Chapter Six –
I paced around in Mr. Crawford's office, aggressively chewing on the dangling skin around my shortened fingernails as I awaited his return. I exhaled indignantly, seating myself back down on the armchair opposite his desk. The modern, non-numerical clock perched on his wall informed me that I'd been waiting for more than twenty minutes now. Where the hell was he? Had I gone too far? I've been here barely a month – what am I even really doing here? I buried my head in my arms, groaning. My restless legs curled up against the chair's, finding strange solace in the cool wood against my skin.
The door swung open behind me. Mr. Crawford strutted inside the room, a shiny, silver briefcase in his hands. The door creaked shut behind him as he wordlessly set his briefcase atop his desk.
“Mr. Crawford – what's –”
He unlocked the case, my mouth dropping open as I surveyed its contents. On the left was a row of strange-looking whips and scourges of multiple sizes, fashioned out of what looked like leather, rubber, and silicone, wedged into the special-made molds of the inner black lining. The right side of the briefcase flaunted multicolored candles of variously burned states and extra long wicks, along with bottles of pricey-looking, fragrant oils and substances, and finally, a gleaming pair of handcuffs. Speechless, I stared wide-eyed at Mr. Crawford, who was now crossing over to the ab bench in the corner of his office, situated next to his state-of-the-art treadmill.
There was a loud clang as Mr. Crawford fiddled with the handles of his fully-cushioned exercise bench, the leg rests elevating upright, the reclining bench sloping downwards. I blinked in confusion at the tweaked contraption, my gargling breath arrested in my throat as he lunged towards me and grabbed hold of my wrists. He dragged me towards the mechanism, positioning me over the leather cushion. Sweat licked the creases of my underarms as he forced my wrists together and slammed them over my head, cuffing them against the leg rests.
My feet were hooked against the foundations of the bench, my thighs quivering turbulently as he wrenched down my skirt, along with my racy panties, wresting my vibrating, fleshy cheeks apart with his icy fingers. I could feel scarlet tinging my cheeks as he caught sight of the pulsing slit between my legs. I wondered if he could tell what a virgin cunt looked like. My hips writhed in circles as I jutted my jiggling cheeks towards him.
“Mr. Crawford – please, I can't –” I stuttered, smacking my lips, “I need you to take me – but please, be gentle –”
“Gentle?” He snorted, raising his eyebrows, “You're being punished – wait, Cleo, you're not a virgin, are you?”
I shivered, his body pressing down against me from behind, my cheeks depressing into the rugged, cushioned surface. He traced the back of his knuckle against my cheek, whispering, “Are you, Cleo?”
“Y – yes,” I gulped, my kissing thighs now coated with a sheen of my juices.
“And you want me to fuck you? Is that what you want?”
“Yes – please, sir –”
“No.”
My skin crawled, his definitive words resonating in my ears. Beads of sweat squeezed out of my palms.
I squeaked, “Sir?”
“You're being punished, little whore. I'm not in the giving mood, but you will entertain me.”
Before I could ponder the possibilities of his frighteningly enticing words, he smacked me hard across my left cheek. I glanced backwards, my bottom lip quivering at the smarting, ruddy spot sprouting across my flesh. He backhanded my right cheek, his stunning, clean-cut features clouding over, replaced with a haunting grimace, absorbing every bounce of my cheeks. I yelped, my lips cracking in their dryness.
Mr. Crawford reached into his pocket and produced a navy-blue handkerchief, balling it up in his fist. Tears sprang into my eyes as he shoved the suffocating fabric into my mouth. My nostrils stretched, breathing heavily out my nose. The sound of a cap unscrewing filled my ears. I turned my neck hesitantly, my eyes rounding in anticipation as he slowly approached me, an orange bottle in his hands. He drizzled a hearty amount of jasmine-scented massage oil onto my stinging cheeks. A trail of perspiration glistened in my cleavage as I relaxed into the cushion, his fingers slathering the slippery oil into every crease and wrinkle. I moaned, the roving fingernails perforating into my flesh surprisingly sharp.
My eyes popped open, smeared mascara tracking down my burning face. I craned my neck hesitantly, following the sound of a clicking lighter. He was now hovering over me, a thick, twisted candle about ten inches long suspended over my glossy, greasy cheeks. He set the dangling wick aflame, a hint of strawberries dancing in the air. My mouth was growing sore. I was salivating from the sides of my lips, my convulsing, pleasured shrieks lost in the drenched, balled up fabric. My back arched, my legs squirming underneath me with every brief, almost addictive, sweltering heat that came with every wax bullet that kissed my flesh.
I gasped, a chill running down my wrists at the alarmingly florid patches of my skin, forming around the globs of ruby-tinted wax dotting my terribly aching cheeks. I wasn't sure what it was – maybe it was the burst of color, the explosion of vitality surging within me, perhaps, even the agonizing, yet tantalizing pain inflicted upon me, but I wanted more. Whatever it was, I needed more.
Mr. Crawford uncuffed me, bright red rings circling my tender wrists. I dropped to the floor, burrowing my fingers into the fibers of his plush carpeting. My mouth gaped open further, sputtering on the handkerchief as he unbuckled his belt, his pants dropping to his knees. I watched as he removed his veined, throbbing pole from his black boxers. The room around me blurred as he began stroking the length of his shaft. He picked out the largest whip from his briefcase and forced the handle into my fingers.
“Spank yourself, you little whore. I wanna see how sorry you really are.”
He yanked the handkerchief out of my mouth, his nebulous grin broadening. I squeaked, my heart pounding in my ears as I raised the large, menacing whip over me with trembling arms. I cracked it lightly against my left cheek, the fringes bouncing gently off my flesh.
“Harder,” Mr. Crawford barked, his eyes flashing.
I flung the whip against my flesh with all the might I could muster, a splitting screech trilling out of my lips. Gasping with my tongue probing my cheek, I sucked in my lips from the burning sensation. I glanced towards Mr. Crawford, biting my lip. His fingers were wrapped around his cock, jerking the length of his shaft violently, a clear, filmy liquid oozing out his reddish, glistening tip. The lust-riddled look in his eyes was slightly maddening, and it made me squirm. There was nothing I wanted more than to watch his tip erupt with his milky emissions. With a mischievous twinkle in my eye, I hefted the whip over me and flogged myself repeatedly, my quavering kneecaps scraping against the carpet, almost unbearable.
Mr. Crawford bolted across the room and clenched a fistful of my hair. My lips parted instinctively, the tip of his throbbing pole shoving into my mouth. His beautiful blue eyes softened as he emptied his load between my lips, his creamy, faintly tart discharge trickling down my throat. I gasped as he pulled himself out of my mouth. He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek, stroking ever so gently. I kissed his fingertips, gazing dreamily into his eyes. I knew exactly what I had to do.