She kneels, legs spread, on the bed, her hands planted flat and firm against the wall. Her hair curls around her neck like a scarf. Her back smooth and unmarked. She is shivering slightly – in others this would be a sign of nervousness, but I know that she is excited, eager. I let her feel the leather falls of the flogger. I trail them slowly up her back, from the cleft of her ass to the back of her neck. She arches her back ever so slightly. She breathes.
“Be still,” I remind her. Then I draw back and raise the flogger. The leather snaps against her skin and she barely flinches. And again and again. Two long, red marks crossing her back. A rhythm to it now. Each strike harder than the last. She flinches with each one – can’t help it. Her teeth are gritted. Her stillness is impressive, but it only makes me want to hit her harder. Which I do – real strength going into each slash with the flogger. The noise is loud. Her hands shiver against the wall, her fingers tightening into fists. She opens her mouth – panting, not screaming. The marks on her back are blood red. She bites her lip. She puts her forehead against her wrist.
I am writing my name on her, and she is doing everything she can to keep from pulling away. I have only once or twice seen this level of self-control in her before. She grips the bedsheets. Shudders. Bites down on her own lip hard enough to draw blood. Her eyes, alternately, are tight shut or wide open and pleading. Her breath shallow, rapid, racing. No screams, but a low, trembling moan that’s almost constant, rising and falling in pitch as I finish each letter. A single drop of red runs down the outside of her thigh. There is sweat in the well of her throat, on her forehead.
I pause. My name is half-finished on the swell of her thigh. It is neat, blockish, utterly clean. The cuts are shallow, but with blood showing, collecting at the junctions. There are three more letters to go. She is watching me. Tears run black from her eyeliner, but her eyes are steady. I know that she can take this. I put the knife to her mouth and, cautiously, she licks the blade, cleaning away the traces of blood.
She is flat beneath me, her body spread – legs open, arms bound to the headboard. Her body is warm and soft, her cunt slick, gripping me. I pull out and press the tip of myself against her ass. Immediately I feel her whole body stiffen, and she whimpers quietly, the noise barely escaping her lips. I am wet with lube. I press forward and there is resistance that lasts only a moment or two. I feel her stretch as I slip inside, and she cries out hoarsely, voice smothered by the pillow in which her face is buried. I keep pushing. I enter deep and stay there, and this new tightness is sublime, virginal.
When I start to fuck her, she screams. I grip her hair and push her down and she takes a mouthful of the pillow and bites. She’s shivering. The tension in her back like a spring. I take long, slow strokes and I can feel her ass twitching, squeezing down on me. I’m not so much penetrating as impaling her. She’s so tight I know I won’t last long, so I take my time. Deep strokes, but slow. Dragging it out. Her bound hands are fists, her face flushed. It looks as though it’s taking everything she has. I watch a tear leak from her closed eye, and run down her cheek, leaving behind it a smeared trail of eyeliner.
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