Driftwood Deeds(24)

“You’re sorry?”

I nodded but there was something in his voice that led me to believe this wasn’t the right answer. He confirmed it with a shake of his head and I can’t explain how powerful that single gesture affected my body. Just like that, I wanted to cry and beg for forgiveness—for a transgression any rational mind would snort at. It wasn’t the only impulse though. I could feel my clit pulse painfully, and a tiny groan escaped my lips.

“Please...” I whispered, far more driven by this newly acquired instinct than any real thought process.

“Please what?” came the immediate and expected answer. And again my mouth opened, and no sound, certainly no real word came out. Possibilities flashed through my mind, but none of them felt right, none of them made any sense. I wanted him to forgive me, to punish me, to fuck me and to love me and tell me that he wasn’t actually angry or disappointed all at once.

“Please what, puppy?” he repeated, not louder but with a harsher sense of intensity.

“Please punish me?” I exhaled and if I’d had any way to look away from his intense glare I would have. “I... I’m sorry I moved, I... please?”

He stretched the silence before his response into agonizing proportions but finally, he gave me the hint of a nod and then turned to his wardrobe. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, until he produced a leather belt. My eyes bulged and I held my breath. I found myself tugging at the rope again, not in fear or in panic, just giving into a momentary bodily instinct. Paul smiled and clicked his tongue.

“There you go again, wriggly puppy. Want to earn your punishment proper, don’t you?”

This time, I smiled even as he was folding the belt over and let it snap loudly. The smack of leather on leather, so much like skin, sent visions of pain and desire shooting down into my cunt—but I was trying to be good. I was trying so hard and kept my legs far apart despite the fact that every instinct I had told me to push them together, to try and find some kind of pressure against my mound.

He came closer, walking around the room naked as he was, a beautiful erection standing proud. He was by no means perfect looking: age had done its part and he clearly didn’t visit a gym, just worked his muscles in his building projects and long walks along the beach. Except for his hands, he was pale and still a little wet. But it was almost impossible to take note of any of that when he stood there without a hint of self-consciousness. When he arrived by my side, he brought the cool loop of leather against my lips and ordered me to kiss it. I almost came on the spot but when I whimpered, he brought it down on my mouth. The smack was all but negligible, gentle even, but I still gasped. And then he did it again, only this time on my cheek and a little harder. It wasn’t the pain that made my eyes sting and my pelvis jump, though, it was the sheer sense of being utterly at his mercy.

Unsurprisingly, I had never been slapped before—not by a man, and certainly never in the face. It was wrong, it was forbidden, I was a feminist! And yet, he did it and I wanted more.

The next smack landed on the swell of my breast, then my nipple. That was the first time I cried out loud. And yet, it was instantly rock hard—so hard it hurt even more when the strap found its target one more time. By now, I was panting, squeezing my eyes shut and holding onto my bonds for support. Like before, he interrupted short bursts of slaps by massaging the pain deeper into the tissue—that was when I couldn’t keep still anymore. It felt too strong, too good and my pelvis had a life of its own, once I’d lost any control over my voice and the sounds that escaped my throat.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminded me after every repetition, more gently and more amused each time, and yet I couldn’t do it and he’d slap me again. He alternated breasts until they were both bright red. Tears were leaking down my temples and into my hair but by now my hips thrust upwards with each slap and Paul finally set the belt aside.

“Utterly unteachable,” he whispered as he leaned over me and kissed my face, kissed that salty path of my tears. “But, god, you are beautiful when you cry.”

His words left me breathless. My eyes filled with tears again—maybe to please him, and maybe just because now more than ever, I didn’t want to leave him. It shouldn’t have meant so much to me, but the simple statement seemed to possess the essence of everything I wanted. He saw that I was crying not because I was unhappy, but because he was giving me the most intense physical and emotional experience of my life, that I was happy and wanting and aching for more. And he thought it beautiful.

I blinked and angled my face against his so that our cheeks brushed against each other. His breath was hot in my ear and I kissed his cheek. The words on my tongue, the words I held back with all the power I possessed, couldn’t be true. I knew they weren’t true, that they were a product of that intense experience and its magnitude. But they were there all the same, clouding my head and desperate to be spoken. But I clamped my mouth shut and eventually, he pulled away and looked over my body.