And with the ease and grace that comes with strength, he rises fluidly to his feet. “Take off my shoes.”
Relief, happiness, rightness, it all twines around the arousal, making it sharper and brighter.
I do as he asks, trying to hide my happy smile behind my curtain of hair as I tug at the laces, but he sees the smile anyway.
“Are you a happy angel?” he asks. “Serving me?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m happy when you serve me. It pleases me to see you on your knees.” He resumes his idle caresses of my hair as I carefully lever one shoe off and start on the other. After I finish with that, he bids me to stand up and he starts undressing me, his fingers sliding between fabric and skin and lingering there before he peels the clothes from my body, his eyes hot on every new inch exposed. He strips me like you’d strip old wallpaper or faded carpet to get to the antique house underneath, utilitarian and anticipatory and disdainful and reverent all at the same time. And soon I’m completely naked, shivering in the cold room.
His fingers brush against my nipples and I squeak, my body starving for real stimulation.
He gives a chuckle. “Eager, are we?”
I don’t dare answer. Every time I play this game with Ash, it feels like the first time, like I’m peeling back a new layer of myself with every humiliation I endure, revealing a woman pink-skinned and raw and glowing underneath.
“Hands on the footboard of the bed. Legs spread.”
I obey, swallowing. I know what’s coming next, and sure enough I feel a large hand between my shoulder blades. It runs a gentle, almost exploratory, path down my spine, and then rubs circles on my ass and flanks.
“Breathe, angel.”
Crack.
The first one is never that bad. No, the first one is fun in a way, like being scared at a haunted house or jumping into a cold pool on a hot day. Startling, bracing, sending sensation sparking down your legs.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
“Breathe,” my master repeats.
I breathe in.
Crack, crack, crack.
I breathe out.
“Again.”
I breathe again.
Ash deliberately disrupts the rhythm, making sure I relax before he strikes, or that he strikes several times in quick succession so that my body has no choice but to yield to his dominance. Pain shimmers behind my sternum like a living entity, pulling at my lungs and stomach, and my hands shake as they try to grip the footboard. My whole body shakes, and there’s heat glowing in my eyes. I’ll be crying soon. Very soon.
My feet scrabble at the floor as Ash continues his assault, a leg involuntarily kicking up and trying to cover my ass with my foot. Ash pushes it back down with a noise that can only be described as evil delight, and spanks me all the harder for my resistance. Crack goes his hand, and there’s the heavy panting of his breath, and the pain in my chest like a familiar houseguest, rifling through my feelings like a pantry, tossing out fear and anger and humiliation and leaving behind a deep mindlessness that feels almost like bliss. There’s only the pain and Ash, and everything else shrinks to a pinpoint and vanishes.
Crack, crack, crack.
And then Ash is folding his body over top of mine, his jeans scratching painfully at my raw ass, his thick cock hard as steel against my flesh. He fists my hair and yanks my head back so he can kiss my cheeks.
No…so he can kiss the tears on my cheeks. The visible and undeniable proof of my submission.
In a wrenching instant, his body is gone over mine, and I actually moan a little at the loss. Only to moan again as I feel his mouth somewhere other than my cheek, somewhere much, much better.
It starts with a kiss on my pussy, an almost chaste one, if such a thing can exist. Then it blossoms into wet, warm caresses, his tongue tracing up from my clit to my entrance, firm on one stroke, flat and wide on the next. The pain where I was spanked flares around the hot point of his mouth like the corona of a sun, like the halo around a saint, the golden thing that highlights the beauty within its circle.
He rubs my back as he tongues me, pets my thighs as if I were a horse that needed gentling, and God help me, I love it. I buck into his touch, practically purring as he runs his warm hands over my abused flesh, and occasionally I hear him chuckle to himself as I get especially eager. The pain subsides, but the bliss stays, and all that nibbling and licking and sucking is stirring a twisting pressure in the cradle of my pelvis. I’m going to come soon, the delicious kind of orgasm that can only happen after pain and pain-triggered endorphins, but then something unexpected happens. Ash’s hands come to rest on my ass, and slowly, ever so slowly, they spread my cheeks apart so that I have no secrets from him. I’m completely exposed.
The twisting pressure freezes mid-twist, discomfort and embarrassment managing to gouge their way past the bliss.
“Ash, I’ve never—”
He silences me with one lick. One brush of his tongue against my darkest secret. The sensation is like nothing I’ve ever felt, too shallow, too slick, too dirty, too everything, and I squirm frantically away from him. A hundred what ifs run through my mind, only to be chased away by a fingertip and Ash’s stern voice.
“This is mine, little princess. My hole. Yes?”
The fingertip is probing. Pushing. Gradually and almost lazily breaching my most elemental barrier.
His other hand comes up to slap my ass, right on top of the spots still raw from the spanking. My leg kicks up and he impatiently pushes it back down. “I asked you a question. Is this mine?”