Sinners & Gin - Top Shelf

“Good. Because I like hurting you. I plan to hurt you over and over again. Cry my name, princess. I want to hear you cry my name.”

At first, when the belt had finally stopped its rise and fall, I had barely moved, lying there trying to come to grips with what he’d done to me, trying to wrap my head around how much pain I was in, yet how aroused I was at the same time. So, when he climbed onto the bed between my legs and began to fondle me, rooting around rudely between my legs as if he had every right, I all but begged for more in delight.

I had clearly lost my mind. Even as I cried out in pain—and Jesus fucking Christ did it hurt—I still wanted more. I never once begged him to stop because I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to go easy. I really wanted a true whipping. The feel of submission, surrender, and allowing Matthew to dominate was by far the most powerful and erotic feeling I had ever experienced. And even now, as I recovered from his discipline, my body hungered for more as I was bound and helpless and being fucked, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it but allow every wicked sensation to overcome me.

It felt much, much better than I wanted it to, almost but not quite enough to overpower the way my flesh continued to throb and sear, like a burn did after the fact. The pain continued to mount, even though the punishment was over, probably because of the way his movements against me caused the fabric of his pants to rub over my brutally sensitized flesh.

But still, to my deep shame, it wasn’t enough to override the pure, unadulterated pleasure of his possession. I could feel it not only in my pussy, but also in my breasts and nipples, and my scalp and my toes, which were curling unconsciously until I forced them to straighten out. Every little bit of me felt every excruciating centimeter of him as he sank himself into me. Not quickly, not as if this were something he needed or wanted to get over with, but with humiliating deliberation, as if he were savoring it as much as my body wanted to.

And that was before he reached down to claim a nipple in each hand, teasing and pinching them, rolling them tight between those big fingers of his, adding insult to injury and ratcheting up my level of desire to the point where I thought I was going to come right then and there.

“Cry out my name,” he ordered.

And when he touched bottom, fully balls deep, when I had no more of myself to give him, I did exactly as he commanded.

I felt so full of him that it was almost unbearable—stretched and firmly packed and… possessed.

Truly possessed, in a way I hadn’t felt even last night when he’d taken me. I wanted to move.

But… to my complete humiliation, not to get away from him, not to escape this degrading thing that he was doing to me—but to lift my hips up to him. To offer myself to him, to give myself up to him completely, even though there was really nothing left for him to take.

I had already been taken.

Already been used.

Already owned.

A revenge fuck again and again.

As I tried to deal with my own body’s betrayal, to my horror his mouth found its way to my ear as he breathed into it in a voice that was almost as hoarse as mine was. “I’m going to make you come as I fuck you, Aria. I’m going to make you come hard.”

My mind rebelled at that idea—not after a punishment—but was overridden by my body. Yes, fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me come. Please, make me come.

His right hand released its possessive hold on my breast to move downward. I felt him lift himself a bit away from me and had to ruthlessly suppress a cry of loss that would have given me away. He touched the top of my pussy, reaching further to where his fingertip sought and found a clit that was wholly, fully engorged, just like his cock within me.

I was more than wet enough to provide him with the lubrication he needed to do exactly what he wanted to with me. Those broad fingers immediately began to rub themselves over my folds as I felt him draw his hips back to plunge himself back inside me with a force that nearly had me squealing in both delight and pain.

He kept up a rhythm for the longest time, as if the two of us were competing to see how long we could hold out against each other and our orgasms. And he played dirty—varying the strength with which he fucked me, and the ways in which he tormented my clit, to say nothing of how he pulled and twisted and crushed my nipple, then soothed it for long moments only to repeat the cycle.