Each day during Dexter-time, Natalie fidgeted more, craving the violation she'd previously feared. That feeling occurred at other times of the day and night, but as his strong hands moved over her exposed skin, the need grew until her desire consumed her thoughts.

One afternoon, with Natalie bent over the foot of her bed, the metal frame bruising her hip bones, and her face upon the mattress, Dexter ran his hand over her behind. His large palm warmed her skin as his touch roamed and teased the edges of her desire. He came so close, yet didn’t breach her core. The thoughts of what could be if he did breach it surpassed her concerns regarding whatever he had planned and why she was in this position.

It was his touch and attention that she longed for, craved, and also feared. The combination created was a concoction continually swirling through her subconscious, its poison even infiltrating her consciousness. Whether it was right or wrong, she wanted more.

Nat adjusted her footing and spread her legs, gaining stability while wordlessly granting Dexter access. If she didn’t have to admit her need—if he took instead of asked—she could enjoy it without guilt.

Her ass, legs, breasts...he never hesitated to pinch or nip, to caress or kiss. Natalie belonged to him. She was his to do with however he desired. While her mind filled with thoughts of what his fingers could do, the air split open with the whistle of a crop. She hadn’t seen him bring the implement into the room. If she had, she wouldn’t have been daydreaming about his touch.

The sound occurred only a split-second before the sting of the contact. There wasn’t time for her to prepare. Shocked, Nat screamed out at the unexpected assault as she fought against the restraints. Whatever part of her body she could move, she did. Her legs stiffened and fists balled. Yet it gave her no relief. She was bound in place. Her sobs bubbled to the surface as the sensation continued its reign of terror on her skin and beyond.

“No, bug, internalize. Just listen to my voice.”

She did, allowing the deep timbre to dominate her thoughts while he dominated her body.

His hand again roamed her skin. “It’s beautiful the way the leather marks you. It makes me happy. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she replied without overthinking. If she thought about it, she’d want him to stop. The pain the crop brought on was sharp and unrelenting. It didn’t end after the leather blade assaulted her skin. Instead, it spiderwebbed like broken glass throughout her nervous system.

Again, he teased the edge of her core. “Don’t lie to me. You know how I feel about telling the truth in everything. I’m being truthful with you. Your ass is spectacular with angry red welts. Give me the same respect.”

Her legs shifted at his touch as he teased the raised skin. Fighting to speak through the tears, her words stuttered. “I-I’m not lying, Dexter. You didn’t ask if it h-hurt. It does.” She sniffled against the blanket. “You asked if I wanted you to stop. I don’t. I want you to mark me.”

“Why?”

The sensation had dulled as her legs relaxed. “Because it makes you happy.”

“And you’ll willingly do this for me?”

“Yes.” More tears came with the truthful answer.

“Ask for it, bug.”

He often made her beg for things. It was humiliating and yet, stimulating. Her insides pinched as she formed the words. “Please, Dexter, mark me again.”

“How many?”

It was an awful question. Nat could say it was up to him—defer it to him—but she didn’t know if she could take the number he might decide. Too few and he’d be disappointed. Too many and she may not survive. He’d never broken her skin, only marred it. She didn’t know how far he’d go. “Five.”

Dexter’s hand warmed and teased approvingly. “My brave bug. Count for me.”

She again concentrated on his deep tone, allowing it to fill her. As she did, she had the sensation of swimming naked in the sound of his satisfaction and appreciation. The warm, sparkling pool took away the pain and replaced it with triumph.

If taking five strikes would please him, she could do it. “Yes, my king.”

He leaned close to her ear. “We’ll start at number one.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as her imagined mirage evaporated. The reality ached in her chest. The one strike she’d already endured wouldn’t count.

“Yes, my—”

Whistle.

Crack.

Fire.

“O-one.” It took all her strength to articulate the number.

Again.

“Two.”

Three blows came in rapid succession. Their point of contact crisscrossing her ass and dragging over her upper thighs.

“Three.” The word came on the exhale.

The speed at which he delivered the strikes didn’t give her time to think or react. Not consciously. Unconsciously, her body melted to his desire. Her rigid stance after the first unexpected strike continued to morph. Though each blow was like adding hot coals to already burnt skin and the pain grew, radiating throughout her body, she conversely found an island of peace.

Her fists released the blankets which they had been holding. No longer perched up on the balls of her feet and toes, her tension eased, allowing her to settle and relish the coolness of the concrete. Instead of the strikes, she concentrated on the numbers. They dominated her mind. No longer only audible, she saw each digit as if it were right in front of her. Each one became a real entity, a trophy in her hands, taking her one step closer to the end.

Most importantly, each one made Dexter happy.

By the time Natalie uttered the number five, her body was numb, floating again in the warm pool of her imagination. The hot lava from before had cooled. Natalie’s mind was doused in the drenching satisfaction that she’d completed the task.

Dexter’s lips started at her neck and rained downward, coating her collarbone, back, ass, and thighs in his kisses, soft and gentle. His approval radiated from his touch. She pushed toward him, wanting more, as his fingers roamed, reading her raised skin as if it were a love letter written in Braille. She savored the sensation as his touch examined each mark. The inward pleasure caused her pussy to grow wetter. Ashamedly, she knew that even before the first strike of the crop she’d been soaked.

It was as he discovered the evidence on her thighs that he wordlessly acknowledged it. Spreading her legs wider, swipe by swipe, he coated her essence like salve over her welted flesh.

As the endorphins faded, Natalie’s bewilderment grew. It always did. Her mind told her that this was wrong, yet her body craved Dexter’s approval. All of her life she’d tried to please other people. Her choices brought others happiness. While she knew that this was similar, there was a striking dissimilarity. She also enjoyed his treatment in a way she knew she shouldn’t. She couldn’t even hide her reaction, not with the way Dexter coated her skin with her own cum. She was aroused.

Natalie whimpered against the soft bedcovering as he continued to tease and roam near her core. Tears of unsatisfied need pooled upon the comforter. She gasped for breath, her dissatisfaction coming as a sob.

“Talk to me, bug. Was it too much?”

Sometimes it was easier to talk when he had her in these positions. She couldn't see his deep-ocean eyes or decipher his thoughts. She was free to talk without witnessing the consequences. “No. That’s not it.”

“Then to what do we owe these tears?”

“Dexter.” She said his name so he would receive a response, acknowledgment that she was listening. Yet she didn’t know how to answer.

“Tell me what you're feeling.”

It was one of his questions that she detested. Instead of answering the way she always did, admitting her pain or embarrassment, she threw caution to the wind. “I’m frustrated and confused.”

His hand stilled on her sore ass. “About?”

She shifted her footing. “Me. I don’t know what to think or do.” When he didn't respond, she added, “I've never felt this way before.”

“This way?” It was Dexter's turn to parrot.

Her core clenched. “I need...I want to come.”

This wasn’t right. He’d just beaten her with a crop for no other reason than he wanted to see the marks. She shouldn’t be aroused, yet she was. This wasn’t a man she should want, but she did. With each strike of the crop he wielded, she lost herself in the sensation. She couldn’t deny it if she wanted to. Her traitorous body had already left the evidence on her thighs.

“You want to come?”

Natalie was a virgin, not a nun. She knew the relief brought on by an orgasm. The thought alone made her clench as her nipples grew hard.

“Please.” Though her cheeks caught fire with her confession, there was also relief. She needed more.

“How?” he asked.

“How?” Her pulse thundered through her veins so loudly she could hear it swishing in her ears. Was he going to grant her this pleasure?

Dexter leaned near to her tearstained face. “How do you want to come? My fingers, tongue, or cock?”

The latter scared her, but the first two sounded doable. He's kissed and licked the rest of her body. Though when she first arrived she hadn't liked it, now she did. It meant the pain was over, and he was making it better.

Natalie swallowed and stared into his turbulent eyes. The waters were rough. Would she survive the storm? She didn't know. Either way, it was time to face it. “I'll consent to your wishes, my king. And there's one other thing...” Her heart raced.

“Tell me.”

“When it's time...will you...” The words were hard to say, to admit, yet they were sincere. She wanted him to be pleased with her. She also longed for the scents and colors that would accompany her request.

“Bug, will I what? Will I hurt you?”

Her ass and thighs simmered with the fire from the sharp leather crop. Later, if he’d let her, she’d touch the raised skin with the tips of her fingers. It was something he sometimes allowed, letting her, too, also admire his marks. Yet, despite her current position, for some reason, asking him if he’d hurt her never crossed her mind. Nat shook her head. “No, Dexter. I trust you to do what's best, to do what I need. I was wondering if from now on, you'd help me bathe.”

A deep sound resonated from his throat. She didn’t know if it was a yes or a no. She’d wait. Without answering, he reached for the restraints binding her wrists, the ones holding her down to the bed. He unbuckled one and then the other.

Though the pressure of the bed frame against her hips lessened, Natalie didn’t pull away or stand. She lay as she’d been told to do, waiting for his next instruction.

Her mind was consumed with her confession of need. Dexter took care of her. He had since she met him. She had faith he would again. Her thoughts were so overwhelming that she was no longer aware of her sore ass or thighs, his marks temporarily forgotten. She’d remember them again when she was alone and hurting. But now, her king was with her.

The anticipation of what he would do—could do—tingled her body and tantalized her mind.

Natalie was his puppet, a marionette, slumped lifeless in its case, waiting for the puppet master to give her what she needed to move and come to life.

When Dexter reached for her hand, taking her palm in his, Natalie’s heart thumped to a new beat. In his eyes was the mirrored anticipation that she felt coursing through her circulation.

Nat’s fingers clung to his as she waited to learn the direction that he’d pull her strings.