Page 27 of Blue Velvet

Even I am surprised at the intensity of her words, not only at the fact that she’s already riding another high, but she also remembered to thank me for it, like a good girl.

I lean in to steal a kiss from her while she’s flying, carried away by the tide, as sheer pleasure stirs her insides. Her lips are soft and hot, and they taste of salt. She barely reacts to my lips on hers, still taken in by her hard-earned peak, while I give her a peck before slowly trailing along her lower lip, tasting her pleasure.

“Look at me,” I command her, but she doesn’t react, keeping her eyes locked shut and her face distorted in a pained grimace.

“Look at your master, toy!”

Her eyes fly open within an instant, and her green eyes find mine. Her gaze is obscured, as if the girl behind those eyes is far, far away. It’s one of the most beautiful sights, and I know it can only be topped by one thing: seeing her come again.

“You’ll come again,” I announce. “And this time, you’ll keep your eyes on me the entire time.”

She whines and shakes her head. “I ca-”

“You said that before, but you still could,” I remind her. “You’ll come again, and you’ll look at me the entire time, do you understand?”

I never fully removed the vibrator from her tortured clit, but I eased the level of stimulation after her last climax receded. A desperate shriek fills the room when I apply new pressure, not minding the fact that she must be beyond overly sensitive at this point.

She howls and begs for me to stop, torment clearly visible by the way she squirms on the rack, yanking at her restraints with no regard to the pain that it must be causing her wrists and ankles. I’m breaking a sweat trying to hold her down, and my reminders of her keeping her eyes open and focused on me echo through the room again and again.

But it’s all worth it when I see it, when I see it in her eyes. She doesn’t have to tell me that she’s being overcome by another orgasm when the green of her eyes starts fading, and as her pupils widen visibly, as if intoxicated by drugs. But no hallucinogen in the world can match this feeling, neither hers nor mine. Hardly any man ever has the pleasure to witness it, but I can see it all - and I lose myself in the beauty of it.

15

Ruby

I’ma trembling mess when he gathers me from the stretching bank. I don’t move my arms or my legs when he finally frees them from the cuffs, my limbs just drop onto the wood, lifeless and void of mobility. I’m sobbing heavily, but I don’t know why. There’s no more pain, and if I’m honest, I can barely remember it, even though I can still hear the screams. I can still sense the echo of my cries as he tortured me, forcing one climax after another out of my sore body, even when I felt I had long reached - and surpassed - my limit.

I can’t see him through all the tears blurring my vision, and I can’t hear him, either, but I know he’s talking to me. His voice is muffled by my own howling, and he sounds as if he’s very far away. But he’s not. He’s right here in this room. I’m the one who moved on, I’m the one who’s as far away as one can be, without the shell that is my body actually leaving the room.

A stinging pain that soon evolves into soothing throbs of relief bursts through my tits when he removes the clamps. I gasp in surprise, and then feel shame washing over me when he pulls out the plug that’s been stretching my ass for so long. And I never stop sobbing through any of it.

I can feel his strong arms wrapping around me, and I feel my body being lifted from the hard wood and his heartbeat next to my ear when I lean against his strong chest. He’s carrying me through the room as if I weighed nothing, and then he stops, still holding me as I continue to sob, my tears drenching his shirt.

I’m too far away to wonder about his decision to carry me upstairs. I’m blinded by bright light as we reach another room, a room I’ve never seen before, a room I’m not able to see now because my eyes close as quickly as I’ve opened them. I bury my face against the wall of muscles that is his chest, inhaling his scent as he continues to carry me up another flight of stairs.

It’s just my body that sighs in relief when he lowers me onto something soft, a mattress, or a bed maybe. There’s a moment of emptiness, just a few seconds during which I can no longer feel his presence next to me, but it doesn’t last long. He lies down next to me, offering comfort. I curl up in his arms, naked and with my core still throbbing from his abuse, seeking comfort from the very same hands that inflicted this on me.

He’s no longer speaking, just quietly stroking my hair, while he holds me in a tight embrace. Body and mind are slowly but surely reuniting as I recover from the assault on me. The most delicious assault I’ve ever endured. How many times did I come? I don’t know. I just know that I felt like I was drowning in a sea of delight, riding on waves that took me from the highest of highs to the absolute worst anguish I’ve ever experienced. They came hand in hand, and now that my mind is finally clearing, I come to realize that one cannot exist without the other.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my hand clumsily reaching up to him.

The words just slipped out, but I mean them. I never knew I was capable of feeling anything like this. No one ever challenged me to overcome this amount of pain, this agony that felt like too much to bear, more than once. I’ve heard of multiple orgasms before, but I’ve never experienced it, and I’ve never lived through anything like it. I’ve never had to.

“That was...,” my voice breaks, and it’s probably for the best, because I lack the words to describe what just happened.

Insane? Excruciating? Wonderful? Horrifying? Elevating?

Each one of these words fit, but they only capture a fraction of what this experience meant to me.

“Who do you belong to?”

His voice is dark and cold, a stark contrast to his soft touch.

“You,” I breathe. “I belong to you, master.”

I know that my brain is addled by hormones, or endorphins, or whatever else holds the power to kill reason, but I don’t care right now. I don’t care for anything but being his.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and this time his tone matches his embrace. Caring, warm, almost loving.

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