A familiar order. She lowered, laying her shoulders and one side of her face on the sheet. The rumpled cotton smelled of Flynn, of both of them, and she extended her arms back along her sides. A muscle in her neck whined as he brought her wrists together at the small of her back and wrapped them in the leather. It had always been an awkward position for her, but she settled into the discomfort as she’d learned to. There was a tug as he secured the buckle, then he let her hands go.
He pulled her underwear down some but didn’t take them off. Instead he yanked the crotch to one side, and there it was—the smooth, blunt head of his cock, seeking entrance. She was mindful to take a deep breath and release it slowly, to will her body to relax. She’d been crampy on and off since she’d had the IUD put in, and she didn’t relish that pain on top of the contortion.
“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing inside. “So fucking wet.” He wasn’t patient, but as he sank in fully on the third thrust, her body settled without a twinge. He felt obscene, the thick intrusion of his cock underscoring the scent of the sheets, the sounds of his deepening grunts, the true bondage of her wrists and the added constriction of her twisted panties.
Laurel had a private name for this sensation—trussed. It unleashed a flurry of emotions when they took things here, the experience at once humiliating and exhilarating. The sort of thing she might glimpse in pornography and find both demeaning and titillating, but on balance feel too squicked by to keep watching. The sort of thing she’d always held against a lover, should she discover it was his taste. Until Flynn.
He was so up front, so guileless, his desires didn’t threaten her. She followed him places she never would have imagined she might, never bumping up against a kink that didn’t repay her discomfort at least twofold in pleasure or gratification.
At least not until tonight. As the thrill of the initial penetration faded, her excitement ebbed, outshone by a growing strain in her shoulder, a nagging itch where the wool of her skirt’s waist rubbed her skin. A nagging worry in her head, one she’d never encountered in this bed before.
Even deep inside her body, he felt so far away. It made her ache to free her wrists and turn over, to wrap her arms around him, hold him tight. But that was merely what she wanted. What he needed tonight looked far different, but she’d give him that all the same. She’d endure it, and come out sore and probably uncertain, but not hurt. Not where it counted. Under all the worry, she felt strong. Strong enough to be whatever release he needed. Strong enough to trust this was still the same man she loved, even as he felt undeniably like a stranger.
She was sweating now, the wool chafing, the elastic of her panties pulled taut against the seam of one thigh and promising a mark. She shoved those details aside and instead pictured his face, cheeks stained dark with effort, eyes at once wild and stony, lips parted and flushed. The image struck that flint deep inside her belly, the first spark that told her an orgasm was possible. It’d take more though, and it felt foolish to hope that her pleasure was on his mind, tonight.
“You feel good,” he told her again, his voice like water to a woman lost in a desert. She drank the words down, dying for more.
“I want to plea—ease you,” she said, jolted by his hammering hips.
“You do nothing tonight but get fucked.” His reply was coarse but quenching all the same.
“Yes, Sir.” She hadn’t called him that in ages. The formality of it had always seemed corny to Laurel, but it felt right tonight, somehow. She’d read a book about D/s sex after they’d become a couple. Was this subspace? Wait, no—she was thinking far too much for that. She was thinking far too much, period. She needed more. She needed pleasure to let her endure the discomfort. And there was no choice but to spell it out for him.
“I want to come for you.”
His hips kept pumping but his sounds changed, grunts muted to huffs of air. “That so?”
“Yes, please. On your cock, just like this.”
“Beg me again. Beg me again, and maybe I’ll give you exactly what you need.”
“Please, Sir. Touch me, please. I want it so bad it hurts.” She wanted it so badly, just to balance out the hurt.
“You want my touch,” he echoed, his tone maybe mocking, maybe just cocky. One hand moved from her hip to her crack, thumb drawing a shocking line down and over her hole.
Her breath was gone, body tossed between misgiving and excitement, as it always was when he took liberties back there. He reached around to wet his thumb where his driving cock met her slick lips. He swept his fingertips over her clit for a single second’s torturous tease before returning to her ass.
She gave herself over to this moment, still intimidating after all this time with Flynn, but familiar. The faint sting of the intrusion, the warped pleasure of the transgression. It wasn’t the touch she craved, but there was no denying it solidified the need pulsing in her belly.
“That what you wanted?” he demanded.
“I’ll take whatever you give me.”
His thumb twisted, retreated, delved deep again, feeling better by the second. “Good answer. But don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Tell me what you want.” Such words could have felt reassuring, except he sounded cold, so cold.
“My clit,” she mumbled.
“Tell me.”