Nothing else.
* * *
Zion
I used to wonder, after those sessions in the trailer with Donnie Rae, if I’d like sex as much without the spanking and the other shit we did.
The next time I tried it, I’d just turned eighteen and finished high school. It was a couple months before a modeling scout spotted me working construction and changed my life.
A neighbor used to come and check on me when I was a kid and still brought the occasional casserole when Dad was on a bender. Which was pretty much always. I wasn’t close to her family, but she was better than most.
The summer I graduated, the woman’s niece came to visit. Molly Pratt. She was this skinny, white college girl with a certain look in her eye. I’d gotten to the point in life where I knew what that look meant, and I knew that it made my dick hard.
Molly arrived one night with food from my neighbor—Mac and cheese, with roast vegetables snuck in it. It was good, though the vegetables colored my opinion.
Molly dropped the dish in the kitchen, asked if my dad was around. When I said no, she turned over, swiped all the random shit off the kitchen table, pulled up her skirt, and bent over it, showing me her naked, white ass. I fucked her—she provided the condom. I provided the very quick ending. And when I was done, I looked down, and obeyed some ingrained instinct to give her ass a smack—like I’d done with Donnie Rae—and came again when she squeezed tight around me.
Cause and effect. I smacked, she clenched. I kept fucking her. Came three times. Smacked the shit out of her ass. When we were done, she licked my cock clean, grabbed ahold of my balls, and told me never to talk about it again or else, then walked out, leaving me standing there with an overflowing condom still held tight in my hand and the knowledge that I needed to do that again—all of it—very, very soon. I just knew that I needed it. Didn’t matter with who.
And it didn’t.
Until now.
Now, it’s for Twyla. All of it. The pain, the pleasure, agony, ecstasy. Every drop I’ve got is for this woman. And this woman alone. Every time Blade smacks that sweet little diamond-studded butt plug I bought, specifically for her. Every time she gasps and moans. Every step bringing us closer to a scene I know I’ll cherish to the end of my days. All of it’s for her.
I’m hers.
Which, looking at any of this as an outsider would probably make no goddamn sense at all. I get it though. I get that sharing my woman is a symbol. It means, above all, that she’s mine to share.
Mine.
It’s my one word mantra.
“Let’s move,” I order, needing to get this scene to the space before I drop her to her knees right here and force my cock in her throat just so I can see her face. Which isn’t part of the plan. I mean, it’s a decent idea, but the trick in these role-playing situations is that the person in charge needs to keep his whole fucking head and not lose it, the way I would if I started improvising.
We’ve planned this every step of the way, including shoving that butt plug into her tight little asshole, right here, at the edge of the woods.
Now, I heft her higher, glad that Blade’s spotting her, given that we’ve bound her arms behind her back, making it impossible to hold her safely in a fireman’s carry. It was a choice. All of this is a choice. The type of carry, the cuffs, the hood. Even the goddamn butt plug, which is a size Small. We’ve got a Medium in the space, a Large, and an XL, to get her good and stretched out for the big event.
If we get that far.
I feel her breathing against me—her chest and stomach heaving, her mouth gulping air like she can’t get enough. I look over at Max, still moving steadily, and urge her over with a tilt of my head. “Check in,” I say, low. “Breathing.”
We stop.
“Hey, Twy,” Max says in her calm, matter of fact way. “You still good with this? You’re breathing kind of fast. I want to make sure you’re okay. Can you talk for me?”
“Yes,” Twyla puffs out, her voice high and tight. “Fine.” Panting. “Good. I’m good.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Max meets my gaze, nods, then turns and nods at Blade. We carry on, across a clearing filled with picnic tables, some occupied by campers. Conversations pause, people turn and stare, whispering, giggling. Clapping breaks out at one table and the rest join in.
Twyla struggles to get down, probably embarrassed. Probably filled with some level of shame. Blade, the sadistic bastard, reaches over to pull her skirt up again, opens her butt cheeks wide so our audience gets a good look at what we shoved inside her, and gives it another smack, the sound not nearly as satisfying as the slap of palm to butt cheek. Twyla’s gasp/groan is pretty wonderful, though. God, I love making her scream.
“Nothing to see here,” Blade hams it up, while Max holds up the “Abduction in progress sign.” As if it weren’t fucking obvious.
