Page 32 of Deviant Obsession

"Arms above your head," he orders, unhooking a length of black rope from the wall that looks as silken as it does strong. The mattress dips as he kneels beside me, and I can't help but notice how his t-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders with each precise movement. I relish the lack of blindfold this time round,thoroughly hypnotized by watching him in his element. I can’t help but bask in the way his hungry gaze roves over every inch of me like I’m a feast for a starving man.

The rope is as soft as it looks, wrapping around my wrists like a lover's caress before he secures them to the headboard.

"Spread your legs."

I obey, my cheeks burning as he fastens matching ropes around my ankles, drawing them wide apart until I'm completely exposed to him again. The vulnerability of being spread open and bound while he remains fully dressed sends a rush of heat straight to my already throbbing core.

"Stunning," he murmurs, running one finger down the inside of my thigh. Then he stands, moving to retrieve something else from the wall of intriguing-yet-terrifying objects. "We'll start slowly. I want you to watch everything I'm going to use on you. Get an idea of what you do and don’t enjoy."

The first implement he selects catches the light as he presents it to me—a small, silver wheel mounted on a handle, tiny spikes glinting around the outer edge with wicked promise. "This is a Wartenberg wheel," he explains, letting me see how it spins. "It can feel like anything from a light tickle to a harsh bite, depending on how much pressure I apply."

He sets it aside and lifts a flogger next, the leather swaying hypnotically as he moves. The sight of it makes me suddenly hungry to feel it stroke my bare skin. Finally, he produces a slender cane, and my eyes widen as he tests its flexibility with a whisper-soft swoosh through the air.

"Color?" he asks, noting my reaction.

"Green," I whisper, surprising myself with just how much I mean it.

He hums his approval before picking the wheel back up, returning to the bedside before trailing it lightly along my collarbone. The sensation is sharp but delicate, like being tracedwith ice. When he increases the pressure slightly down the slope of my breast, I gasp at the intensified sting.

The wheel's path continues downward, leaving trails of fire across my ribs, my belly, my thighs. Each new area brings a different sensation—some places making me squirm with ticklish sensitivity, others drawing soft moans as the bite of the spikes sends sparks of pleasure-tinged pain through my nervous system.

“Good girl,” he encourages, soothing the more sensitive paths with a brush of his fingers when I hiss a little too loudly.

Just when I think I've adjusted to the wheel's kiss, Dean sets it aside and picks up the flogger. He glances back to my face, waiting until I give a timid nod before embarking on this new round of introductions. The first strike lands with a soft thud against my thigh, more surprising than painful. The next falls harder, and I arch into the assault as the leather strips paint paths of heat across my skin.

Dean works with artistic precision, building a masterpiece of red welts that almost glow against my pale complexion. The leather tails create different sensations depending on how he wields them. Sometimes it’s a gentle caress that makes me beg for more, other times a sharp snap that pulls desperate whimpers from my throat.

"Look at you," he breathes, pausing to trace the marks blooming on my chest. "So responsive, so pretty." The praise makes me flush with pride even as another strike lands just below my breasts. "The way you move when I hit you..." The flogger connects with the sensitive curve of my hip, making me gasp. "Like you were made for this."

My skin feels electrified, every nerve ending singing as Dean continues his assault. He varies the rhythm unpredictably. Sometimes quick successive strikes blend into one continuousburn, and other times a long pause leaves me trembling in anticipation of where the next blow will land.

"Please," I whimper, though I'm not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.

"Color?" he checks, the flogger trailing teasingly across my stomach.

"Green," I pant. "So green."

His low chuckle sends heat pooling between my legs. "That's my girl. Just a little more now. Then you’ll have earned yourself a reward." He dips the fingers of his empty hand between my thighs, humming his approval when they come away slick. Fixing me with another intense stare, Dean raises those fingers to his mouth and sucks.

The sight alone has me ready to shatter completely.

When he finally picks up the cane, my entire body is humming, caught somewhere between fear and desperate anticipation.

"Remember your colors," he reminds me, tapping the rod lightly against my shin. "This one bites deeper than the others. Are you ready?"

I can only offer him a timid nod, a war raging in my mind over whether I actually want this.

“Let me hear you, little one.”

“I’m ready.” I can’t quite put my finger on what compels me to say it, but I’m sure it has a lot to do with this fierce desire to please him again. To make him proud of me. To earn my reward.

The cane whistles through the air before landing with precise accuracy across the top of my thigh. Each strike lands in a different spot to the last, spreading down to just above my knees, creating a symphony of stinging fire that has me gasping and squirming. Dean pauses between blows, letting each burn peak before adding the next.

"You're taking it so well," he purrs, trailing the smooth wood across my searing skin. The next strike lands harder, and I can't hold back a strangled cry. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as another blow follows quickly after.

"Yellow," I choke out, my determination wavering. The word barely leaves my lips before Dean is above me, one knee resting on the mattress as he brushes his thumb over my damp cheek.

"Talk to me," he commands softly, all motion stilled.

---