two words

A fistful of hair turns your kneeling body from penitent to supplicant.

My fingers tighten slowly, so you can feel just how much I enjoy positioning you, head drawn back, your throat exposed.

“Used and abused.”

Two words.

One course of action.

With your head tilted back, it wasn’t hard for me to lean over and speak softly. Blindfolded, my words were your only path towards something that would fill the ache I’d instilled in you: “You, here, kneeling. It makes me want to take you apart…one slap…one kiss…one fuck at a time.”

With my right hand tangled in your hair, my left drew a line along the curve of your naked breast. “This is mine.” I said, fingers finding your nipple, pinching it. Hard. Harder. Until I could feel your entire body tense with me and I had to grip your hair even tighter to keep you still.

Using my grip to guide you, I draw you gently, but firmly, to your feet and press you over the edge of my desk.

You may be blindfolded but my gaze is almost tangible as it travels down your back to your bare ass. You can almost taste the lines of hunger I’ve drawn so tightly between us and when my fingers press against you from behind, finding you wet and hot, the words that follow are almost inevitable: “This, too, is mine.”

I finally unwind my fingers from your hair, running them down your spine before letting them fall away. You feel me reach for something beside the desk.

“This is one of my favorites.” It is cool, the wood of the paddle as I lay it against your back. It’s small and the smooth surface is deceptively light against your skin – and yet, you know, you know, it promises a very particular and sharp reminder of just how exposed you are. That it will leave you marked.

And that you will love every moment of it even as you give way to the pain it brings.

The first time it kisses your skin, you know you were right: the pain driving you into the edge of the desk and the adrenaline that follows makes your pulse pound hard enough to drown out my next words, but it didn’t matter because the second time the paddle finds your skin words ceased to matter: there was just wood and skin and the sound of it, the sound of bared flesh being painted with an implement in my hand.

In the rhythm, a steady rain of blows against your skin, you lose yourself; the paddle kisses the top of your thighs, then higher, leaving a ladder of red marks along the curved offering of your ass.

And the worst part – the best part – is knowing I understand that each blow leaves you needing more.

More words against your bared throat.

More reminders left on your skin of how it felt to be bent over my desk.

More.

I don’t relent. I work your skin with patience edged with my own need. Knowing your insides tighten with each touch of the paddle. That your pussy is slick with need.

I pause, resting the paddle against your upper back to lean close, my words spoken with the soft determination that marks my own approaching desire. “Good girl,” and two fingers slip deep inside you from behind, pressing inward with firm but slow intent, filling you. Only to be drawn out just as slowly and driven in again.

Harder. Deeper

Again. And again. Until you are shuddering to climax against my desk.

You have only a moment’s respite before I speak again.

“You’ve been abused.”

“Are you ready to be used?”