The spell is cast. (Part 2)

My skin, my body is tingling. My ass is red and warm from her hands and his eyes. My breathing is shallow. They trade places and he saunters up, ready for his strike. I brace, I breathe, I wait.
I hear them talking about me and I fight to keep my head in the room. His voice is slow, Southern honey while hers is a sharp smoke, with movement and purpose. And with all of that swirling, I hear them say I have been a good girl and I cannot help but smile. My muscles sink into the table just a little and I breathe with a little less fear.
He begins to tell me about why I am here. He moves over the story slowly, savoring it. Every word which drips from his mouth must taste like candy the way his tongue rolls over them in the most beautiful drawl.
Slowly, he pours oil over me, and I know what is next. I am giddy. It spills out like his words, flowing with all the time in the world. It leaves slicked patterns of chills over my legs are arms.
And then his hands begin to move. I am rapt in his strong, hands with their thick fingers and wide reach over my flesh. As he caresses, presses, molds and manipulates my skin, my flesh and my nerves, I feel as if I am drowning in pure bliss and I move into every stroke.
He speaks slowly as his hands work my oiled body, caressing and loosening every knot, every tightness, every slight imperfection to which my muscles cling.
I am lost in this world, my eyes sliding shut as I fight to keep them open. I am lost in a spell of whispered words, strong hands working my body, my skin still sizzling on the lingering coals of my paddling.
I lay there, slowly losing touch with my own existence as I feel my juices run down between the full cheek of my ass. I am dripping from the sensation.
This is my reward, and I am soaking in every moment of it. He speaks, his voice caressing my skin right along side his hands. It sends waves, electric floods through my body, working into the crevices. I can feel the ripples making my hips and legs and arms rock and pulse. The energy spills out of me in gasps and whimpers and moans which emanate from the base of my throat.
As my muscles lose all tension, it does not shed but shift. I can feel my cunt pulsing, tight and empty and wanting. I can feel my clit swell, throbbing and engorged.
I can feel her smile upon me, and it's a warmth which makes the whole room tingle. Her pleasure is tantamount to either of ours and it's palpable. We move, we emote, we twist, we touch to please her. And in this moment, she is pleased.
"Please" I finally whimper out.
"Yes?" He asks.
"Please may I touch my clit?" I beg, already half whimpering.
They both laugh, and I feel almost bashful. They discuss briefly, reviewing my performance for the day. I know in my heart I have tried as hard as I could have tried, and I can only hope that I have earned a reward.
When I see the vibrator come out, I almost clap with excitement. I hear it whir to life and my heart flutters. The wait before I feel it is eternal. I hear nothing, see nothing, I can only feel. The pulse emanates and returns to my clit, and every thump is powerful.
When it reaches my clit I almost scream with relief, the same as any steam-filled valve being released.
I begin to writhe almost immediately. It is so close to being too much. He holds it onto my clit in movements and pressure which begin painfully slow. It grinds down, every vibtration, every roll of the head making my clit more swollen and more at ease at the same time.
It is not long before I begin to cum to beg. I am loud, I am screaming, I am granted permission, and I am cumming for him, ruining all the precious relaxation from the massage.
I am jelly. I have no bones, no joints, no cartilage, I am simply spent on the table, breathing hard. They watch me, smirking at my predicament. At my will to move and do more to please but my body's unwillingness to ruin this feeling.
I look up and he is looking down on me, my naked body, my twitching cunt, watching me. It is his turn. He has given me the glow I now wear, and it is his turn.
She comes over, her smile letting me relax. If she is pleased, all is well.
"You've been a good girl." I nod thanks. I am still non-verbal. "Are you ready to serve again?" I nod again, feeling my lips curl into a smile.
I am rising back to life as she commands him to strip down. I watch as his cock appears, swollen and thick. I kick my lips against my will as I watch it bob and drip precum. I want it in my throat, but that is not my job today.
I have been so intent on watching, I didn't even notice she had moved close until I hear her in my ear.
"Stroke his cock." I nod as she maneuvers him onto all fours in front of me. I watch his body tense, watch the muscles flex and release. I watch as curiosity, fear moves into his face. If I had any question that he belonged to her completely, they are gone as his nerves blossom before me.
I reach forward, my lips so close to his skin I can almost taste it. I feel them brush against his tanned, taut flesh, the ridge of his jaw, the heat of his throat. I kiss, delicately, testing the feeling more I enjoy it. I am not afraid, but I am curious.
I grab his cock and feel him shudder. I exhale.
I squeeze it slowly, letting my fingers trail over the length, my thumb finding the tip - finding it wet and coated.
"You may kiss him." I nod. She has given approval. It will please her.
I continue to stroke. I pulse my hand around his cock, working my fist tight and then loose. I pump, dragging my hand up and down, squeezing and then releasing the entire way. I slide my hand to the head, pulsing around the tip, feeling precum ooze onto my fingers. The pads of my fingers find the base of the slit, just under the lip of the head and play it like a piccolo, flitting deep and soft over the soft skin.
I can still feel cum dripping out of my cunt as I lean in and begin to kiss him, tasting his tongue and finding only the sweetest Southern honey. His tongue is forceful and resigned to mine at the same time. I am kissing him and he is allowing it.
I feel him exhale against my mouth and when I look up it is clear why. She is behind him, working her way slowly into his ass. I exhale as I see her, intent and focused, fucking him, her fingers moving in and out.
I squeeze, trying to match her rhythm. I pump his cock as she works another finger into his ass. He moves against me, my lips balanced right on his pulse, which races. I watch her intently, trying so hard to be a simply extension of her control.
His moans and mine form a soft chorus of enjoyment. His cock swells in my hand as she pushes in another finger. His lips find my mouth and tear at my own. I stroke his balls with errant fingers, feeling them bulge in my small hand. My mouth finds his neck, his jaw, my tongue strokes the crest of his cheekbone.
His tanned skin is rippling over the muscles in his back. It glistens with the sweat which has sprung up. I watch his hips buck against her hand, which is pushing further and further into his ass. She is electric, radiant as she presides over this whole scene. I watch her slightest movement for cues and find his cock against with his my hand. I squeeze harder, stroking him with more urgency. As his hips move faster, I become more insistent on his orgasm. I want it. I want to see it splayed over the table, splashing and speckling my thighs.
His moans become more insistent, and ask for permission in their own right. She holds court, and all the energy in the room is manipulated by her. I can breathe only when she breathes. She is working his ass effortlessly, her focus so intent it almost hurts.
He begins to beg, and I begin to tremble. His desire is palpable. I can taste it in the sweat which glistens on his face. I can feel it in the tongue which enters my mouth. It grows in his cock, which is swollen and dripping down my hand.
She grants permission and he cums. I gasp at how his body bucks, rocks, moves, pulses, tightens, explodes. It is impressive in its power. I can feel his cum dotting my thighs. His groans make me tremble. His sighs bring me back to earth.
I re-find my place, kneeling on the table. I am ready for what is next. I am thrilled for what is to come.

The spell is cast. (Part 1)

They said that things had started long before we saw each other. Well, he said that she had started things long before we saw each other. I believed him, if only because when I get around her I am so taken, I can barely catch my breath. That kind of magic doesn't just materialize. When I see the alter, with the candles, the trinkets, I realize that I should have been more caught off guard than I actually am.
I sit, trying to keep my posture as they lounge in thick, padded chairs in front of me, questioning me. I sweat, a little breathless and trying to wear my nonchalance like a shield against my own vulnerability. It feels precarious, though, and I try simply not to let my voice falter, betraying my calm exterior.
His voice has a slow, long drawl like the pouring of honey. It's rich and creamy and thick. It doesn't so much wash over me as wind around me in serpentine lyrics. As he tells me about the alter I'm looking at, about how Mistress has been planning, thinking about this moment, crafting the energy days in advance, I am all of a sudden heavy lidded but not tired. I am simply taken.
I have come to prove myself, my worth to these two. She is a demanding Mistress with a firm hand and a smokey voice. It is her pleasure which must be captured. She has been training him for years, and he has earned my training as his privilege. There is so much in these first precarious moments. Will I be a good enough prize? Am I worth training? Will I make her smile? Will I make him hard?
And it begins. She commands me to dance for her, to strip the few pieces I have covering me. I nod, rising. I begin to sway my hips to the music, hoping to find some rhythm in the flesh itself - praying that my curves will find music. I drop my bra, my tight nipples meeting the warm air of the space. My panties slide off next, riding down the curve of my ass more actively than passively. And I am naked, still swinging my hips, letting my body roll to the beat I have found in my head.
The beat fades as she commands she to stop, to crawl. I follow her directions as she points, directs me with her voice. He watches. He is in the center of all of this. His gaze makes me wet. Her commands make me drip. I want to show off, but I am not yet so bold. She tells me to pick three instruments from her beautifully organized wall.
I want to give her variety, choice. I am confident that I can take all of these implements, but the obvious power in her arms makes me quiver before her. I pray that no one notices - no one takes points away for what I can only describe as a very, very justified, anxious knot which is tightening. If I were a guitar I would be sharp, but there is no easy fix to my tightness.
I choose a paddle, a cane, and what would best be described as a terrifying looking switch. They will hurt immensely. They will prove I am serious.
She sits with a world of grace on the table where I had previous perched so nervously. She coaxed me over and I laid tentatively across her lap. She is telling me what a privilege this is and I already know. The way she speaks I can almost feel her tongue cross Ts and dot Is.
And then I feel it. Her hand comes down in the first blow. He is watching from a chair, staring at my ass as it reddens from her forceful arm. He is watching, hand up to his mouth, cock hardening in his pants as I squeal and wiggle on her lap.
I am trying not to move, take every blow in an acceptance which might look almost stoic to the untrained eye. To anyone who cannot see my mouth open and gasping, desperate for breath and relief. But it is not my place to ask for relief. It is my place to take it like a good girl.
I want to be a good girl.
She moves to the implements and I ride every wave that comes from her smacks. I am now not even concerned with the eyes on me or the noises coming from me, but instead I fear the cum which may be dripping from me as I writhe over her lap.
My ass is white-fire-hot to the touch, and with every wallup I can feel the energy moving through the paddle and into my skin. I can feel his eyes searing that firm dominance even deeper.
If I am a good girl we will both be rewarded. But first, Mistress must be happy. I have to please her, both for my sake and his, and I feel the weight of that upon me, driving the blows deeper. There is so much I want to do to prove I will be good, and all of it is coming down in blow after blow on my ass.
I begin to wiggle a little more but try and hold myself still. I desperately want my reward. I want it for me, and I want it for him. He has served her so well for so long, he deserves whatever reward she is going to give - even if that means more pain for me.
I ache as I writhe. Her strikes show no sign of fatigue or distraction. As the final blows come down I can feel whimpers sliding from my lips. When she finishes I am breathing hard. I can't tell if it's from the pain or the pleasure, but I don't mind either way.
"I think it's time for your treat." She says to him, her voice languid and smokey.
He nods, rising. I immediately search for a bulge in his pants. I love seeing a man hiding a swollen cock behind trousers. Those bulges are my treat.
She commands me to turn over, lay on my back, and of course, I oblige, closing my eyes, readying, preparing, breath and eyelids heavy with anticipation.

This is how fetishes are made.

I love when he cums on me. I love when he shows his ownership by exploding all over my tits, my face. They become his. They become his property and he will make me wear his cum as long as he likes. He will make me lick up every drop, gathering it with my hand and making me lick my hands clean over and over. He will make every drop that does not dry go into my mouth after he has decorated me with a sign of how much he has enjoyed using me. I am a favored toy.
I love when he makes me nothing more than this. I am only a favorite toy for him to use. I am for display. I am a kneeling, wet, plaything which he has just cum upon. Which he has just made a receptacle for his wet, sticky cum. I am nothing more than the damp rag he cleans up with. And I can only enjoy this place, knowing that I am nothing more than this. I am owned. I am property, chattel. I am for use. I am for destruction.
I love when he make me wait for it. I kneel, mouth open and tongue hanging just slightly out like a willing, wanting dog. He may explode, shooting it straight into my throat, allowing me to swallow as I close my lips around his cock as he fills my mouth. But it's the anticipation, watching his jaw tighten as he prepares. Watching him hold his cock with the tip just resting on my tongue, and knowing that it is coming, is the sweetest of moments. I about about to receive my prize.
I love feeling it hit the back of my throat, and feeling the power of his cum. It's explosive, almost cruel in how it glides down my throat whether I like it or not. If I'm not careful, I will cough but I will be careful. When he cums this hard I know it will splash, force itself deeper into my mouth immediately, spray onto my chin, cheeks, across my nose, into my hair. He is reckless with his cum, and I am simply canvas.
I love when his cum becomes a part of pleasuring him all over again. It slowly pours from his cock, laying in a long string on my tongue like honey and I hold it in my mouth before using it to suck his cock all over again. Covering his cock in his own cum, and then licking it off all over again, I am his assistant, I am in service completely.
And in this moment, (in this coffee shop), if I think and try and fight and struggle, I can just barely taste his cum right now. There is nothing more that want.

Sleeping Alone.

Last night I came thinking about you pushing my face into the bed, fucking me mercilessly. My ass and thighs were already red from a harsh beating, and I thought I had finally reached my reward for taking it like a good girl for you. My ass is still warm from your hands, your toys, your will. You pounded my cunt hard, until I was on the verge of tears, and then slow, fucking me with deep, long strokes which made me push back into your cock. I would get closer and closer until I started to beg you to cum, and then you would pound again, making sure it hurt all over again. I felt so powerless, so at your control. When you finally said I was allowed to cum I was so on the edge I exploded, screaming both for the first time in full voice from pain, but also in full voice with a desperate, clinging, powerful orgasm with your cock buried inside me.

Brooklyn Bridge, 10:30pm

I'm in a coffee shop right now, I should mention. I was supposed to work on my thesis, but my mind is just buzzing from a wonderful night and I can't seem to wrap my head around Ellul right now in a way which would be fruitful.
I keep pressing my legs together trying to gain some pressure, but without a hand in between my legs, pushed deep into my tights, and fingers pushed deep into my cunt it all seems like a pathetic attempt to regain something which can only be elusive right now.
As soon as we got in the car I pulled his hand between my legs. I just needed him to know how wet I was. That even though nothing could happen tonight, how much I wanted something to. His jaw dropped at how soaked I was. I always say that I get wet... really wet... and for some reason people simply don't believe me. Or they think that I have a different perception of "really wet" than I should. When I tell them it's half pride, half warning, but for some reason they think I'm significantly daintier than I actually am.
I push his hand deeper, grind down on his palm, which is covered in my cum already. I grind for pressure, to feel the warmth of his fingers inside me. His fingers flick over my pussy and I tremble.
When he pulls his hand away, his fingers are covered, soaking, and my cum drips off of them. I immediately lower my mouth to them, licking them clean, leaving him only with the scent of my cunt as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge, artificial lights skimming through and across the windows.
I stroke his cock through his pants, and feel every ridge and pulse. The thin fabric of his far too expensive pants prevents nothing. I squeeze, I stroke, I delight in his sounds.
I can still, if I close my eyes and remember just right, feel his cock in my palm. Feel it swell. It's really a very nice cock. Beautifully cut and of perfect thickness. I want to ride it and feel it swell inside me.
I fumble towards his belt and he unzips his pants, instead, pulling his cock out. I stroke at first. I want my mouth on his. I want his tongue against mine. I want his teeth on my lips and my inner thigh. Right now.
I can't tell if it's the memory or the door which keeps opening, but I get chills which keep running through me, and makes my breath catch.
I stop kissing him... which I should never, ever have done... and lower my mouth to his cock. I press it to the back of my throat, feeling my spit drip down over it. The cars moves, slows, stops, moves again, but it's all lost to me. I just want his cock inside me. I think briefly about the driver, but sadly it's only a fleeting thought. I think about the cock in front of me more.
His sounds spur me on, both to suck harder and to push it deeper into my throat. He pushes against me and I just barely gag on his cock. I pull back and lick the head of his cock, letting my tongue slide into the slit. I want to taste his cum desperately. I want the taste of him to fill my mouth and slide down my throat.
I sip tea, surrounded by a myriad of people who don't know how wet I am. Who have no idea that all I can think about is his swollen cock in my mouth. I hold my cup and smile. They would never guess.
I keep pumping his cock with my hand, eager. I usually enjoy giving blow jobs. I love sucking it into my mouth, teasing it out, making it last as long as I can. I love running my tongue over the tip, stroking the shaft in a firm grip and then teasing it with my fingers. I love sucking cock.
But not last night. Last night all I wanted was his cum. I wanted him to cover me in a full load, pumping his cock until it exploded over me. I wanted to see it unleash his white, hot, sticky cum all over my face and tits. I want him to cum in my mouth and let droplets spray onto my chin and drip down. I want it to crescendo over my body, to splash over my ass and decorate the tattoo on my back. I want him to make me his, claim his territory.
But all I can do, in this tiny car, is suck. I am forceful and eager with my hand. I have a goal, and it is not simply pleasure. I want to swallow every drop of cum he can muster.
I suck furiously, pumping my head up and down. I feel him tentatively place a hand on the back of my head, and while I don't often enjoy this specific move, the contact and pressure are perfect. I want him to press my head down, to feel his fingers tense in my hair.
Despite the un-included third person in the car, there is nothing furtive to this. There is only disregard and base need.
I stare around at the people in the coffee shop and they haven't noticed how my breathing is frighteningly staggered. I can't help it. I try and relax a little but my legs are twined together and my nipples are painfully hard against my bra.
I often think back and wish I had done things differently. I wish I had kissed him more. I wish I had felt his hands more on my bare skin. I wish for more of everything, more time, more words, more fucking, more privacy, more space, more of everything good. I wish I am sitting on his desk being fucked and not in this chilly coffee shop. But this is just as fruitless and I refuse to be anything less than pleased and wet.
His hand on the back of my head, and I am only more eager. I suck. I press. I ache. I pull.
I can feel his fingers tighten and I know I will get what I want.
He groans in the back of his head and pushes forward, up, tightening his grip on me. I want more and more and more and he cums.
It spills into my mouth, filling, warm and thick. It runs down my throat as I swallow in gulp after gasp. I want to let it run out of my mouth, dripping back down his cock so I can clean it up all over against with my tongue, but in the car this is unfeasible. I swallow, hair held tight, head held down. He tastes like exuberance. He tastes like want. He tastes like richness and royalty. He tastes like I imagine things taste like when I imagine tastes.
I wipe the corners of my mouth and let him find his breath. I lay my head on his chest and just watch as the car slows, but still passes, the front of my building. I say nothing.

Remnants

After he made me kneel on the rice, the scars lasted for longer than I anticipated. Small red welts covered the delicate space just below my knees.
I was angry at first, pouting that my body had weakened enough to show the memory of his work. But the more I saw them, the more they allowed me to remember that moment, kneeling in front of him, begging with only my eyes and tears. I could feel the sting of him slap on my face again. I smelled the sweat which dampened my chest as I became more and more resilient.
That is, until I touch them. Days later, I am masturbating, taking another break from the day or waking up, or finding some other excuse to cum.
My knees are bent, my hand buried in my cunt. I am soaking, working towards cumming, trying to pull back and wait, forcing myself to be patient.
I rub my clit slowly, flicking it, rubbing it in slow circles over and over. My mind wanders here and there, but it goes blank when I hit a nerve and a shudder runs down my spine.
My other fingers are slowly moving in and out of my cunt. Nothing too fast, nothing too thrilling, simply the enjoyment of the feeling of my fingers moving over the throbbing walls of my pussy. I love to be fucked deeply, to gasp as a cock hits the hilt of my cunt. But that's not today. Today is easy.
I begin to work myself up once more, noting that the time is ticking away and I do have things to get back to today. My fingers begin to work faster, making my toes curl around the edge of the bed. I was impatient now, waiting to cum and get up so I could go and finish the list of things waiting for me this afternoon.
The pressure inside me began to build. My legs grow tight in want. My muscles tense and wait. I want to push myself over the edge slowly and cascade down.
But then I touch them. One hand on my cunt, I take the other, still slicked with juices, and wrap it around my bent knee, pressing directly into the cuts which still burn, igniting pain I was not anticipating.
The shock is not unwelcome by a long shot. The moment of kneeling for him flood back. My fingers begin to press harder, tender spots stinging and making me want to cry while it shoots back down through my spine like an electric shock.
I cum. I cum hard. I cum harder than I was anticipating. I cum harder than I remember cumming in ages. I explode, squirting onto the unprotected sheets, juices dripping down and between the flesh of my ass. I am covered.
The sting hangs on for hours after I have cum. The clean up takes ages. I am again angry and wet and horny and frustrated. What bliss.

The things we do to grow...

I am bent over, my tits pressed against the black vinyl. I can't tell if I'm breathing hard because I am afraid or I am letting the full weight of my upper body hang on this barely padded spanking bench. I can't tell because I am both. I can feel my body tingling with waves of fear. Everything is on edge.
My hands are bound behind my back, red plastic-y duct tape. My fingers try and find each other, but my wrists are crossed and I can only feel them wiggle in desperation. I'm sure he enjoys this look. I know he must like the fact that I am helpless, so purely in need of him.
My eyes are covered, my head wrapped countless times by the red tape. I fear it's going to rip out my eyelashes until I realize that the tears which have sprung so unwillingly from my eyes are protecting them. It pushes my hair slightly into my face, but mostly it crushes down on my nose and temples.
I can only hear my breath, feel it grow ragged. My ass is already red and sore from the power of his hands. His large hands, his long fingers are tender and merciless. I hate how much I ache for them. These hands which give both a relentless grooming into his strong, good girl. These hands which make me cum until I can't fathom being more spent.
But he does not use his hands right now. He picks up a wooden brush and begins to beat my ass. No matter how nervous, how warmed up, how desperate I am to gain his approval, there is nothing which can prepare me for this. The pain is white, blinding.
Every time the hard wood lands I cry out, my knees buckling at least slightly. I want to stand straight for him but every time I feel the brush my body insists on responding. My body wants to much to run, and I should crumple onto the floor and beg for mercy. Every instinct I have ever learned is screaming to make this blistering pain end. If I even whispered "stop" I know he would at least pause and I could get some sweet relief for my flesh. I can stop this at any moment, despite my palms damp with sweat as they squeeze tight enough to draw blood from my own nails. I can beg him for mercy and he would relent.
But despite my body's desperate pleas, the thought of asking for mercy never crosses my mind. It is not my call to make. I can take the pain and for his approval I would take much more.
And so they continue and I can only scream and cry and pray that he will be satisfied with this beating soon. Once he is satisfied with my performance, I will be sated in knowing that I have made him proud. I would not be able to live with myself if I failed him.
He finally places the brush down and I feel his hands on my skin. I can feel the pressure, but the feeling has not yet returned. Tears simply dampen my eyes and smear my makeup below the duct tape.
White heat replaces numbness and I can simply feel a deep aching. My breath is weak, ragged, and I know I'm shaking. He stands behind me, holding onto my hips and I struggle to touch him more. I want to feel his body against mine. I want nothing more.
I can feel his hard cock under his pants and this is my reward. I breath deeply for the first time. His pleasure makes me feel proud.
He nudges my legs outward, and I step wide, refusing to pull back from his touch. I need more. I would beg for more if I thought it would do anything more than annoy him. He will give me my reward when I deserve it.
I breathe once more, but it against goes ragged as pain begins to set in in new waves. His hand rests on my spine, and I can barely hear him through the duct tape and my own weeping.
"Focus, baby."
I nod in the slightest twitch. It is time to regroup, possibly for another beating.
I gladly resume my position, rigid and bent over. There is sometimes a moment where I wonder how I could take some much, where I question this.
I do not have this moment.
He reaches to my cunt and it is dripping. His fingers dip into my cunt and are quickly soaked with my cum. I moan, feeling my pussy tighten around him. I push down on his hand, wanting more and more of his hand.
"You're a horny little slut, aren't you baby?"
I nod eagerly.
"You're my whore, aren't you?"
I nod even harder as his fingers begin to move on my clit.
"You'll fuck anything I tell you, won't you?"
"Yes yes yes." I finally squeak out.
I feel him move away just slightly, and then I feel the hairbrush on my thighs again. It strokes over the skin, the wooden ridge tenderly grazing the soft flesh that would burst instantly under a powerful stroke with the wood.
But this is not on his mind.
I feel the handle of the brush push at my cunt. He does not hesitate. My cunt is soaked and swollen and ready for anything to slide inside and he takes full advantage of this. The brush slides up to the hilt with ease and he begins to fuck me.
My hips rock against the wood and I can feel the bristles roughly move against my pussy. His fingers move on my clit and I lean into his body for the first time. I gasp, whimpering, groan. There is nothing more I want than to be fucked for his entertainment.
He thrusts forcefully, the butt of the handle pounding into my tight cunt. I can feel it slamming into my cervix and I simply pump harder.
My cunt tightens around the awkwardly swollen end of the brush. It rubs me in ways I don't know how to process. I cry out with pure lust, shifting against his solid body. It anchors me as I rock my hips harder and harder. My juices are dripping down over the handle and his grip tightens.
I bend my knees to feel it deeper inside my pussy. My noises are growing louder as I still struggle for balance. My hands work against the duct tape and I wish to whatever God I still believe in that he would just touch me harder, more, longer, anything to get him inside me, even if I have to soak his touch through my skin.
He continues to fuck me with the brush. I wonder if he will be able to grip the handle again enough to beat me (if he likes) now that it's covered in my juices. I know they are soaking into the black, stiff bristles. This brush will never be free of the smell of my pussy.
I can feel my cunt awkwardly tightening. His fingers move on my clit and I begin to pant, tensing. I am focused now. The pain is gone, and now there is only want. Want to cum, want to collapse, want to explode and squirt all over this brush, the floor, my panties, his hand. I try and open my mouth to cry out, but the duct tape pressing on my nose makes it hard. I try my best.
"Fuck it, baby."
I do.
"Do you want to cum for me?"
I do.
"Then do it."
And I do.