The pain courses through my body, setting my nerves on fire, and the room it spins, and my forehead beads, and I whimper and moan and whine.
But the wax cools quickly, and my skin stops burning, and I open my eyes to look at you above me.
“You’re punishment is yet to begin,” you say to me severely. The pain from the wax has left me feeling heady and dizzy, and I nod at you and bite my lip and suck in air deeply.
The pain from the candle wax has ignited something within me, and I feel a yearning, a lust, a wanting, growing inside of me.
You reach down and roll me over so that I’m on my belly, and I can feel the last bits of wax soaking into the sheet.
“Stay here,” you say, “don’t you dare move,” and you leave to go get something, and moments later I feel something hard and flat dragged across my body.
And then there is a crack so loud it seems to split the air, and a searing pain makes its presence felt on my left buttock. I scream out loud as you smack me again, knowing you have a paddle, and my skin reacts, raises angry red, and the stinging sends the world spinning.
I wince and tense and ready for the next slap of your paddle, but it never comes and instead I feel your lips on me.
You’re kissing both of my buttocks where you have punished me, and I submit to your tender touch as your hands begin to roam me.
I submit to your tenderness as equally as I had your violence. It’s your duality, the dichotomy of your behavior, of how you are, that compels me.
Eventually you roll me over, and my waxed, red-skinned chest and belly are bared to you. You begin to kiss down along my whole front, from my neck, down my collar bone, over my breasts, down my stomach, eventually stopping at my mound before my sex.
And then you remove my collar, and I have never felt more naked, more bared. You lead me to the bathroom, and you take off your clothes, and we stand naked together and look at one another.
You turn on the shower, and you know it is too hot for my now-sensitive skin. You turn it down to warm, and you lead me into the shower, and water streams over our bodies, and my skin stings angrily, but I do not dislike it.
You bathe me softly, my hair, my body, and you kiss me some more, my mouth, my head, my face, my neck, my breasts, my armpits, my bum, my back, my thighs, my calves, my mound.
“Close your eyes,” you say. “Let me explore you.” And you do, with your hands. They roam over my body, now free of dried wax, and they pause on my nipples and you play with them, pulling at them lightly, just lightly.
You turn me so that I am facing away from you, so that my back is pushed into you. You leave one hand on my left nipple, and your other hand you push down my body, past my pelvis, and in between my thighs.
I have been wet and wanting for so long. I am ready for you, ready for your touch, awaiting your touch.
You caress me gently, rub me in circles just how I like it. You know me, you know where I’m sensitive. I moan softly and you kiss the back of my neck on either side as you tweeze my nipple and rub circles above my swollen, engorged clitoris.
Slowly you begin to enter me, just once or twice every now and then, teasing me painfully, teasing me just how I like it. You don’t push your fingers all the way in. You circle my entrance. You dip in just to the first knuckle and the whisper of sensation is so tantalizing it sends shivers down my spine.
Then you begin to push me away, push my back forward, and I rest my arms against the tiles and push my bum out a little as you pull at my hip.
You bring your hand around me, and begin to slide down my bum, in between my legs. You pause, but not where I expected, and I gasp sharply as you slowly work a finger into me there. I’ve never done that before. I don’t know if I like it.
But I must obey you, and I am to do with as you please.
You slowly push your finger into me, and I concentrate on relaxing. The sensation is strange, new, but not really unpleasant.
You push your finger in deeply, and I know that I’m tight around you, tighter than I could ever be in my other place.
And then you stop, and slowly slide your finger out. You turn me around and kiss me and tell me, “you’ve been a good kitty.” You say to me, “let’s get out of the shower. I want to show you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight.”
And so we get out of the shower and you dry me off with the towel. Your touch is tender and soft and delicate, and you make sure to dry each and every part of my body, so that no visible bead of water is left.
You brush my hair so that it is mirror-flat and smooth, and then you dry it with the dryer, and soon my hair is no longer wet and heavy, but slightly frizzy.
In this time the water has dried off your body, and we’re both smooth-skinned and clean, and you lead me back to the bed, back to where you will show me your appreciation.
You lie me down on the bed, and you slowly pull my legs apart. You kiss me briefly on the mouth, just a hint of tongue to tease me, before you begin to work your way down my body, down to my waiting, wet and wanting place.
And you kiss me there. And you do not stop. The touch of your tongue is electric. The press of your tongue sends me shuddering. You push inside me just a bit, and I whimper and moan and hum in delight.
Slowly you work a finger into me, then two, and you begin to gently rock me back and forth on the sheets. Your tongue still works relentlessly, and you flick my bud, and circle it, and suck on it just the way I like it.
My body relaxes even more, and I let you take me, whisk me away, and my orgasm is already so close, a figure on the horizon that I am racing toward.
It’s been a long night, a wonderful night, and I have been ready and wet and wanting for so long, nearly too long.
Your tongue doesn’t stop. It goes faster and harder.
Your fingers don’t stop. They go faster and harder.
And soon I am squirming as a powerful orgasm rises through me, and my stomach crunches, and my back arches, and I am bathed in bliss, plunged into pleasure, and all I can feel on each of my nerve endings is a kind of ecstasy unmatched, unrivaled. It starts in my sex and spreads outward to my thighs and my belly and I’m moaning and thrashing and writing and squirming on the sheets.
Your mouth is beautiful.
And then I’m panting, and my body slumps, and all I can do is lie with my eyes closed, breathing quickly with my lips parted into a smile.
You stop all your licking, and you slowly slide out your fingers, and then you carpet your tongue against my throbbing, sensitive sex, and you keep it warm and wet and pulsing as you take me down the slowing stream that is the ebb of my climax.
And then you come up next to me, and kiss me on my cheek, and nuzzle up next to my ear and you whisper something to me. But I don’t hear you the first time, and so I ask, “what did you say?”
“You’re mine,” you repeat, echoing yourself. “You’re mine, and only mine.”
And I am replete in the knowledge that I am yours and only yours, that every atom of my being belongs to you, to do with as you wish, to care for as you will.
And it is a shame that we must part, but that is not until tomorrow, and still the night has not ebbed, and still there is lots to be done.
# # #
On behalf of all erotica authors, I would like to thank you for supporting the genre. It is hugely popular, immensely diverse, and is filled with myriad examples of great writing, and yet it is rarely afforded the privilege of shelf space (and in the virtual sense, too!). Your patronage is what allows us to keep doing what we love.
For that, I am eternally grateful.
I hope you enjoyed this story at least as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please feel free to send me feedback in any way, shape, or form.
If you are comfortable doing so, leaving a truthful review (so that means negatives, too!) would not only help me with my craft, but it would also give me direction on what to write next.
Thank you - AG.
About the Author
Audrey Grace is the pen name of a thirty-something traveler who has followed her father and his job around the world. A rebellious tomboy in her teenage years, Audrey first discovered her love of scribbling smut with an erotic short story written for class when she was fourteen. It was titled The Erotic Adventures of Hercules and earned her an appointment with the principal.
Having lived in Australia, Canada, China, Hong Kong, Japan, and the United Kingdom, smut (and traveling) have always been Audrey’s one consistent. Blessed with a hyperactive sex drive, it’s the one thing she just can’t stop doing. Audrey is currently based in Melbourne, Australia, but she won’t stay there for long!
www.AudreyGraceErotica.com
[email protected]
Check out Audrey Grace’s Author Page at Amazon!
* * *
Bonus Material 1
Check out this excerpt of Audrey Grace’s novella-length billionaire BDSM erotic romance, His Every Desire:
His Every Desire
By Audrey Grace
* * *
Clara Cotillard is just the temp working at the front desk. But her world is turned upside down when she is chosen to assist the enigmatic CEO billionaire Michael Koch, a man as sexy as he is intimidating. He says she is subject to his every desire, but what does that entail? When she's bent over his desk and punished for a simple mistake, it dawns on Clara that she may be in for more than she's bargained for, and that Michael Koch, CEO, billionaire, has a few dark secrets...
* * *
I took a deep breath and then rapped my knuckles on the thick and dark door that led into Mr. Koch’s office.
“Come in,” I heard his deep voice say. It seemed to penetrate the wood of the door with ease.
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly, and I opened the door and entered the office. It was large and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining each wall. It looked almost staged.
Almost.
Mr. Koch lifted his head up from something he was reading, and looked at me with intense and slightly narrowed eyes. His eyebrows, I realized for the first time, were quite thick, and they gave his face a natural look of severity.
The large windows behind his desk silhouetted him against the sunlight pouring through, sending shadows cast across his sharp features.
“Sir?” I asked, a little too chirpy for my own liking. I was beginning to feel nervous beneath his steely stare, and I was beginning to feel that he might be very angry with me.
But why could he possibly be? The meeting had seemed a stellar success!
“Sir?” I asked again, marshaling my courage and stepping forward. “Did I do something—” He silenced me with a finger to his lips.
“Please come here, Ms. Cotillard,” he said, and he leaned back slightly in his seat. I walked toward the two seats in front of his desk, and began to sat down when he banged his hand on the table.
“What are you doing?”
“Um—”
“I didn’t say take a seat. I didn’t say sit down. I said come here. To me.”
“Sorry, Sir,” I stammered, straightening up. Goosebumps erupted on my skin, and I was extremely glad that he couldn’t see them. I almost wanted to shiver, and my stomach was knotted with anxiety.
“Around here,” he motioned with his finger, and I followed the invisible line he traced around his desk, until I was just mere inches away from him.
“Thank you, Ms. Cotillard,” he said, leaning back and smiling at me. In an instant all the severity and harshness of his features evaporated, and he was quite alarmingly handsome.
He stared at me for some time, as if he was appraising me internally. He didn’t just look at my face, though that is where his eyes lingered the longest. He looked me up and down my body as well. I was beginning to feel distinctly embarrassed at being on display.
Finally his eyes rested on my own, and I forced myself not to look away.
“Please, sit down.” He patted the desk in front of him.
“On the table?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“Yes. Please, sit down.”
He had said it in a low voice, and it was very much a command, rather than an invitation. The atmosphere between us was growing more viscous by the second, and the tension was nearly unbearable.
Something had to give.
“Please,” he repeated again. “Sit down.” I looked at him for a few moments, trying to figure out why he wanted me to sit on his desk. It seemed absurd, like something out of the movies. Was he going to make a pass at me? Were there any extra duties I was expected to perform?
Because that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen!
Or… was this all just a trick, a test? Was he messing with me? That actually seemed the most plausible explanation, and so I hopped up onto the edge of his desk, glaring at him while I did so. I crossed my legs and looked at him with something of a challenge in my eyes, but he did not respond the way I had expected.
Instead, he just sat in silence and roamed his gaze up and down my body. I forced myself to steady my breathing while his eyes concentrated on the hem of my skirt, moving up my body to settle on my breasts momentarily before he met my eyes again.
“Tell me, Ms. Cotillard,” he began. “No, let me start again. Tell me, Clara,” and he paused to look at me. I was astonished he knew my first name, but on reflection, a man so obviously meticulous as he wouldn’t have missed a small detail like that.
“Yes?” I asked when he did not speak. He leaned closer toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. I wanted to shy away, to lean backward and increase the physical distance between us, but knew he would not take kindly to that. I detected his cologne, and noted that it was faint and subtle, so different from the overbearing scents that so many higher-ups wore.
Suddenly, his face broke out into a smile, and his eyes sparkled. I was mesmerized momentarily, caught off-guard by the sudden change in his features, and was once again made aware of just how attractive he could be when he wasn’t looking grim and severe.
I curled and uncurled my toes repeatedly. It was the only way I could fidget and relieve some of the tension.
“So?” he asked, spreading his arms out into a half-shrug. “What did you think of the meeting?”
“I think it went well?”
“Do you?”
“Uh, yes, Mr. Koch. You were very good, and I got everything down.”
“Glad to hear it, Clara. Glad to hear it.”
A silence settled between us again, and I found it harder and harder to keep my eyes on his. Then, to my great relief, he spoke.
“I just wanted to ask you,” he said softly. “What you think about me?”
“Excuse me, Sir?” I replied faintly.
“What do you think about me?”
“Um—”
“Be honest, please, Clara.”
“I’ve only just met you yesterday,” I said carefully. “Everything I know about you is everything everyone knows about you.”
“Ah,” he sounded thoughtfully, leaning back. “Tell me, anyway.”
I nodded and gripped the desk tightly. “You’re one of the most influential men in the world. So, it follows that women want you, and men want to be you.”
“And?” he asked, his expression unchanging.
“And, um, that you have a temper that could kill, and that you demand the very best of everyone.”
“The first,” he said, “is I hope not true. At least, I’ve never killed anyone. Only maimed.”
I smiled.
“The second, of course, is true.”
I gulped and nodded at him, and he smiled at me again.
“Is there more?” he asked.
“No,” I chirped. “I think that’s it. I mean, the girls all say you’re very good looking, too.”
“So,” he said, and then he laughed softly, and for a moment even the hardness in his body seemed to soften. “I’m a very angry, very rich, very good looking asshole that men want to be and wome
n want to be with?”
“Uh—”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!” He chuckled, and leaned fully back into his chair, and his presence lost some of its intimidating capacity. My grip on the table loosened, and I realized that my breathing was slowing.
Was he opening up to me? This whole thing seemed crazy.
* * *
Bonus Material 2
Check out this sneak peak of Audrey Grace’s scorching BDSM OB/GYN short in Submitting to the Doctor:
Submitting to the Doctor
By Audrey Grace
* * *
Michelle Marshall is a Sub. She trusts her Master. When her Master books her a gynecological exam, and she thinks that it will just be an ordinary check up. But she couldn't be more wrong. Dr. Pike tells her that her Master has left him very specific instructions, and that she's to obey his every word. She can see the doctor is enjoying it, but what choice does she have?
* * *
“I can also see by your chart that someone else called in your appointment for you.” He looked back down at the chart, nodded, then looked back up at me. “A Mr. Matthew Stone. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. That was Master. I felt a small prick of embarrassment that a man had called in for my gynecological exam, and desperately hoped that my cheeks weren’t turning red.
“He seems to have left some very… specific instructions,” the doctor continued.
“Oh?” I asked, feeling a surge of warmth in my face. My heartbeat quickened and I began to breathe a little more quickly. “I, um, don’t know about that.”
“Is Mr. Stone your regular doctor?”
This time, my cheeks burned. “Um, well, no, he’s, uh—”
“He’s your…?” the doctor prompted.
“My Master,” I whispered, looking down at the ground.
“I see.” Dr. Pike replied. A short silence settled between us before he spoke again. “That explains a lot, such as why he asked me to make sure that you were wearing a butt plug when you arrived here.”
I bit my lip and winced, feeling the prick of embarrassment and shame turn to a million stings. Goose bumps erupted on the tops of my arms and I shivered involuntarily.
Leash Me (Your Pet For The Night) Page 2
