American Queen

Oh, the invasion. How small it must look and yet how big it feels. “Yes, Sir,” I answer, my voice cracking on the last word.

“That’s right,” he says arrogantly. “This one and this one” —a finger enters my pussy — “and your mouth. Every hole belongs me, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

The finger finally tunnels past the first ring of muscle, sinking up to a knuckle. I sputter and pant and kick my legs, and all I get for my pains are more spanks.

“And this ass—this is mine to bite or to spank. And the hole there, that’s mine to lick. Mine to play with. Mine to fuck. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” I gasp.

“Mine to show off, mine to display. I could order you to display yourself in the middle of the Oval Office, to pull down whatever pretty pencil skirt you’re wearing and have you bend over for inspection, like a prize animal at a show. Would you like that?”

The thought is so degrading, so awful, that of course it triggers a wave of submissive lust.

“You don’t have to answer, Greer. Your pussy just answered for me.”

I press my face into the bed, humiliated, shaking, on the precipice of orgasm. The finger leaves, replaced by his tongue again, but this time he doesn’t stop at licking. This time he pushes the tip of his tongue into the pleated rosebud, sending a frisson of filthy electricity straight to my clit.

The pleasure is undeniable and immediate, but so is the shame, the reflexive resistance. My hands fly back instinctively to push him away, my legs trying to close, and that earns me an angry growl. Ash wrestles my wrists away from myself and kicks my legs back open with a grunt.

“I could fuck you like this,” he hisses. “Holding you down. Is that what you want?”

My answering moan fills the room.

His arm wraps around my waist like an iron bar and then I’m lifted bodily from my feet and tossed onto the bed, as if I weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. “On your stomach. Show me your face.”

Moving my limbs takes a strange kind of effort, as if the leashed-up orgasm inside my body is weighing me down, but I manage, and there’s a moment of unfiltered tenderness when I feel Ash’s fingers gently brushing my hair away from my forehead, sweeping it over my head so it won’t tickle my face. He drops a light kiss onto my jaw. “Doing okay?”

“I’d do better if you’d fuck me.”

He laughs. “I love it when you get desperate. What’s your safe word?”

“Maxen.”

“Keep it close at hand. We’re going to try something new.”

He straightens up, and from my vantage, I see his strong and certain fingers as they work his belt open and slide it from the loops. I swallow as I watch him double up the belt and run it through his palm.

My mouth parts, protests rise to my lips. I’ve never been belted before, never had anything more intense than a hairbrush, but before I can run through my options, before I can rationalize this or ask him to stop or to pause, he lets fly with the belt and a leather stripe of pain hits my upper thighs.

It’s agony. It’s unbearable. The breath leaves my body as I arch backwards and my mind goes blank. There’s nothing but pain, nothing but the sparking static of it, and when I finally draw in a breath, it comes in and back out as a choked sob.

Maxen.

For the first time ever, my safe word is there on my tongue, ready to be spoken.

“Too much?” He asks right as a shot of endorphins hits my bloodstream, right as a pulse of swollen arousal hits my cunt.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

The belt flies again, slicing through the air with a whistle, higher up on my thighs this time, on the crease between my legs and ass. A real sob comes out, an actual cry, and I’m writhing and burying my face in the bed.

“Angel.”

I sense rather than see his arm pull back, and I know—I just know—this one will be on my ass, on the skin already inflamed and welted from his hand. The moment hangs in the air like the belt, and as I draw in another shuddering breath, I realize this is my chance to say his name. My chance to end this.

But I won’t.

I press my lips closed, sucking in my crying breaths through my nose. The belt falls, and my lips open right back up in a scream.

All across my ass there’s fire, not just where the belt’s hit, but everywhere, as if the skin caught fire under the leather and the flames spread instantly everywhere else. My scream dies into a sobbing groan, the blanket underneath my face is wet with tears, and I’m rubbing my face against it without even knowing it.

I hear the belt drop to the floor. “Oh, Greer.”

His voice is as broken as I feel, as flayed raw.

“My little princess,” he murmurs, crawling onto the bed over me. His hand slides between my stomach and the bed, and then I’m turned over as gently as child so that I’m on my back. “Such a good angel. Such a sweet, obedient princess.”

Through my tears, I see his eyes like green fires in the dark.

“Ash,” I choke out.

His head bows and then his mouth is at my cunt, eating me like a man possessed. Wildly, with noises coming from his throat as he tastes me, with the passion of worship. And somehow, magically, my orgasm is fusing itself back together, ten thousand times stronger for all the pain, as if all the nerve endings singing along my skin had now all joined together to sing in pleasure.

My groans turn into moans, moans into whimpers, and I hear Ash say with his lips against my clit, “Come on, angel, take it. Take it from me.”