by Lila Dubois
Solomon’s hands were on her butt, kneading the muscles there, then sliding up to her lower back before reversing course and gliding down over her cheeks then all along the back of her thighs.
Once again the sensation of rising temperature struck her, nerves interpreting the burning spice of the ginger as an actual temperature increase. She shifted her torso, rocking minutely side to side, only to gasp when that caused the plug to move, bringing flesh that had not yet kissed the ginger in contact with the makeshift toy.
The heat built, passing the point of pleasant warmth into the realm of uncomfortably hot.
“It’s starting to burn,” she whispered.
“Good.”
That arrogant, wonderfully cruel comment made her pussy clench, and she could feel how wet she was. Now that she was thinking about her sex, she realized that the sensitive flesh there was throbbing, swollen with need. It wouldn’t take much to bring her to her first orgasm of the session.
Solomon plucked one of the implements from her back.
She was already on edge and in sweet pain, and the spanking had yet to start.
“I don’t know how long I’ll last, Master.”
“You will accept your spanking. Nothing you say will change the duration or force.” His tone was both arrogant and formal.
Her asshole was burning now, the sensation bringing tears to her eyes even as she let her head hang. “Yes, Master.”
Crack.
The first blow struck her right cheek. She yipped, and, forgetting about the plug, clenched her ass. The burn increased exponentially, and another cry was wrenched from her throat.
Crack.
A matching blow on the other side of her butt. This time she remembered not to tense up. That prevented a fresh wave of fire from the ginger, but it meant the stinging heat from what she was fairly certain was the hairbrush sank deeper into her flesh.
There was no pause between strikes two and three, and the third blow landed on the same side, right on the sensitive sit spot on that side. The flare of pain was enough to make her moan in pleasure, a moan that quickly escalated to a cry of pain as a fresh wave of burning heat assaulted her anus, thanks to the ginger.
Quick, hard smacks, the kind that made her flesh jiggle and a cracking sound echo throughout the large dungeon, peppered her flesh. The burn of the ginger was receding, or perhaps it was just surpassed by the heat of the spanking.
“Where are you?” her Master asked.
“It hurts,” she whispered in French. She was too focused on the wonderful burning pain to speak English. Sweet, hot pain. The feeling of being controlled and used. Being punished and in that punishment being released from all her sins.
“Where are you?” he repeated in English.
She swallowed, forced herself to focus. “Green.”
Crack crack crack.
The blows were harder now. No longer just a surface sting, but a deeper, penetrating thud.
Every so often a particularly hard swat, or one that struck previously unmarked flesh, would cause her to tense. Every time she did, a fresh wave of painful burning from the ginger made her whimper.
“Where are you?” His voice was soft but full of command that demanded she answer.
“Vert,” she whispered.
He exchanged that first implement for the one that had been resting on her all this time.
She waited, keeping her tension in her arms, shoulders, and neck, forcing her lower body to remain relaxed so she wouldn’t clench down on the ginger.
Instead of another blow to her smarting ass, gentle fingers slid along her sides and over her ribs. He reached down, cupping and lifting her breast. Two fingers closed over her nipple, not tight, but oh-so-gently. Rolling it as if it were a precious gem he was holding up to the light.
Pleasure, unmarked by pain, flowed through her. She jerked in response, her arousal having made her breasts so wonderfully sensitive that the light, precise contact made her pussy tighten, her clit swell, and her hips push back, thanking him without words for touching her where she needed it most.
“Master, please,” she begged.
“Please what?”
Please make me come please touch me please fuck me. Please pleasure me, use me.
But this wasn’t only about her. There had certainly been scenes where she’d been using the Dom, as much as they in turn used her body. She had, sometimes knowingly, sometimes unknowingly, manipulated past partners, trying to get them to measure up to the ghost of Solomon. But this was Solomon, the one who’d guided her into the depths of her own sexual proclivities, even as he too joined her in that warm, dark decadence.
She didn’t want to give him a list of things she wanted. She wanted him to use her in a way that pleased him. She wanted to feel like she was a sexual object that inspired him to deeper, darker depths of pleasure and perversion.
The flat of the paddle he’d raised ran up and down each of her abused ass cheeks.
She answered his question, but not with a plea for him to fuck her or a goading request for more. “Please, Master, will you answer a question?”
The stroke of the paddle stopped, as if her request surprised him.
“Ask,” he commanded. “I might answer, or I might not.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
Silence stretched out, long and thin. She tried to silence her own ragged breathing so that she could listen for any small reaction from him. That was all but impossible since the ginger was still firmly planted inside her, sending periodic shocks of burning heat through her, keeping her aware of her helplessness. She was trapped and in pain, being abused and tormented, and as always, that meant she was wildly, darkly aroused.
The fact that she was listening intently meant she heard the small sounds that preceded the next strike of the spanking. The shifting of air, the sound of cloth rustling as he moved. Then a solid thwack on her ass.
Vivienne screamed, sound pitching higher as the pain caused her to clench down around the plug. Another hard strike with this new implement, another scream.
Her ass burned, there were tears on her cheeks, her nose was running, her fingers ached from gripping handholds. With all that, the single defining feeling that coursed through as he continued to rain down hard spanks—with a paddle that felt like it was studded with small spikes—was need.
Need for pain. Need for pleasure.
Not desire.
Need.
Need for Solomon.
No, need for a Master. Need to be truly topped by someone who would push me. Need for a regular outlet for all of these horrible, tangled feelings.
“Yes, Vivienne.” Solomon’s words broke through her internal monologue. “Yes, I enjoy using you like this.” His tone was a dangerous growl. “I enjoy pushing you. Making you scream. Making you hot.” There was a clatter as the paddle in his hand fell to the floor. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you while you’re still tied down. While you’re still helpless.”
Before she could say something in response, before she could offer a fervent agreement, Solomon’s fingers slid around the base of the ginger and slowly started to work it out. The pain from having her stinging anus spread open as he withdrew the plug caused her pussy to throb even as fresh tears spilled from between her closed eyelids.
Fingers slipped over the slick, swollen lips of her pussy. There was a rustle of fabric, and then she felt the blunt tip of his cock nudge against her abused ass.
She opened her mouth, panting with desire. She let her head hang, not caring when drool slid from her lower lip.
His hands settled on her hips; she drew a breath, preparing herself. There was nothing she could do besides breathe. He’d bound her to the spanking bench. She was helpless, just the way she wanted to be. She was his, just the way she was meant to be.
His thumbs pressed into her labia, pulling her open, and she could feel him looking at her hot, wet core. A moment later his cock shifted, sliding into a place of readiness. He grazed her
clit in passing, and that was enough to have her almost orgasm. Her body hummed like a high voltage wire.
His cock centered over the entrance to her body, her inner labia cupping the thick head. His thumbs released her pussy lips, letting them close around his shaft. He adjusted his grip up to her waist, holding her with fingers that she thought she could feel trembling.
Solomon thrust, surging into her in one brutal, deep movement. Her pussy spasmed, clamping tight around him. Her abused anus clenched, and that added a layer of sweet pain to the pleasure. She hovered there, breath frozen in her chest, as her body processed the cacophony of sensations.
He withdrew, then thrust in again, hard and deep. Vivienne screamed as she came. All the muscles inside her that had drawn tight relaxed, all those heavy globes of emotion she’d been carrying around shattered.
Pleasure wracked her body even as she started to sob in mingled joy and relief.
She was vaguely aware of Solomon’s thrusts, which kept her orgasm going until her calf muscles were starting to cramp from curling her toes in pleasure. She heard his shout, felt him collapse over her. He stayed that way only for a moment. She was still shaking and crying cleansing tears as he freed her from the bondage. She was too stiff to climb off the spanking bench on her own, so he lifted her off, carrying her to a fainting couch covered in leather. He lay back on the inclined arm, draping her across his chest. Vivienne nestled against his bare skin, soaking in his heat and the comfort of his hands roving over her.
Her breath calmed, and outside the windows the sun sank toward the watery horizon.
She took a deep breath, and once she expelled it, she knew the tears were done. She felt lighter than she had in a long time. Part of her hoped this moment would never end. She closed her eyes. Maybe she would just fall asleep here.
That hope was dashed when Solomon wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest as he sat up. She was still on his lap, her abused ass perched on his thigh, which was distressingly hard with muscle.
Solomon cupped her cheek, turning her face until their gazes met.
This was it then. This was goodbye. The aftermath of the scene provided emotional insulation, and between that and her earlier resolve not to lay her soul bare before him, she met his gaze without fear of bursting into tears.
“Vivienne…”
She’d come here for closure. She’d made the smart choice. The right choice.
She was ready.
Solomon’s lips quirked in a half smile. “Back on your knees.”
She blinked. “What?”
“We’re not done. You’re mine, and you’re staying in this dungeon until the sun sets.” He glanced out the window, then back to her, his smile widening. “You’re still mine. We have hours to go.”
Shocked and delighted, Vivienne slid off his lap and onto the cool tile, kneeling at his feet. She shook her hair back and positioned herself just the way he liked her—knees spread, wrists crossed at the small of her back.
She was ready to submit, but this didn’t change her resolve. When the sun set and she walked out of this dungeon, she’d be ready to say goodbye.
She raised her chin, meeting his gaze for a long moment, before submissively lowering it to the floor. “How may I serve you, Master?”
Chapter 12
She was beautiful when she slept.
Fuck, she was beautiful all the time.
Solomon was sprawled out on a large, thick mat in the back corner of the dungeon. Vivienne was curled on her side next to him, a random bit of leftover rope loosely draped over her waist. They’d played well past sunset, reveling in everything from some inverted suspension play to breast torture. His cock was exhausted. All of him was exhausted, but his cock was especially worn out. He was as naked as Vivienne, and in her sleep she’d moved her hand so her fingers brushed his shaft. That hadn’t even resulted in a twitch. He needed food, water, and sleep before he’d be revived enough to get an erection.
Of course, once she left, there was little point to an erection.
You have a party next week, he reminded himself. That meant people. He’d find a sub.
The idea of touching another woman made him grimace.
He’d focus on being the dungeon master at the party. Focus on making sure all the other pairings were behaving as they should.
Idly, he stroked Vivienne’s hair, turning his head to look out the windows at the ocean. The moon was high enough now that the night was no longer dark, but awash in the silvery moonlight that sparkled on the water.
He stayed that way, holding Vivienne, looking out at the water, for a long time. It wasn’t until he felt her shiver that he decided it was time to move. He rose and stretched, then gathered Vivienne, who roused enough that he didn’t have to deadlift her off the floor. She stood with his help, but when he scooped her into his arms, she dropped her head to his shoulder and closed her eyes, her breaths almost immediately evening out in rhythms of sleep.
In that peculiar quiet unique to the middle of the night, he carried her out of the dungeon and up to his living quarters on the top level of the main house. His bed was positioned in the center of the room, placed there to take advantage of the wall of glass that gave him a panoramic view of the ocean. He’d cleaned her as part of their aftercare, in the dungeon. He couldn’t even lie to himself as to why he’d brought her to his bedroom.
He laid Vivienne beneath the cool, white sheets, then joined her. Rather than lying down, he sat with his back to the headboard, one hand in her hair as he looked out over the ocean. While he was physically tired, he wasn’t sleepy. He felt…
His hand paused its lazy caress of her hair as he finally identified the emotion that coursed through him.
He felt at peace. At peace and…complete.
It was like surfacing after a long dive, taking that first breath of untanked air. The fact that he was looking out at the water made that analogy all too relevant, but it wasn’t quite right. It didn’t capture the peace he felt.
Instead, he remembered a wordless four-panel cartoon he’d once seen. It showed two content beings bonded together so that they seemed to have one body. In the next panel, they were ripped apart, one side of each of their bodies now a jagged puzzle piece. These incomplete beings were separated, and in the next part of the story, one of the pair wandered the world, testing the fit of his jagged edge against those similar but not compatible edges of the beings he met along the way. In the last panel, he found a being who looked just as sad and lost as he was. When they came together, their pieces fit perfectly. Two halves of the whole finally reunited.
In the last panel, the previously troubled, sad expression of that little stick figure was instead content. Or so he’d thought.
It wasn’t just contentment—it was peace. Peace at being whole. At having found the missing parts. Peace because it was no longer the walking wounded.
That silly little cartoon, which he’d snorted at when he’d seen it, had stuck with him. And now he knew why.
In the silvery darkness of the night, Solomon Carter took a deep breath, and when he released it, the first tear fell.
Solomon swiped at his cheek with the hand not holding Vivienne. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the padded headboard.
And he cried.
He cried the tears he hadn’t let himself shed five years ago. He cried the tears he wanted to spill when she’d chosen her family over him in Paris.
He cried, silently, because she was the missing piece of him. He’d found her once, when he was too young to realize that the moment she came into his life, holes inside him had been filled. This sense of peace—of home—he could now name had been buried under the other feelings. Excitement and love, passion and the energy of youth.
She was his missing piece. His soul mate. They were bad for each other in so many ways, but the reality was that without her he’d turned hard, the mask of anger and sarcasm thickening until sometimes even he didn’t remember the chivalrous w
hite knight aspect of his own personality.
He loved her, but experience had showed him that love wasn’t enough.
This was bigger than love because this sense of peace, of being home and whole, was something he wanted and needed in his life. He loved her, but more than that, he needed her because she was the only person who ever made him feel this way.
That was a selfish thought, but an honest one. Wiping his tears on the corner of the sheet, he looked down at Vivienne. He needed her and she needed him.
He wasn’t going to let her go. He had no idea how, but he was going to make this work. He’d move to Paris to be with her. He’d take whatever she was willing to give him.
That is a terrible idea. And that’s not a relationship. Not love.
He ignored the voice.
He could run his business from anywhere, even the hated Paris. He’d plan to travel more than he currently did so he wouldn’t see her family and what they did to her.
So he wouldn’t have to watch her choose them over him, again and again.
He’d uproot his life, move halfway around the world, and accept whatever scraps of time she could give him. In exchange, he’d have these moments. He’d be with her.
It was a bleak existence he planned—pathetic, that cruel voice insisted—but it was better than saying goodbye.
He’d walked away from her before, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t do it a third time. He’d finally broken. He needed her, loved her, too damn much.
With that resolution, the last bit of tension melted away, leaving him pleasantly empty and tired. Solomon slid down under the covers, curling so that he wrapped his body around Vivienne, one arm over her so he could tangle their fingers together.
Finally Solomon slept, firm in his resolve that when he woke up in the morning, everything was going to change.
The light woke Vivienne, and for a moment she basked in its warmth. No, wait, that heat wasn’t from the sun, it was from Solomon’s big body wrapped around hers. She shifted, and a thousand little aches made themselves known. It was that pleasant hurt that came after a particularly difficult workout or an erotic, intense BDSM scene. Then again, a workout usually didn’t leave her ass and breasts tender and aching.
