and tested the weight of the whip's handle. Shaking out the fall, he let the six-foot thong ripple over the ground. His target, in all her magnificent nudity, shook wildly before him. Her arms stretched over her head, secured by wrist cuffs and rope, and the muscles in her back bounced beneath the unblemished canvas of her skin. The stunning sight took his breath away.

He delayed a moment to clear his mind and refill his lungs. Then he bent and locked his elbow, moving his arm upward and flowing the whip out behind him. At the twelve o'clock position, he relaxed his arm straight down and released the plaited leather through the air with a crack.

The fall landed with pinpoint accuracy, raising a pink bite just above her ass cheek. She flinched, and her violent thrashing slammed to a stop. Shock? It only lasted a heartbeat before she flung herself forward, caught by the rope, and cried out loudly and mournfully.

In the past, those pained howls would've hardened his cock into a burning steel rod. He would’ve imagined beating the shit out of the weak boy he’d once been and gotten off on it—as vile as that was. But his dick didn't jerk, his body pliant and cool, his mind completely focused on what she needed. Too many fears were coming at her all at once, probably faster, harder, and more intensely than anything she'd experienced. He wanted to shelter her from the onslaught. He wanted to see her eyes shine bright and protect that light. He wanted to free her.

A swallow lodged in his throat, and the handle shook in his hand. Where were these thoughts coming from? And what if he made her worse?

If the whip brought her unfathomable pain, she would avoid the outside more, unless she was able to engage with the pain and connect it with pleasure and arousal. It was the response he hoped for. Otherwise, this would end in disaster.

With his feet spaced shoulder-width apart and the grass tickling his toes, he shifted his left foot forward. Hips loose, left hand up and out for balance, he settled into a relaxed stance and waited for the shaking to stop.

For the span of a dozen pummeling heartbeats, his uncertainty shifted. His dominant hand warmed and strengthened as it held the whip selflessly for the first time. Until now, it had struck only because it felt good, because it satisfied a craving. He tightened his fingers around the stiff leather grip as Amber's panting cries surrounded him, begging wordlessly for his help.

He let the whip fly. Over and over, the lashes kissed her back, her ass, and her trembling legs. Whether he wanted to deliver a light sting or a muscle-bruising blow, his body knew what to do, his attention centering on her responses. The uncurling of her fingers, the loosening of her knees, the clench of her thighs, every answer contrasted with and complemented his strikes, each stumbling sigh playing different tones of the same melody. The song of unbidden surrender.

As the physical pain overpowered the emotional, her body liquefied. Nerves, muscles, and vocal chords, once stressed to their max, appeared to be softening, dissolving into a gentle sway of limbs and hushed moans.

His arm burned with exertion, his t-shirt soaked with sweat. He lowered the whip, catching his breath, and angled his head. The moon cast a globe of light on the glistening arousal slicking her inner thighs.

Pride lifted the corners of his mouth and expanded his lungs. He was the Master of a glowing red ass and a soaking pussy, of an agoraphobic who hung naked in the woods with a sigh on her lips. Damn straight, he owned that.

He set down the whip and approached her back, pausing close enough to let her feel his body heat without touching. Not one lash had broken the skin. He'd gone easy on her, though she probably wouldn't thank him for it. “What are you feeling, Amber?”

Her head rolled forward, and a shiver rippled her shoulders.

He walked a wide circle around to her front, slowly, confidently, his gait a habit of lethal charisma, as her heavy eyes tracked his movements. A kiss away, he cupped her face and raised her chin. “Tell me.”

She licked her lips, her eyelids half-mast. “I...I need...”

She'd better say him. He needed her to say it.

Holding her jaw with one hand, he dropped the other to a taut nipple, brushing it with a knuckle in teasing strokes. “What do you need?”

She arched her spine, pressing her heavy tit against his palm. Her eyes rose to his, brightening with unspoken thoughts, then drifted over his shoulder and widened. Her next inhale caught in her throat. “Take me inside.” She sucked in sharply, her jaw stiffening, her voice rushed. “Need to go back. Oh God. Now.”

Panic gripped him, and he twisted his neck, scanning the timber behind, his muscles swelling to attack. But nothing moved amidst the skeletal silhouettes of the sleepy woods.

A throb lit behind his eyes. Shit, her phobia was contagious, and of course, it was still there between them, a gasping fucking presence. What had he expected? A miraculous cure beneath his whip?

He checked his blooming anger and kept his tone calm yet authoritative. “Focus on me, Amber. On my hands.” He flicked her nipple and trailed the pads of his fingers around the curves of her breast, lifting the warm, dense weight. “Fucking love

your tits. The velvety texture, the little hard buds.” He pinched a nipple, made it harder.

Her eyes shifted, and when they found his, they softened. She leaned toward him, her arms trembling in the cuffs.

“Focus on my lips.” He took her mouth, and after a few coaxing nips, she melted into him. He kissed her with a deep ache in his chest, a burning need for her total attention. Sucking and licking, he dominated her mouth, fingers plunging into her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss.

The phobia might've slipped in, but she was still entranced in subspace. All the endorphins and adrenaline that had been released with the pain would be buzzing through her body, floating her in a warm, drifty cosmos that gravitated toward her Master.

As their tongues swirled together, tangling and tasting, his hands edged around her breasts, down her flat belly, and tiptoed over her hipbones. Her skin prickled with goose bumps, her pelvis lifting toward his, enthralling him.

He continued his caress to the creases between her mound and hips, sliding down her inner thighs, and returning to her waist. A vibration thrummed beneath her flesh, heating with circulating blood. He knew how to toy with her, when to ease off, teasing the anticipation by touching everywhere but the one place that would send her into a blissful spiral. He broke the kiss. “Tell me what you need now.”

A visible tremor skated over her. She tried to bend her elbows, unable to budge the rope, and dropped her head to his chest. “I...I'm scared.”

Quiet, desperate, her admission shivered through him. He needed to hold her, to assure her. If he released the cuffs, would she try to run? Doubtful, but if he was wrong, he'd catch her.

With years of practice in rope work, he freed the French bowline knots in seconds. He caught her wobbly descent, mindful of the welts, and carried her to the thick carpet of grass. When he laid her on her side, she curled in on herself, her face distorted in terror, and her body wrenched into the violent throes of panic.