Page 46 of Be Careful What You Wish For

‘Reach around with your hands and tickle my balls.’

For moments she relished the ability to bring back feeling into numbed hands, to relieve tension from her arms, stretching and purring like a cat.

‘Now would be good...’

She had little option but to obey, and as soon as she was positioned he again sank his cock unceremoniously into her arse, grunting with satisfaction as he felt it harden and the anal sphincter grip and take firm hold.

The ripples of pleasure her fingers induced in his balls intensified the sensations, and he clenched her buttocks, riding her to the ultimate climax.

Cum oozed out of the valley between her cheeks, while screams echoed in the silence. For moments he wondered if he had gone too far. Was he causing needless hardship and pain? Was this really what was needed... or then again, perhaps something more? For moments the sub in him kicked in, fusing with her experience, enjoying the sensations it gave. But the sadist in him knew the game was not yet over, and he fiddled in a bag he had brought, placed at the side, not wanting her to sense his confusion. A plan could only go so far. In the end what he did next depended on dynamics and the mood of the moment.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched her body movements, they were what spoke to him, telling him how far to go. Unsteadily she raised herself from the floor, tears spilling down her face, and yet, the moon of her mouth told a different story as it lifted into a smile. The brightness of her eyes spoke of triumph, of sub-fever crying out for more, knowing she could, taking strength from what had been, needing to push the limits, to make it edgy, to go to places she’d never been before.

He debated about blindfolding her... but no. That was still to come. For now she needed to see, to feel, to know, to experience, to understand, and to see the marks made. Later they would be there to remind her of what had been, and the triumph over the past they’d shared together.

He made her kneel on a chair and bound her hands behind her, taking delight in her discomfort and confusion, not knowing what might happen next. Two pert nipples peeked at him, daring him to do what they knew would come. But instead he stood behind her, unexpectedly gentle, caressing, patient. Her head swayed from side to side, forward and then back against him, nestling close. She was confused by his sudden change in manner, but at the same time calmed. She thought it was ending, when in fact it was only beginning again. This was but the lull before the storm, while the sub and sadist in him struggled for control.

Tucking a hand under her chin he lifted her head to gaze into those watery pools, so trusting, so pensive and childlike in their aching need. They spoke of the depth of understanding and reassurance she craved. It was the sub she needed to see in him... for the moment. Somehow he needed to push that other self down.

He held her, surprising himself at his unexpected tenderness. This side of him was good also. The nurturing, encouraging, capable father figure, who fostered devotion and fed need. Sheila hadn’t been able to have children. It was the one thing lacking in their marriage, and probably the reason she worked in the premature baby unit at the hospital. He would have made a good father, he thought, holding and fingering her neck. Her body trembled and he stroked down towards those beautiful breasts.

She lifted her body, neck strained back against him, watching his face, his eyes, begging to give what she craved. He held each nipple taut, lifting breasts off the chair-back, straining them high. Her eyes closed. She melted into him. A smile flickered across her lips, while a quiet moan escaped into the silence. Yes, she was ready; the crop... the flogger... the cane? Or the whip? No, that would be too cruel, especially in the mood he was in.

He teased a while longer, lulling her senses into a false sense of security. There was a pause while he reached back, and then a belt came lashing down across her exposed breasts, in response a sharp intake of breath.

The first stroke.

When the next bit he made certain her head was well out the way. No mistakes. He was too good a marksman for that, too practised and experienced to leave a mark where it did not belong. Already a weal streaked across the upper slopes of his target.

He took his time for others to follow, while her screams shocked the silence and filled the room. It was a delicious sound which excited and delighted, his senses curdling for more. The sadist in him had taken control. It was always the way. Always he had the upper hand and could push that other side of him down.

Just as he pushed her head down, and with a hand gentle then firm, deliberately aimed to confuse, swept down on bare flesh, smoothing, stroking, smacking, then replacing it gradually with the paddle, the flogger, the cane, the whip, building the pressure, all the time watching her body language, judging how much it could take.

He marked her bottom until there was no space left to fill. His aim was deadly accurate, delivered with precision. It was something he prided himself on. He took time to admire his handiwork, the chequered buttocks, thin trails of stinging whip markings slithering through the lines. He was reminded of the snakes and ladders board he’d played with as a child. He’d fix the dice and his friend Al had never caught on. It was their favourite game, and each time he’d taken the journey down a snake there had been a forfeit waiting. Many happy hours he’d lain in bed dreaming up all manner of cunning moves. Al had undressed to carry out the many varied and increasingly perverse ideas of his making.

Now the woman in Pandora had reverted to child and she had the same look as Al; needy, vulnerable, helpless, wanting, hurting. He helped her to the bed, laying her on her back to hold her tight to him, setting free her hands and caressing, stroking, whispering, reassuring; then letting her rest.

It pleased him that he could tease her this way, melting away the hardness with a caring response. But it was dangerous. He needed Woman, not Child. He needed to bring her back, to open her like an abandoned parcel left too long, and release the layers one by one by one.

He blindfolded her. Then with a final reassuring stroke across her forehead, brushing back her hair, he secured her arms to a bedpost. H

is Japanese rope work was good, given that he’d been taught by a Master. He resented the fact that the Master was Richard, but then many things they’d shared had been good through the years, which made it so unpalatable that it had to end now.

Her legs he lifted, pulling them apart, binding them just so, knowing the more she struggled the tighter they would become. He peeled the lips of her vagina open, then pinched her clit, taking her to the edge of an orgasm. The sensation was not a new one for her, but the next one would be.

He knew her past would kick in as he inserted the glass dildo. He rubbed tantalisingly, pushing it in... pulling it out. Her cunt juices were flowing, her stomach spasming with the orgasm drawing her further and further down. Her deep-rooted need had been there too long. The dildo ejected with a sucking sound, but she was wet enough to take more. He paused for only a moment, before he fisted her through the endless flow of juices, to the cervix beyond, exploring and fingering the small hole leading to that place capable of such intense feeling and pleasure. He settled her writhing by placing a firm hand on her stomach while fist and fingers disappeared well into the cave. Her body shuddered deeply, arms and legs dragged taut. Frantically she yanked at the ropes that bound, while her head rocked back and forth. He could sense the war waging inside her; giving and taking, needing and wanting, yet at the same time not wanting, her senses teased and tantalised and left reeling, unravelling like reels of cotton. All the time she was aching, crying out for more... more... more... until he found a way to reach that depth of emotion still rooted deep inside. It was the big one that would finally release the torment he knew was there, to send her screaming to sub-space and beyond.

New strange sensations savaged past thoughts from her mind, lifting, separating, holding then dropping her suddenly down. Even as she gasped, desperate to draw breath, it took her again, up to a place she had never visited before. This was new. This was different. For moments she was afraid; afraid to simply let go and let be. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t touch, couldn’t feel. All she knew was that moment in time.

It was the pain-pleasure experience which numbed and shocked the system.

Past fused with present, folding and unfolding, teasing, tantalising, gradually peeling away to the raw wounds beneath. She remembered a different time, a different place. She was confused by the memory, the pain... falling... blind, helpless, gasping, gagging, to a deep and dark space within. Memories came together, over which she had no control; jarring, grating, holding, hurting, unwilling to let her go.

Each experience he brought to her now was new, exciting, scary, edgy, leaving her breathless, and yet each time she craved more, yet different, reaching out to explore, to touch, to feel, to know every emotion, and to have every feeling twisted and used in whatever way he pleased. She was giving herself to him.

It was his way. He was mind-fucking; climbing right inside her head. Her body was speaking to him in a language only he understood.

She was still trying to catch her breath when something else followed. She couldn’t see. She didn’t know... pain or pleasure, pleasure or pain? It hung on a whisper. She had no time to wrap reason around it; it was just there, savaging thought from mind, holding for the longest moment...

---