Breakthrough

Prickles of what had to be fear jogged her pulse, dampened her skin. She risked a glance at where her lover lay. At the keys he’d casually placed on the bed. He waited, hopes jangling as loudly as the chains.

The question bounced around her skull. The bedside clocked flashed midnight even. They’d been sitting in silence for thirteen minutes.

“Be brave, querida,” he finally said. She was afraid, most definitely. Of these impulses, of a desire she had sheepishly, drunkenly confessed to. But Marisol was tempted, almost past comprehension, by what he offered.

The smell of oiled leather hit her nostrils. It didn’t matter how studiously she avoided looking; the whip was all but dancing in her hands.

What did she want?

“The word is patience. Understood?”

“Yes.” Raw-boned and massive, Julian dropped to the floor, clambered across the room to kneel incongruously before her. He placed his hands behind his back. Devoured her with patient, watchful eyes.

Could they move from talk to action? She wasn’t sure. Everything in her upbringing, her nature, made her submissive, pliable. Biddable.

But the metallic tang of the cuffs, the snap of the whip, beckoned. It shocked her to fantasize of being the aggressor, shocked her more when he agreed to let her try. Julian, who bent for no one, knelt because he loved her. Because it might be the thing to vault them past the hurdle of his overwhelming size, her justifiable terrors. Her heart wept at the gift he gave her, her pussy clenched with arousal.

His lips, saliva slick, smiled knowingly. That wouldn’t do, not tonight. So she fisted her hands his storm-cloud grey hair, tugged violently as a reminder. “Go stand against the wall facing me.” He stood gracelessly but eagerly, a small wince of pain skittering across his face.

The arthritic hip – she’d forgotten. There were many ways she could hurt him if she wasn’t careful. Her hands dropped to her sides as she watched Julian walk away, the limp slight but noticeable. Was this what she wanted?

He read her hesitation. “Marisol, come here.” The light in his eyes was fervid, the command sharp. Heat scorched her even in the darkness, drew her to him. Only two heartbeats separated their bodies. “Let me do the worrying.”

If she called halt, if she grew cold feet, Julian would gather her into his arms and make love to her gently. Yet the nightmare would come, as it always did, trapped as she was between her desire and her memories. Another victory for her faceless, nameless attacker that she woke tearful and screaming, raped all over again every time her lover touched her.

And there it was, the unspoken impetus, the fuel driving her newfound cravings.

Julian made no other move, amplifying her arousal through presence alone. There was the smell of him, loamy and pungent, giving her surety. Marisol took in a deep breath, exhaled her doubts.

Briefly, she considered the blindfold. Decided against it. Pupils wide with excitement betrayed his anticipation. Why would she deprive herself of that?

“Hands up, feet shoulder-length apart.” Command leached from his bones, replaced by instant obedience. That kind of power trailed arousal in its wake. Her hands shook as she fitted the manacles over wrists easily twice the size of hers. “Not too tight?” He shook his head, body shuddering. She didn’t think Julian realized how much enjoyment she derived from watching him struggle against the chains.

Oh, she peeked of course, in sideways glances, melted in response to his losing battle to remain impassive. But she walked towards the bed, pretended to ignore him. There was the whip to see to, after all. Waiting would heighten the pain and pleasure to come.

Marisol tested the heft of the handle, stroked the individual thongs lovingly. Gave it a few experimental flicks to confirm it was a well-made implement, not one of those Halloween costume affairs. More clanging, accompanied by soft curses. That roused her to a grin. Judging that she’d teased him enough, she slinked towards him, each step fizzing with predation.

Bracing her hands next to his chained ones, she came close enough to lick a taunt into his ear. “Impatient?” In her right hand, barely touching his face, was the whip. “A baker’s dozen. I want you to count them aloud. Understood?” He nodded. The tension left her limbs. Entered his. Every muscle he owned tightened, tempting her to forgo this foreplay altogether.

She’d practiced in preparation until she found a sweet, easy stroke: hard enough to welt without breaking skin.

He groaned out “one,” shale eyes wet with tenderness. Muscles straining against the manacles, a weal of red across his chest, and an erection that threatened to burst the seams of his jeans, the sight of Julian brought her closer to climax than she’d been in years.

The next lash harder, the tails danced merrily across his nipples. His “two” was almost inaudible. His jeans were stained with pre-come. By “eight”, hunger had choked him into incoherence.

An answering ache pulsed and spread through her, if she herself were being whipped.