He scratches over my tensed hamstrings and it burns like hot coals.
I hiss, but say nothing, and he does it to my other leg.
The top of my feet flap against the floor as I endure his new torture.
“Is that enough?” Carey asks, and I tell him;
"More please, Sir.” And allow my eyes to roll shut again.
Just as abruptly as before, he starts back up, the leather of his belt berating me with no pause.
No intermittent gentle touch.
No time to catch my breath.
It’s one strike, then a split second before the next. And I squirm through the bliss of it all, anticipating each new connection with tensed thighs and a buzzing that shoots straight up my spine then down to my throbbing dick.
This is exactly the level of brutality I needed.
There's no tension left inside me. I've finally been able to let go.
I’m drunk, completely intoxicated by this new kind of controlled, tangible pain.
Humping the couch with no shame.
Pure delirium.
My body jolts against my will.
My hands grip at the cushion as my teeth bite into it.
My hips grind.
I'm already at the edge and I don't care.
My body bucks more erratically.
I’m on fire.
My moans are incoherent filth.
Carey tells me I'm pitiful for being so turned on, and that's what does me in.
My aching muscles seize. My hands clench. My teeth bite. My toes curl.
Then I feel Carey’s body completely encapsulate me. His cock firm against my ass, his stomach and chest flat against my spine, his hands holding mine as his lips press into my neck and his words fill my ears while I continue to shake. “You’re so fucking perfect, Oppa… I can’t believe you came from that.”
The wetness against my stomach is all consuming.
My backside and thighs are raw.
But the weight of him might just be the most comforting thing yet.
I go limp beneath him, a lifeless doll he could do anything to.
“Are you still with me?” he whispers, and I nod, because words are impossible.
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth.
