Page 50 of Hurts So Good

Tiny movements of fingers, pushing and pulling on my nipple, draw my whole body into a swaying motion that yet again squeezes and burns against pussy and breasts.

I’m drawn into the movement, the ache and promise and promiscuity of it.

“You know,” the Rope Master murmurs in my ear, “that uniform you’re wearing: the origins of it are English. It was introduced in the 1920s, when a private women’s college adopted the style of Royal Navy uniforms. One does wonder why that might have happened—college teachers having a penchant for smartly turned-out sailors…But for a real school, your skirt is way too short. It’s a delinquent girl gang skirt…”

The sudden slap of male hand on bare female backside sends sharp and complicated shocks up and down my body that interact with the sensuous pain of the ropes.

He’s not gentle. My ass reddens quickly and I’m bouncing and twisting in the ropes, pulled by one nipple, bucking with each slap, while he pours liquid lewdness in my ear.

“You can think you’re a princess, but to me you’re a smutty little deviant, a rope slut, pain toy and fuck-doll in a school uniform you’re seven or eight years too old to wear…Those who wear the uniform that way are often delinquents. And delinquents…they need to be punished, don’t they?”

Tears start to roll down my cheeks. I can’t tell if they’re the result of pain, pleasure or the mix of emotions caused by the mindfuck.

It doesn’t matter.

The spanking goes on for…I don’t know, my sense of time is screwed. When he’s done, Robert sweeps my foot from under me so I swing in midair, shaking, feeling the ropes biting against skin. Every shiver in my body is magnified by the bondage. He knows this. He’s enjoying it.

He ignores my pain and pleasure. He makes green tea. Sips from a thimble-sized cup. Watches me in my art, my performance, my climax.

When the convulsions die down, he releases me from the rope keeping my body upright. I crumple into his arms, am carried to the cool firmness of the futon. He doesn’t remove the other ropes. He uses a penknife to dispose of my thong, pressing the cold blade against my flesh in symbolic threat-promise-anticipation. He moves the ropes so they run around rather than between my pussy lips. He pulls the labia apart, gratified at how juiced I am. And he fucks me, firm and unhurried at first, gathering pace and strength.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “We’ll try an upside down suspension, and a flogging.”

Next time? Yes. Please. But right now I only feel abandonment and restraint and exhilaration. I absorb his thrusts, his fierce domination, my submission to the ropes and…and…

I come hard, long, a shuddering fit that leaves me comatose.

Later, when the aftershocks have subsided, we lie together and watch some old tentacle porn, but that’s another story.

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