Continued from here.
"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."
-----
You obey, as I expect you to. In the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed's white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protective, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.
I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to panting. I take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to.
My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading pink now, but still visible, and, when I touch them with the fingers of my right hand, warmer than the surrounding skin.
Fuck.
''Fuck," I say. Stroking, featherlight, then pressing.
You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I am not thinking of any plan or a task or an objective: things happen as if through me.
I press harder, then release, retracing the marks with my fingertips, then lean lower, touching your skin with my lips.
The lips open, my breath damp, my lips moistened too, feeling the texture of the graze, the minute changes in temperature indicating where my nails went a little deeper, a little shallower. Tongue, along the graze, repeated sideways flicks, feeling the tiny area of less than a square inch, tasting. Teeth, closing over a fold of skin crested with the scratch, for the tongue to explore more thoroughly. Released, for a long lick, sliding freely into a moan; muffled; my consciousness expanding beyond my mouth, desire spreading all over my skin.
I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, a laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe, starting slow and gentle, closing harder before I straighten up, switch hands, the left one in your hair now, holding your head in place, my knees firm on the bed. The right hand takes a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass.
Not a hard one; quickly followed with another, then another, a series of playful swats with a relaxed palm and fingers. So the twelfth comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, almost all of it from the palm. Unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up.
I laugh and this laughter surprises even me; it feels like it doesn't belong to this particular story; yet I can't help it, and don't really want to help it either. It is what it is. I am what I am, so be it.
I add another heavy smack, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, off the fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, leaving visible pink imprints on your butt. You tense and relax into each smack, reflected in changes in your breathing, now heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.
''Getting pretty red now, slutboy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the inflamed skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands lower, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.
"Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say. I'm panting a little.
You obey. I stand up and look at you for a while.
Such a classic pose. I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.
But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might like matters even less.
I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands.
There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, I do it so you can hear the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already anticipating.
I wrap the buckle end around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the other end along your back, all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin.
Now I lift it free off your body and take a swing.
The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm getting impatient now, impatient with lust and with my own need, one that refuses to be analysed or even understood, one that, in this moment, simply is, demanding satisfaction, filling my airways, making my skin hot, my cunt wet and my pupils dilate.
I want; want so much that it's not even clearly the I that's wanting, the want and the I have become identical.
Want to hit you harder.
Want to see the welts come up.
Want to feel you squirm.
Want to hear you moan.
I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.
Fuck.
Faster and harder.
Maybe I should have tied you up after all. But you are holding up to the impact and the pain; holding up to the desire that covers my skin fluid and viscous.
I use the time between strikes to breathe. Deeper, louder, more elaborate. The streams of exhaled and inhaled air a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen, now ajar.
Your ass is covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them skirted with narrower, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and this makes you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, yet you stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, sharp and forceful stings, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin.
You are panting now, loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape.
I laugh again. The laughter contains the sheer, exuberant joy of the physical act, the joy I can't understand and for now, don't want to understand, letting it be whatever it is, letting myself be whatever I am. The joy that's rising higher, spreading wider, penetrating deeper with my not-quite-conscious awareness of your essential role in it. The joy that's made possible by your holding up to my desire to hurt you and to mark you. The joy that's made flesh in your giving in to the want that's me.
The belt, now longer again, comes down in a big, flat whack across your buttocks. Your loud moan, an inarticulate groan at first, morphs into a clear ohhhhh, followed by my name. I inhale this moan and I respond with my own.
Fuck.
My knees almost buckle in a breathless wave of bodily lust.
Want to touch you again.
I unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips. Barely touching. Then my cheek, hot against the heat of the marks I've made.
I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.
----Continued here.
