by Adira August
He wanted to experience his need and exert control over himself. He wanted to relish the burn building between his legs, denying himself the way he was about to deny her.
“Toes turned in. I won’t keep telling you that. Do it every time you spread for me.”
She obeyed and he felt the muscles under his fingers soften. He slapped her ass on both sides, sharply, but with little force. Her flesh yielded to his hand and sprang back. She stifled a gasp. Good.
Using both hands, he kneaded her buttocks. “This is how you will be. Pliant and compliant. Always.”
He moved around to the side of the table so she could see him, and picked up the hairbrush. Examining it, he plucked out a few hairs caught in the bristles. Her eyes followed his movements. She licked her lips.
“You want me to spank you.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. “You want it because the way I usually do that excites you. The pain and arousal drive everything else from your mind, leave no room for fear or anxiety. It makes you feel like you have control.”
He lifted a haunch onto the table, facing her. “You’ve been using me the way a drunk uses the bottle. Sex has been your drug of choice. But that’s over, now. You have to deal with the crap in your head, Avia. In order to do that, you need to feel safe.”
“To feel safe, you need to know how committed I am to you, how connected we are, even when I’m away. There are things Wood can’t do for you. I’m going to do them, now. I’m not going to give you what you want. I’m going to take care of you. Give you what you need. What you hate.”
He took the brush and went down the hall to the bathroom. Ben pissed and then washed both the brush and himself. He put the brush and a dry hand towel into his back pocket. Carrying two other towels in one hand, a soapy one and another damp with clean water, he stopped to grab two pillows from her bed.
Back at the table, he found her as he’d expected: She had not moved. He placed the pillows in the center of the table, one atop the other. He put the damp towel down near her and the hairbrush next to it.
“I noticed something about this hairbrush the first time you said you fantasized me spanking you with it. It has a very unusual handle, covered in this soft, gel-like plastic. Nicky called it ‘closed cell’ of some kind and said it didn’t absorb liquids. I thought it might be an interesting addition to some of our products.
“But we’re here. Right now. And the other thing about this brush is that the handle is round. It’s very clever, I think, because the deep layer of plastic gel molds itself to your grip that way. Then it springs back when you’re done. It’s all very smooth and even covers the rounded end. Very comfortable.”
She was paying close attention, he could see, but she hadn’t quite gotten the picture. He pulled a handful of lube packets from his pocket and dropped them on the table next to the brush.
Her eyes went very wide.
He went to her side with the cool, soapy cloth. “Keep your mouth closed. Look at me.”
He caught her gaze in his own. His hand went behind her, and he pushed the cloth between her buttocks, washing her with deliberate strokes, up and down. He paid particular attention to her asshole, pressing the cloth into her the slightest bit with the pad of his middle finger.
A shockingly scarlet flush of humiliation raced over her chest, up her neck and turned her face dark red. Little sounds, as if from pain, thrummed in her throat. Her desperation to turn away, to hide, was etched in every taut muscle of her face and neck.
But he wouldn’t allow it. He kept her looking at him, so he could see what she was feeling. So she would know she could not conceal herself from him. He switched the soapy cloth for the damp one and cleaned off the lather.
He held the brush up. “As clever as it is, they did have to make it thicker than usual, didn’t they? To allow some depth for the user’s fingers to sink in.”
He made a small circle of thumb and index finger and pushed the brush handle through it. The gel depressed and slowly sprang back as he fed it through and pulled it back out.
Her head was shaking very slightly, as if she fought with herself not to shake it violently in protest.
He squatted behind her and pulled her pants down, telling her to step out. Then he tossed them aside.
“Throw those out,” he growled as he stood. He reached over and slid the pillows toward her, then bent her over until her neck and upper chest lay on them.
“Hands flat on the table next to your head.”
She put them as he’d said. He checked her position and rolled up the dry towel.
“Open your mouth.” He shoved the towel in. “Bite down. … Good. … Do not spit it out. I’d rather not disturb your neighbors.”
He ran his hands over her arms and head, shoulders and back, positioning her. “Present.”
He ignored her muffled whine, satisfied when the small of her back curved downward as she popped up her bare bottom. “Do not move. Anything.”
Opening some lube packets, he covered the handle of the brush. He moved his slickened fingers to her ass, spread her cheeks and slathered lube around her hole before he unceremoniously slipped an index finger inside.
She was very tight, panting hard through her nose, a continual mewling coming from her chest and throat.
He finger-fucked her until he could slip his middle finger inside her, also. Pulling out, he guided the nose of the brush handle to the center of her hole, using enough pressure for it to slide into her a short way if she were relaxed.
She wasn’t.
He hooked a finger under her collar and twisted it tight. “Accept.”
He’d give her three seconds and then take off his belt. He’d have to call Wood to hold her down. A huge waste of time.
She relaxed. The brush handle slid into her slightly. Releasing her collar, he kept one hand pressed to her sacrum, slowly rotating the brush handle while pushing it into her, with the other.
At the halfway point, he let go and got more lube, pulling back from her a little to spread it. She was trembling with her mortification.
“You accepted the collar acknowledging I know what’s best for you.” He fucked her steadily with the brush handle. “Making you feel this, opening you, prepares you for what’s coming. Embrace humility, Avia, and humiliation vanishes.”
The handle fully inserted, the bristles grazed the insides of her cheeks. The sight of her, mastered and invaded, was a fiery vise behind his sac.
Leaving the brush in place, he moved to the side of the table where she could see him. He opened his pants, pushing them and his briefs down far enough to free his erection. His cock was a substantial instrument with a wide head and a prominent coronal ridge. Now, the head was swollen, shiny and dark red. Her eyes were huge. The sounds wrenched from her throat testified to her internal struggle to flee or surrender.
Avia had always been very resistant to anal play. Before the shooting, he’d used it with great enjoyment to trigger her humiliation at both its reality and her enjoyment of it. But in the months following, their sex life had been more subdued, and he hadn’t touched her there.
He lubed himself as she watched, eyes filling and spilling, a silent plea to do something—anything—else. But he was going to invade her, overwhelm her, imprint himself indelibly on her. It was this she’d avoided—this, that she needed.
From the very first, Ben Hart had been possessed of a confidence in his dominance of a submissive. He knew, somehow, what to give them, demand from them, how far to push them, how long to keep them at the edge. He learned as all people learned about relationships. But in this realm—physical and sexual, pain and arousal, control and restraint—he knew.
Still, this was the most important D/s encounter of his life. In this moment, he must not misread, not misstep. He dare not frighten or disappoint the woman for whom he would sacrifice his fortune and his life. What use would either of them be, without her?
What he did next struck him as totally bizarre, even as he uttere
d it in his mind.
Dear God, help me do this right for her.
Moving behind her again, he kicked her feet further apart, positioned himself between them. He slowly worked the brush handle from her ass, noting with satisfaction her hole didn’t clamp shut but left a small dark opening when it retracted.
Not allowing her time to react, he slipped the head of his cock between her cheeks and pressed his slit against her semi-relaxed sphincter.
“Push out.”
He felt her open slightly, obeying him instantly. His gush of precum joined the slippery lube. Using his fingers to control his movements, he entered her slowly, opening her a little, drawing back and pushing in, carrying the lube with him. This gave her a chance to adjust and be fully aware of his every movement.
Watching her stretch to accommodate him, seeing her flushed with shame, he felt a wave of humility he could not afford to acknowledge. She needed his perfect confidence.
She wept now from the burn of her normally contracted muscle being stretched, holding herself still, yielding fully to him. It made him so tight and hot, the pressure so strong, he feared he’d come without warning. He must not.
He wrapped his thumb and index finger around the base of his cock and squeezed hard as his glans disappeared all the way inside her along with a solid inch of his shaft. He closed his eyes at the helpless, guttural keening forced from her—the sound of his dominance. She was stretched so tightly around him the vibrations of her suffering hummed against his rigid column.
Benedict Hart knew myriad physical and mental techniques to control his arousal. He used none, needing to be with her perfectly in the moment, to feel everything he made her feel, to experience with her the relinquishing of self to oneness with another.
Bending over her, he moved one of her arms to her side and pinned it here, wrapping one arm around her waist. His other arm slipped across her upper chest. “Spit out the gag,” he told her, keeping his voice firm and steady in spite of his gut-wrenching arousal at being inside her. She used her tongue to push the towel from her mouth.
“Good. Keep your mouth open.” His head pushed down on hers until her mouth was pressed to his forearm, her tongue against the dark hairs above his wrist.
“Stay just like that,” he said. He rocked his hips and pushed into her another inch. The rough half-scream wrenched from her spent itself against his arm, her warm saliva dripping over him.
“Relax when you feel the burn. I won’t stop until you take it all.”
SHE CRIED OUT AGAINST HIS ARM.
It had demanded so much of her to accept the feel of the brush handle he moved in and out of her. How it rubbed so smoothly, like another skin. The subtle hills and depressions from her own tight sphincter, teased her open or let her tighten and she was powerless to hinder or assist.
But his erection pushing into her—awareness of the shape of the head and the hot, lobed shaft—was unbearably degrading. He opened her with measured deliberation: stopping for her to adjust, pulling back and pushing in, adding more lube. She wanted to scream at him to just do it! Do it, already! Get it over with.
But if she did scream it and if he let her make that choice—if he did what she wanted—the pain would be terrible. One reason she’d given him all her choices. But it wasn’t only that she’d surrendered them, it was that he’d immediately taken possession of her. Splayed out beneath him, she must endure the inexorable, slow-motion thrust of his cock.
He’d promised to give her what she needed, what she hated. He hadn’t given her time to figure out what that meant. He’d snatched away even the prerogative of thought.
“The next time I do this, there will be mirrors and I’ll make you watch.”
A fresh wave of humiliation flooded through her at the idea. And she had to endure that, too, fearing to move at all lest she caused herself real pain. The burning of her sphincter spread along the tender inner tissues of her vulva, turning her clit into solid fire. But it wasn’t sex; it was a burn she couldn’t escape renewed with every centimeter of her he took for his own.
He did this to her. He made her. He made her, and she had to bear it. And that was what she hated, that intention wasn’t enough, that he took her at her word and used her, just as he’d said he would.
“You’re so tight.” His voice hoarse in her ear. “So tight. It feels so good. I love doing this to you. Knowing you hate it, making you take it.”
She whimpered and tears ran down over his arm.
“That’s it. Let it out. I want to feel you. Hear you. I’m going to come so hard in your ass—so hard.”
She was drowning in her shame, fettered by his relentless, intrusive shaft that made her exquisitely aware of all that was happening, all he was doing to her, all she was feeling. Flayed by his words, his enjoyment of her humiliation …
… and then even her thoughts broke and dissolved into the bright dark of all there was. Ben. Arms and voice and thighs and weight and solid fire filling and filling her …
Someone was wailing. No more, no more ….
There was more. More. He stopped. Thighs opening hers, body compressing her buttocks, his sac heavy against her cunt.
“I’m in you always,” he whispered. “You are where I want to be.”
“Embrace humility, Avia, and humiliation vanishes.”
Everything relaxed. The burning melted away. Skin-to-skin boundaries dissolved. She felt the pulse in his cock in her body. In the tightness that held him within her. It matched her heart.
She longed for him to hold her tighter, weigh her down, engulf her.
He pulled back slightly.
Don’t leave me.
His forearm withdrew. She felt his hand seeking the place where they were joined. He jacked himself while he was inside her. Connected, unbroken. Only his hand moved. She felt his knuckles brush the inside of her thigh.
He came. The pulses. So strong. He sank into her.
Ben.
HE CLEANED AND DISINFECTED her hairbrush while she showered. When she dried off and looked for it, he shook his head.
“You’ll buy a new one when you get the panties. This one is dedicated to my purposes, now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Go into your bedroom and put your hands flat on your night table.”
She bit her lip but did as she was told. He followed her and stood to her side, the brush in his hand.
“I don’t want to hear one sound from you.” He pressed on the small of her back to pop up her ass. He brought the brush down four times on each cheek, pausing between strokes, layering the strokes on top of one another. He heard a harsh breath leave her on the last one. He stroked the two pink patches.
“Good girl. Get dressed.” She straightened and moved to her dresser. Avia selected a pair of panties and stepped into them.
“You need a pad of some kind,” he told her. “Two, one behind the other.”
He knew she wasn’t menstruating and wondered how she’d receive the order.
Avia stared at him a moment as if trying to translate words from a foreign language. Then she walked away into the bathroom.
She stuck a thin pad to the yoke of her panties and positioned a second pad over it. Pausing, she looked a question to him, standing in the doorway, watching.
“Back further … there.”
She stuck the second pad down. The pads, in pale purple wrappers, sat in a small basket on a low shelf. She looked from the basket to him.
Ben smiled. “Extras are a good idea.”
Back in the bedroom, she finished dressing. She dropped her messenger bag on the bed and put the extra pads in a side pocket.
“Hand me your phone, I.D. and credit cards,” he told her. “And any cash you have.”
Avia handed him a slim leather billfold and her cell phone.
“And your keys.”
She hesitated. Then walked out of the room. She returned with her keyring and put it into his hand.
Ben pocketed the items an
d took her into his arms, kissing her hair. Kissing her ears and forehead, her eyes and finally her mouth. He felt her straining toward him, felt her arms move and then relax and still as she obviously repressed the urge to reach for him.
He wrapped her up and pulled her close and opened her lips with his own. “Kiss me.” The sound from her was eager submission, and their tongues danced and their bodies warmed.
He pulled back, fingers tracing her brows and cheekbones, his thumbs outlining her full lips—moist and swollen from the kiss. He could drown at the sight of her, lose himself forever in the touch of her.
Ben Hart was hopelessly in love.
He was suddenly eager to leave, wanting to get the job done and get to Hawaii and not be separated from her, again.
“Take position on the nightstand,” he said, his voice thickened from emotion.
Her look of disappointment scraped a layer from his heart, but she did as bidden.
“Skirt and panties,” he said. She pulled the skirt up and pushed her panties down, baring her cheeks, showing the pink stains from her last spanking transected by her garter straps. Opening her stance, turning her toes in, she presented her ass to him without having to be told.
He told his cock to go back to sleep, took three quick steps to her side, thumbed open her garters in back and flicked them aside. He didn’t think about her panties bunched just under the curve of her ass, of her stocking tops sagging or the sweet dark above. Picking up the brush he’d left on the nightstand, he delivered eight measured strokes, pausing between each pair, listening for her to make a sound. The pink patches were deep rose.
Four solid smacks with his open hand brought the color just to red. She groaned through clenched teeth on the last one.
“I’ll keep on until you get it right,” he told her and brought his hand down twice more. Heavy breathing only. Good. It was the first of many steps toward mastering herself.
“Straighten yourself; it’s time to go.” He handed her the brush which she put into her skirt pocket. He was incredibly impressed by her. These were the things she’d always rebelled against. Maybe there was a chance for them.
