Page 38 of Hurts So Good

She soon lost count of the strokes of the tawse.

“More?” Lyles’ voice was heavy and thick, like the honey that had pooled at the base of her belly.

Helen leaned against the pole, her breath fast and harsh. She rubbed up and down it like a cat along its master’s leg. She slowly lowered her head.

“One more. Please.”

The leather straps of the tawse slashed against her buttocks.

The hardest and most satisfying stroke yet.

Helen cried out. She violently shuddered against the pole, and what she felt was more than just an orgasm. As she climaxed, a sinewy sensation of equilibrium swept through her, encompassing her pain and her pleasure.

Sighing heavily, she pressed her hot forehead against the cold pole and slid her palms up and down the smooth metal, warm tears bathing her eyes.

Lyles gently ran the tips of his fingers across her stinging buttocks, his breath rough.

“Beautiful,” he rasped. “So beautiful.”

He pressed his long body along her back, his groin firmly cupping her tender ass. She felt his thick erection through the fabric of his slacks. He moved his mouth next to her ear.

“It was your employer. Not you.”

“What?” Helen could barely speak. She was having another climax.

“I didn’t choose your firm because of your employer. I didn’t like him.”

She managed a shaky laugh. “I don’t like him either.”

“Then resign. You’re far too talented to work for the likes of him. Work for me instead. Design my house.”

Helen nodded. She would have done anything he asked her to do. But to be asked to do something she loved required no prolonged consideration on her part.

Lyles slid his arms around her waist and held her against him, the warm softness of his slacks chafing the raw, tender skin of her ass.

“More?” he whispered.

She gripped the pole, arched her spine, and thrust her buttocks toward him. “Yes. More. Please.”

Lyles moved away from her. The tawse whistled through the air. Helen threw back her head.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Equilibrium.

FIRST TIME SINCE

Xan West

My dress boots rested in a neat line on the top of the bookcase. And waited. It had been months since I wore anything but my work boots. Months since they were taken down to be cared for by a loving hand. Months since my slave asked to be released. They waited.

So did I. Waited for the gnawing feeling of failure to fade. Waited until I had thoroughly licked my wounds. Waited until it seemed possible to emerge from the safety of my cave and go out into the world again.

We build these intense relationships, fill them with ritual and intent and all of our full selves, and even if they end honorably (as this one did), that doesn’t stop us from feeling ripped in two. Like a vital piece of self just walked out the door, never to return.

Rebuilding came first. Reclaiming all the tasks I delegated to him. All of the opportunities for service that I created led to this sense that we were one unit—interdependent. So I began to take them back. From the preparation of food, to putting away my clothes precisely as I require. From keeping my glass full to shaving my head every week.

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