La Ceinture

by Michèle de Lully

  He just wanted to fuck her, her mind rationalized. She’d denied him for weeks, and he just wanted to get laid. Let him into her thighs, and soon enough he’d be done with her and let her go and everything would be like before. He just wants to fuck, she told herself as she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor, exposing her fine, lacy brassiere.

  Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie, but she lay down on the bed anyway, every muscle trembling with conflict.

  “Pull up your skirt,” he ordered. This part she understood, this part was easy and comfortable, especially since she knew he would be pleased with what he saw.

  She had nothing on underneath, again. The brassiere was detectable, so she had always worn one, but every night she had come to his room, kissed and necked and teased and then left, she had been naked under her skirt. And he had never known, because she had not let him know.

  His hand stroked and fondled her possessively. She pushed into his hand right away, eager to seduce him and be finished, to prove that she could still control him just by spreading her legs.

  But a part deep inside her made mocking noises in the dark, ringing hollowly in the depths of her soul. Is that really what you want? The voice in her head laughed at her.

  “I did it wrong before,” he said. “The first time is the most important. You have to break to the lash. So now I’ll have to make up for it, and it will be harder on you than it should have been.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Best not to speak. So she just concentrated on the feel of his hand on her buttocks.

  She was intimately aware when the hand left, and experienced the sharp clarity of its absence for the brief few seconds before the belt came down in its place.

  It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. And then his hand again, softening and spreading the sting out into a pool of warmth. Then the other cheek, and she was wet already. Anytime he liked he could take her. Surely he could tell that. But he kept striking her, slow and methodical, from cheek to cheek.

  And the blows were getting harder. She grunted under the last one, and then, without thinking, spoke. “Stop it.”

  “You want me to stop?” His voice was thick and deep. Instantly she was terrified and thrilled that he would go berserk, lose control and beat her into submission. Her mind recoiled in horror while her thighs spasmed in eager anticipation. Paralyzed by this bizarre conflict, she did not move while he fumbled with something behind her.

  Then he set down a cell phone on the bed next to her, its case flipped open and ready. He took her hand, placed it over the phone, directed her finger.

  “This button calls emergency services. My address is a matter of record, and this is a bad neighborhood. The cops will be here within three minutes. All you have to do is push.”

  He paused to let her understand.

  “Now, are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” she asked, but he did not bother to answer. She already knew, of course. Even though her mind would not let her put it into words, she knew.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes closed in fear of the future she was begging into existence.

  The belt came down again, and she yelped. But he did not stop.

  Again and again, from cheek to cheek. The left hand tried to undo what the right inflicted, but it could not keep up with the rising intensities of the blows.

  “Please…” she began, not knowing how to finish, but he ignored her. The only time he took a break was when she let go of the phone to clutch at the covers. Then he forced her hand back onto the safety latch, the magic button that would free her, and as punishment for her transgression, his left hand let two blows go without its comforting touch.

  The blows were harder now, but something in her could stand them better. Her breaths came deep and slow, and every muscle in her body burned like a marathon runner in the home stretch.

  “Fuck me,” she begged, and then when he hit her again, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

  His only response was to increase the frequency of the blows.

  “Please!” she cried. “What do you want?”

  He stopped then, just this once, to answer her.

  “Complete submission. You have to yield completely.”

  “I am,” she gasped, desperate to placate him. “I’ll do anything, I swear.”

  “Words are not good enough,” he said. “There’s only one way to show that you’ve crossed over.”

  “Tell me. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” Inside she whirled deliciously, dizzy with the fear of whatever brutal and degrading sex act he might demand, ecstatic at the thought of having her dignity cracked in his hands like walnuts so he could root through the broken pieces for his pleasure.

  “I’m going to beat you,” he said carefully and deliberately so that she would understand. “Until you come.”

  “I can’t,” she cried. She couldn’t climax just from that, no one could.

  “Then I guess we’ll be here a long time.”

  The belt fell across her exposed bottom.

  After a few strokes, he put his left hand on her back to hold her in place. “Stop squirming.” The pressure of his weight was intoxicating, but now nothing caressed her buttocks between the blows. She needed his hand to move lower, to push at her from a different angle.

  “Touch me, please. Please.”

  “Like this?” He shoved two fingers deep inside her. There was no resistance. The depth of her wetness astonished her. She latched on to his fingers, squeezing with everything she had, trying to keep them trapped inside, but they slipped out just as easily.

  His hand on her back was wet and sticky. With a little laugh, he put his fingers into her mouth, so that she could clean them. She licked them thoroughly, but the belt didn’t stop. The pain was beginning to become all-encompassing, each wave spilling over her sensibilities and threatening to swamp her. She moaned loudly, no longer aware enough to be discreetly quiet.

  “Shhh,” he said, putting more fingers into her mouth. But now she wiggled and squirmed, so he trapped one leg between his. The angle changed where he struck her on the buttocks, moving the point of impact a little higher. The skin here was not numb, and she squealed. The sound shocked her, and instinctively she pushed her head forward into his fingers, muffling herself. Now she did not need to concentrate on silence, but only on accepting as much of him as she could.

  She reached back for him with her left hand, but he easily avoided her and struck her across her back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, the belt singing against her flesh.

  With a muzzled yelp, she reached back with both hands, grabbing blindly behind her. Much to her surprise, she was actually disappointed when he stopped hitting her. Instead, he seized her hand and guided it back down to the bed. When she quit fighting, he put the phone back into her grasp, aiming her finger over the magic button. Only then did he reach for the belt again.

  Lying there, rescue literally at her fingertips while the blows resumed, ranging up and down her back, from buttocks to shoulders, she broke into sobs. Every muscle in her body fought him, struggled against his domination, strained against his imprisonment. Every muscle save one. The finger that would release her lay limp and powerless.

  Inside her grew a fear, the frightening thought that she might push the button by accident. She could not fight much longer. Her body was exhausted, and soon she would lose all control of her own actions. Deliberately, slowly, fully aware of what she did, she pushed her hand out, shoving the tiny cell phone across the bed.

  When it fell from her non-resisting grasp, tumbling to the floor, she felt her soul fall with it, into some bottomless abyss of fire.

  Now she lay helpless, soft like jelly, as the belt struck at her. She could not count the blows, or measure the passage of time. Moaning freely, trapped in freefall, she could no longer hold onto anything, not even the hope that it would stop, as the measured blows continued to fall on her with unpredictable targets but unyielding regu
larity. She felt wetness dripping between her legs, and, seized with the unreasoning fear that it was blood, she broke completely.

  Without conscious thought, her hips pushed up into the next blow. When they fell again, her thighs slid down the leg that trapped her, and the rough denim of his jeans licked across her clitoris. She surrendered instantly, and her climax took her so far away she did not realize the beating had stopped.

  “That’s good,” he repeated soothingly, kissing her neck and stroking her hair until she returned to awareness. He gently disengaged his hold and stepped back, but she was too weak and disoriented to make anything of her freedom. She heard his pants fall, and then he returned, penetrating her easily.

  The thrusts that drove into her were like cool water after fire, but she could not let the pleasure carry her away. She kept wondering where the belt was. Soft and pliant, she lay there while he pumped her, praying that the belt was satiated and limp. She could not even imagine it poised above her to strike again—that vision was too much to contemplate. She waited for him to come, so that she would be safe.

  When his cock slid out of her, still hard, she began to whimper. When he laid the belt across her shoulders, she began to quiver, and the tears came again.

  “Complete submission,” he demanded, and put a finger in her anus. The sensation was shocking, but she could not stiffen or pull away, because the leather lying across her shoulders robbed her of all power. His thumb slipped inside her vagina, and now he massaged her from both sides. Shock turned into pleasure, the sensation of being doubly invaded overwhelming everything else. She gave into it easily, enjoying the gentle thrusts from both sides.

  Just when climax was a serious possibility, he pulled his hand completely out of her. Automatically her hips tried to follow, and when she felt something prodding at her backside, she made herself soft and yielding again. Something larger than his finger slid inside her, already wet and lubricated—his thumb. She had to catch her breath at its width, but then he put his other thumb in front, and began to move them in and out in alternating thrusts.

  Climax was now imminent. Grateful that this was all the submission required of her, she gave up any pretense of resistance, and let his hard, rough thumbs penetrate her at will. But again he pulled his hand out of her before she could come. This time, he replaced it with his still stiff cock, his other thumb still jammed deep in her ass, and thrust into her deeply.

  “Come now.”

  So she did, just a little one, but grateful that she could appease him.

  But she had misjudged his intent. He held his cock inside her, bathing it in her climax, and then pulled out, but not away. His thumb came out also, but now the head of his cock prodded at her anus. Surprised, she almost said “No” but stopped herself from speaking in the nick of time.

  Gently but relentlessly he pushed. His cock felt terrifyingly huge, but it was well lubricated, and she was still stretched and relaxed from the massage. The head went in an inch deep, and she gasped for air, impaled and immobile.

  “Tell me when you are ready for more,” he commanded.

  She knew she was supposed to shout “Never”, that good girls didn’t like this, that it was filthy and wrong. But the heat on her back, the small flames where the belt had kissed her, was intoxicating. She wanted to see if this would feel the same. She wanted him to push against her until she gave. She stalled in indecision while his little, short, one-inch thrusts grew more and more forceful, until finally she let herself speak.

  “More,” she whispered.

  Immediately he slid another inch deeper, and her head swam with vertigo. Now his thrusts were two inches at a time. She was shocked to discover that if she concentrated on relaxing completely, there was no pain, only the strange pleasure of being completely filled by force.

  “More,” she whispered again, not waiting for his command. Three inches, and she thought she would die. She had no idea how it could all fit in.

  “Say when,” he grunted.

  “More.” The word slipped from her lips quickly, eagerly. “More...” His thrusts were irresistible now, and she could tell from his breathing that he was losing control. She lost all conception of how deeply she was being penetrated. It felt like her entire body was being stuffed with an iron rod.

  “Say when you want it all.” His voice, still strong despite gasping for breath, stunned her.

  “You mean there’s more?” she sobbed. It was only after she felt her head nodding that she realized she was saying yes. He pushed his way completely into her, his belly crushing the stinging welts on her backside. She grabbed and bit at the bed, fighting the desire to resist, knowing that her only salvation lay in complete submission and relaxation. Each thrust was long and deep, filling her completely. Dizzyingly aroused by his violent excitement, but terrified by her own ecstasy, she wanted him to climax and be done with her. She risked a moan to drive him over the edge.

  “I won’t stop until you come again.” Each word was punctuated by a thrust.

  Jiggled from the constant bouncing, the belt fell off her shoulders, and she was seized with unreasoning fear. What if she could not come twice without vaginal stimulation? What further perversions would his lust and demands unleash on her? How could she dare to defy him now, after all that—what twisted pleasures would he inflict? Her concentration on relaxation broken, she tightened, and his penetrations began to hurt slightly. He groaned at the new friction, and had to pause briefly, buried inside her, his thighs pressed firmly up against her buttocks.

  Hope and desire spurred her. Whimpering a little at the effort, she made herself tight again, and he rewarded her with more forceful thrusts, driving into her and splitting her apart. His growing frenzy encouraged her, and she moaned, open-mouthed and insensate. The ram struck again, and without meaning to, she clenched completely, trying to trap him inside. When he drew out again, she relaxed, eager for his return. When it came, her hands slid down and clutched at his buttocks as her hips pressed into him, confining him. The press of his body and pubic hair burned on her welts, but she did not care. He could not move, but she clenched and unclenched again and again, and when she felt his loins begin to pump semen into her, she exploded with him, an open and eager receptacle draining the golden horn.

  He collapsed beside her, lying close and touching. She was still on her belly, in the position she had taken what seemed hours ago, her naked back and bottom cooling in the air. For a few minutes, he could do nothing but breathe heavily, and she lolled in the peace, comfortable and safe in her total exposure, knowing there was nothing left to lose, and so nothing left to hold on to.

  Then he pulled her up against him, lying on their sides, like spoons in a drawer. The heat of his body on her welts discomforted her, but his hand on her belly mattered more, and she let him sleep.

  Chapter Five

  She took him to her house the next morning. Seized by unaccustomed domesticity, she wanted to cook him breakfast, and like all single men, his refrigerator contained nothing but beer and an old bag of potato chips.

  Changing in her bedroom while he waited in the kitchen, she modestly closed the door. Given his total possession of her the night before, this was inexplicable.

  Normally she enjoyed the feel of a skirt sliding against her skin, but today she gingerly touched the welts on her buttocks and chose differently. No panties, either, because they held too tightly to her skin. Instead, her softest pair of shorts, old and worn, gentle cotton that comforted her skin. A tired flannel shirt topped it off, making an unattractive combination that she would not ordinarily leave the house in. It was as if she were trying to be dowdy, daring him to object to her transformation into a hausfrau.

  But he gave no appearance of noticing. After breakfast, they went for a walk on the beach, and he told her stories of his journeys, adventures of the young and foolish in distant ports. Alcohol, women, and the law figured prominently in many of them. The young men had not been entirely stupid, however, and had avoided i
mprisonment, disease, or disaster.

  He did not ask her questions, waiting until she volunteered her own stories. Then he would listen, but she had little to say. Her life had been safe and careful to the point of monotony, and she much preferred listening to his escapades.

  Walking the surf, her shoes in her hand, she felt the tide pull at her feet, the same way that his presence pulled at her heart. He was quick to laugh at himself, strong in body and simple in heart. Without fear, he exposed his soul, and with gentleness, he waited for her to do the same.

  But she could not, any more than she could let the retreating water take her out to sea and freedom. She clung to the safety of shore and silence, like she always had. The part of her that fought to escape she stilled with force of habit, and it cowered down inside her, mumbling unintelligibly.

  Cowed, but not beaten, overpowered, but not defeated. In stealth, her inner heart worked its will, which she realized only when it was too late to avert it.

  After an entire day of the imitation of warmth, after subtly and coolly rebuffing his affections, she stumbled badly. Without meaning to, she found herself standing in her bedroom with him, and then hesitating, pausing just a fraction too long, while looking at the bed.

  The implied invitation was not lost on him, and he came up behind her, hands on her waist and a grin so wide she could feel it without looking.

  If she was going to put him off, this was time. She needed to speak now, or move away. Do something, anything to open the distance he had closed. But her adversary struck now with all its hoarded force, paralyzing her with weakness in her knees and dizziness in her head, brought on by the sudden sharp memories of what had happened last night, the last time she had stood facing a bed.

  With one hand, he tugged idly at the waistband of her shorts, not really intending anything, just being close.

  “You like skirts,” she said huskily, turning his innocent action into an implied criticism. Anger made distance.

  But in his clumsy and simple way, he was unaffected. “These are nice,” he said with a laugh, and squeezed her buttocks with both hands. The old welts stung, and she gasped.