"Three!"
Again.
"Four!"
The pain is climbing now. Stacking. Each strike landing on already tender skin, amplifying the hurt until I'm sobbing into my arm.
But I'm also grinding against the beam. Desperate. Needy. My hips moving on their own, seeking friction that isn't there.
Five. Six. Seven.
I lose count somewhere around twelve.
Everything blurs together—pain and pleasure and the sound of his palm against my ass and my own voice crying out numbers that might be wrong but I don't care anymore becauseoh god oh god oh god?—
He stops.
His fingers slide between my legs again, finding my clit, and I nearly come on the spot.
"Don't you dare," he warns.
I freeze.
His fingers circle. Press. Tease.
"You don't get to come until I say you can."
I'm shaking. My entire body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Please." The word rips out of me. "Please, I need?—"
"I know what you need."
His fingers push inside me again. Three this time. Stretching me. Filling me.
"You need to be fucked. Used. Owned."
He pumps his fingers slowly. Too slowly.
"You need someone who understands exactly how filthy you are."
I'm panting. Desperate.
"Someone who knows you write about being watched while you masturbate. About strangers touching you. About being punished for coming without permission."
His thumb finds my clit again and I nearly sob.
"Someone who's read every single one of your stories and knows that what you really want—what you'vealwayswanted—is to be completely powerless."
I can feel it building. That edge. That cliff I'm about to fall over whether I have permission or not.
"Don't come," he says again.
His fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot that makes my vision go white, and I bite down on my hand so hard I taste blood.
"Good girl. Hold it."
Another spank. Hard. Right on my already burning ass.
