Agony/Ecstasy: Original Stories of Agonizing Pleasure/Exquisite Pain

by Litte, Jane

  “Kneel next to me. Face the bed. Now lie across my legs.”

  As she followed his orders, he watched the auburn firelight spread across the smooth curve of her back as she lay across him, her skin rippled with goose bumps from the cool air. Her long braid slid across her shoulder and fell to the floor, and he slowly gathered it back into one hand while he smoothed the fabric of her shift with the other, soothing her with long, firm strokes of his hand.

  “You punish yourself for nothing, causing inadequate discomfort when what you crave is suitable recompense for your outlandish thoughts and inappropriate behavior. It is not enough what you do to yourself, is it?”

  “No,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the quiet.

  “You know I am here, and yet you attempt to circumvent me. You are rude and invite my anger, and then try to punish yourself instead.”

  While he spoke, he continued to smooth the fabric of her shift upon her back, the fine, nearly translucent linen warming from the fire and from his hand. His hand stroked her neck, her back, down her spine, over her hips smoothing the linen over the curve of her bottom. His fingertips would linger a moment on the back of her thighs, then begin again at her neck and work its way down.

  Despite his gentle stroking, she did not relax against him. He noticed her spine stayed as straight as ever, her posture even as she bent across his lap as refined as possible, though certainly no etiquette could have predicted her current circumstances and prescribed an appropriate response. Somehow, Clara found a measure of poise and elegance. It excited him.

  “Do not move,” he whispered.

  Clara was a feast for his eyes, his hands, his thighs beneath her. He looked and stroked her until he noticed her posture begin to soften, her back begin to mold over him. He brought the end of her braid against her neck, painting her skin with the tips of her hair. With the other hand, he slowly lifted the edge of her shift so her backside was bared to him. She faced away from the fire, so the heat was strong and the light moved across her smooth skin, casting his hand in a dark, clawed shadow against her.

  “Lift your head.” He passed the end of her braid to his other hand, and swept the soft hairs across the top curves of her ass, dipping in to the valley between them. He did this again and again, moving with firmer strokes, and when the sharp points at the end of her braid touched her deep between the curves of her ass, she flinched. He dropped her braid.

  The flat of his hand slapped her smooth round skin. The sound echoed as did the gasping moan that followed. He smacked her again, outlining in a whisper the slights against him.

  “For greeting me rudely.” A slap on one plump cheek.

  “For smiling at everyone but me.” Another.

  “For lifting your nose at me, and don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  “Which time?” Her voice held a whisper of laughter.

  “Both,” he replied. Another slap fell across both cheeks, increasing the redness there.

  He continued through each moment of the evening wherein she snubbed him, taunted him, rebuffed him, served him tiny portions of rudeness unseen by anyone but him. While to the room she was effortless perfection, to him she was a thorn, a gathering heat he couldn’t soothe, increased with every tiny act of defiance. The space of four hours of dinner and evening entertainment was relived in moments, punctuated by slaps of flesh against flesh amid moaning gasps. Her backside was red and her legs began to spread open as he continued. When he spanked her for neglecting him after dessert, she tilted and lifted her hips and his hand froze.

  “Wet for me, are you?” He reached down slowly. He touched the red skin of her backside, the heat between her cheeks, and slid his fingers farther to trail his fingers through her folds. “So open for me, so wet.” He slid a finger into her and she moaned. He curved the finger inside her, stroking the inside of her through the abundant moisture. She moaned again, louder.

  He spanked her again.

  “Be silent.”

  He allowed her hips to remain tilted up, and moved his hand so that his next downward slap hit across her folds. He watched her bite her lips. Her back was a shuddering arch made of the gasps and moans kept locked in, and her arms were shaking as she held on to his leg.

  He brought his fingers back to her wet, open folds and stroked her. She bit back a noise, trembling more with her silent restraint.

  His fingers were drenched, dripping as he teased her, dipping into her moist and slippery heat then trailing up over her flesh, drawing curls and trails on her skin. He idly circled over her backside, across the backs of her thighs, then down to the tight pucker of her ass. She shook.

  “I cannot tell you how it felt to see my gift returned to me. I go to my rooms to dress for dinner and find it here, taunting me from my bureau, when minutes before it had been safely with you. When did you put it in my room?”

  She didn’t answer. His hand was moving slowly from her pussy to her ass, sliding cool moisture and wicked heat over her flesh and leaving her trembling in his wake.

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He slapped his hand down onto her ass, right over the skin that glistened in the firelight. He spanked her again.

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No.” He spanked her a second, then a third time, making sure to strike her against her tightly closed entrance, watching a shudder begin there and spread across her body. Her hips tilted upward, her knees no longer on the soft rug beneath them as she reached for his touch as much as she could. He rewarded her eagerness by sliding his fingertips down into the curls not reached by the firelight, stroking three fingers deep into her clenching heat. He saw her throat constrict as she struggled to stay silent.

  “Will you do it again?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  With a growl, he removed his hand and pushed a finger deep into her ass. She bit his thigh, her fingers gripping his skin as she pressed her upper body downward and her hips up toward his fingers. He removed his finger, pulled his hand again through her moistened skin, then plunged two fingers back into her tightened hole.

  She threw her head back, panting, her mouth open. Her eyes were closed, and her face was flushed. The only noises in the room were her low gasps and the slight wet sounds of his fingers pushing into her again and again. He watched her face, glancing at the impossible sight of his fingers sinking deep into her ass, her legs spread and her hips reaching for more.

  “You are a very naughty girl,” he whispered. She didn’t make any sound or gesture of agreement nor argument.

  “Clara,” he said, continuing to pump his fingers in and out, slowly and deeply, feeling the clenching shudder of pleasure inside her. “I have my hand on your backside. My fingers are up your ass.” She didn’t make a sound in reply.

  He slid his fingers out, slapped her trembling flesh, then plunged his fingers back into her.

  “Only I know how naughty you are, what you crave,” he whispered. She nodded. “No one suspects you, no one sees what you are, what you need. Only I know.”

  Keeping his fingers curved into her ass, he spread his bent legs wide so she was positioned across only one of his thighs.

  “Unbutton my trousers,” he said. “Take out my cock.” She obeyed.

  “Suck me again.” She reached for the hard length jutting from his rumpled trousers, and latched on with her mouth, pulling him deep.

  “Nice and wet. That’s right, make me drip.” He pumped his fingers into her ass, then removed them and spanked her. It made her mouth water.

  She feasted on him, pulling the flesh of his cock into her mouth, sliding her tongue on the sides and beneath it. He felt her cup his balls through the fabric, and told her to release them from confinement. As she sucked him, painting him a glistening wet gold in the light from the fire, he continued to dip his fingers into her ass, speeding up when she did, slowing down with her movements as well. He wondered if she noticed she was controlling his movements. She gre
w more and more drenched the more she sucked him, the more he pumped her.

  He asked her again, “Will you do it again, return my gifts to me?”

  She lifted her head from his cock and licked her lips, swollen and wet. He nearly came.

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled knowingly.

  With a roar, he stood, lifting her up and pushing her to the foot of the bed. He bent her body over the edge of the bed, ass in the air and legs hanging off the tall mattress, one hand pushing her shoulders down so her head was resting in the thick duvet. She was panting, shaking—and smiling.

  He shed his trousers, his coat, and his waistcoat and drawers in moments, leaving his shirt on as he then stepped closer to her and pressed a hand against the reddened curve of her ass. She moaned as he massaged and molded her hips and backside with his hand.

  “Only I know what a naughty girl you are. How rude, how daring, how badly behaved you can be.” She nodded and tried to press back against his cock, but he held his body away from hers and she couldn’t get enough leverage to move more than a few inches forward or back. Her legs didn’t quite reach the floor, while his strong body, with years more experience and muscle than hers, was more than enough to keep her pinned to the bed with just one hand.

  “You like to be rude to me, don’t you?” She nodded. “You know I’ll punish you perfectly.” She nodded again.

  “I may allow you to punish yourself, Clara.”

  He moved behind her, holding his cock, still dripping wet from her mouth, and slid his erection through the folds of her pussy, covering himself in the moisture that coated her. Then he stood back and pressed the tip of his cock against the tight opening to her ass, lifting the hand that held her down while stroking the tight puckered hole with the tip of his cock.

  “Show me what a naughty girl you are, Clara.”

  She slid back onto him without hesitation.

  If he had thought watching her mouth swallow his cock was impossible to bear, seeing her ass slowly, firmly, slide onto his cock nearly made him come in seconds. Her tight skin stretched and he watched the length of him disappear, deep into her ass as she mounted him.

  When the red, tender flesh met the skin of his hips, she pressed back for a moment, her knees flexed, trying to find purchase with which to move away and back again. He was fully seated in her, and for a fraction of a second, he closed his eyes and let joyous amazement and wonder wash through him again.

  Then he planted his legs firmly and pushed her against the bed, pinning her. She squirmed and moaned, but he held her hips firm in his hands. Her arms reached, her hands grabbing his wrists, tugging, trying to get him to move, to thrust, but he held her still, pinning her against the mattress with his cock deep in her ass.

  “You want more?”

  She nodded.

  “You are shaking, you want more so badly,” he said. He pulled one hand from her grasp, but before she could move her arm and allow herself to thrust back against him, he ran one fingertip over the stretched and taut skin that surrounded his cock. She turned her head and screamed into the duvet.

  “I am in your ass so deep, Clara, up to my balls in your backside, and you want more?”

  She nodded, her face turned into the coverlet, her body shaking and gasping as one finger traced a delicate line back and forth across the tiny ridge of straining flesh that held him inside her body.

  “You like having my cock in your ass?”

  She didn’t answer except to fist the coverlet in her hands and twist.

  He spanked her again, hard, this time low on her thigh near where his own pressed against her, then again higher, on her ass. She screamed.

  “There is a cock up your ass. My cock.” He flexed his muscles, making her feel the jutting movement inside her. She moaned and he slapped her flesh again.

  “The next time you dance with me, you’ll feel my cock. The next time you snub me, raise your nose, or even turn your back, you’ll think of me. You’ll remember me right here.” He flexed again, knowing she felt the subtle thrust, knowing she wanted more.

  She shook her head. He pushed deeper, angling his hips downward, knowing it would burn and sizzle through her. He was rewarded with a gasp and a low moan, and a deep tremble of her legs.

  “Yet you are not answering me.” He stepped back, nearly pulling free, and she scrambled to push back onto him as soon as she had room to do so. He held her hips down, his cock half into her, stretching her as he moved with minute thrusts of his hips, in and out, a fraction of an inch. She cried out, nonsensical sounds as she tried to reach for him, to fill herself with him.

  “Tell me, Clara. Tell me what you want.”

  “Please,” she whispered. He looked at her, leaned forward to blow a gentle puff of hair onto her back. She flinched and stretched her arms up, trying to reach anything that would perhaps give her leverage against his hands holding her still, to allow her to push herself back onto him.

  Her lips opened but she didn’t speak. He wondered when the agony of unfulfillment would kill him.

  He caressed her gently, reaching around his cock, still half-buried inside her, sliding his fingers just barely through the folds of her pussy, now drenched and hot. “Please what?”

  He reached a finger, then two, and slid them down toward her clit, swollen and now covered with moisture. “Say it, Clara. Tell me what you want.”

  She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at him. In her beautiful, low clear voice, she replied, “Put your cock completely back in my ass and fuck me there. Fuck me until you scream, Christoph.”

  Her use of his name nearly brought him to his knees.

  “Please, I want you, deep, hard, and fast. Now.”

  At that, he did fall to his knees. He pulled his cock out of her, and buried his face in her. Spreading her wide with his hands, he bit and sucked at her flesh, her folds, the deep, wet tunnel of her pussy, her clit, using his tongue and teeth. She moaned his name, urging him on, pressing back onto his face. Then he stood abruptly and plunged his cock deep into her ass.

  Christoph lifted Clara’s upper body upward with his arms until her back rested against his chest. Her knees were bent just over the edge of the bed and her body curved back against him, the pale smoothness of her skin meeting the dark coarseness of his chest hair. He gripped her hips to keep her still and watched her breasts bounce as he thrust deep into her.

  “Yes, oh, yes, Christoph.” Her pleas were strained and soft, as if she tried to keep herself from screaming.

  “Say it, Clara.”

  “I like it. I want your cock in my ass,” she whispered between moans. His thrusts deepened and the length of his cock tunneled into her in time with her gasps.

  “No, not that,” he said. He bit gently on her shoulder, then licked the spot where his teeth had met her flesh.

  “Harder, Christoph,” she said. He obliged. He slid one hand slowly over her hip, across the sensitive flesh of her pelvis, taut with the position he held her in.

  “Say it, Clara.” His fingers almost reached her clit, where he knew she was aching and hot. “Say it.”

  “I won’t do it again,” she said.

  “Good.”

  He pressed a finger, then two, against her and slid upward, then down, in time with the deeper, faster thrusts. She screamed, and finally, finally came, the clenching rhythm of her orgasm an ecstasy he’d never experienced. Her body tightened on his cock, and she fell forward onto her hands, pulling her knees onto the bed and pumping herself back onto his cock faster and faster through her orgasm.

  He threw his head back and yelled her name, filling her with his own hot release as he cried out, “Clara!”

  His knees had folded beneath him, but before he hit the floor, he crawled onto the bed alongside Clara. She’d curled up on her side, with her hand on her chest. He pulled her into the circle of his arms and felt her heart and breath racing one another, matching his own. Their bodies were still, but inside they were flying at unnatural speed
s. He didn’t think his heart would ever slow down.

  On the bureau next to the bed, the painted wood eyes and teeth of his gift gleamed. It stood at attention, stiff and somewhat fierce, ready to crack nutshells in its jaw and find its way to Clara. Two years prior, he had given it to her in front of everyone. Later, when she’d broken it accidentally, he’d seen her remorse as a living, growing thing burning her from the inside, the rage and sorrow barely contained in her perfect exterior as her parents scolded her mildly and dismissed her. He’d known.

  She’d been too old and too young and he’d hated himself for the year afterward, but when she found her way to his rooms late that night, hair unbound, womanly curves barely concealed by her robe, looking for her broken gift, he’d known what she needed. He’d gently managed her attempt at seduction, explained her punishment, spanked her until she came, kissed her and held her through her tears of relief and whispered confessions that she’d thought something was wrong with her. He had whispered through the night that she was pure and perfect as she was. He knew her. He understood. There was nothing wrong with her.

  She’d been truly his since then, more than merely his intended bride, though she’d been that since her birth.

  The following year, he gave her the repaired wooden doll, again, in front of everyone, and watched the blush on her neck stain her pale skin for hours. It was then she began to taunt him, to break those slender rules of conduct secretly, quietly, beneath the notice of everyone. He was both proud and enraged by her courage.

  But she didn’t visit him that year. He’d had to seek her out, and explain what she was to do to herself in detail until he relieved her of her punishment an hour before he left. Her deep moan of relief at his removing the slightly bent pin from her neckline and the other scattered punishments he had devised had nearly brought him to orgasm in his trousers.

  This year, she challenged him again, this time taking the doll he had placed in her room, and returning it to his within the same hour. He still didn’t know how she’d managed it.

  When the sun rose, he would pack up her wooden soldier, returning it to its carrying case inside his lone traveling trunk. It would stay there, safe and wrapped until next year, when he would return with his gift, this time to marry Clara.