Page 43 of Bound and Branded

He cuts me out of my jeans, ruthless and not caring if they’re my favorite, or even asking if he can.

Then I’m naked, and that allows him to continue on with his makeshift harness. He does the same thing he did to me two days ago, fastening the ropes just so between my thighs so thatmy pussy is fully exposed to him. Open. My hands are bound and I can’t cover up. Though I can still squeeze my legs together if I want to. Then he moves behind me, his large hand going between my shoulder blades as he pushes me down, my breasts flat against the hard floor. He grips my ankle, pushes my leg back so that my heel is touching my ass, and begins to lash the back of my calf and the back of my thigh together, so that my knees are stuck bent, separated and open.

My heart begins to beat faster. I feel trapped. Truly trapped. Before when he’s tied ropes, enough of me has still been free. But I am bound, from the base of my neck all the way down to my ankles. And he takes his time. The floor is hard and it’s nothing like being tied up on the bed, where I can lose track of time and forget that I’m being held in stasis. No. My rib cage aches, the knots on the front of my body digging into my skin, the exercise of discomfort and endurance much more pronounced than the fun of surrender it has been all the other times we have been together. It’s like he’s taken the dial and turned it up.

And I’m suspended between my fascination, my desire to give him everything he wants, and my fear.

When he’s finished tying my legs in that kneeling position, he takes another rope suspended between my ankles and ties a knot there, binding my legs to the rope that goes down my back. My hands and feet are both caught there and I am completely and totally unable to move. He picks me up, an improbable bundle, and every time I struggle all I do is create pain. If I pull too hard, the ropes tighten around my breasts. If I flex my feet they press down hard on my pussy.

If I arch my back the rope by throat goes tighter. Like his hand is there. Like he is everywhere.

He holds me against him as he carries me up the stairs, taking me into the bedroom. He pushes me down on the bed, hishand hard on the back of my head. “You need to be punished for what you did,” he says.

He puts his hand between my legs, and pushes two fingers inside of me. I’m wet. In spite of how frightened I am. Wet in spite of my fears.

I don’t know still if I want this, or if it’s too far. I don’t want it to be too far. If he wants this, if he needs this, then I want him to have it.

But this is pushing me out of my own fantasy. Out of that feeling that I can be good and used just as I am. It’s making me afraid. For what happens next. Because he could take this wherever he wants it to go, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

That’s a balancing act for me. Because part of me likes it. Part of me likes knowing that he could do whatever he wants. That he could do something I don’t like and I’m powerless to stop him. It even turns me on. I don’t know what that says about me.

I don’t even know why.

Why this hot rush floods me at the idea of being at his mercy. It’s not even an idea. It’s reality. I am absolutely and completely at his mercy.

Two fingers become three, and I am filled deliciously. And then it’s four, and I have to bite back a cry of pain.

Then he withdraws from me, his open palm coming down hard on my ass. The rope bites into my skin. He doesn’t have a lot of space where there isn’t rope crossing his way, but he finds it unerringly and brings his hand down for another swat. And another. We haven’t done this. Explicit pain hasn’t been part of our game together.

But I’m lost in it, in this maelstrom of sensation. Good and bad, pleasure and pain, fear and anticipation all merge into one delicious song that echoes through my body. I feel him everywhere, in every bite of the rope, each and every sting of his palm against mine.

My arms are asleep, my legs numb. And my ass feels like it’s on fire. I’m teetering on the brink of an orgasm and I almost don’t want it to come. That’s when it hits me.

It’s not gentle. I’m not sure anymore if it’s even pleasure, or if the hard contact of his hand on my bare ass is the pleasure, or maybe it’s all pleasure. Maybe it’s all pain.

I scream as my climax tears through me, and then he pushes three fingers inside me as and pushes me back up to the peak again.

He moves in front of me, and I can see him only for a moment before he puts a blindfold over my eyes. I’m suddenly afraid. Everything is black and I can’t see him. He’s not touching me.

“You don’t seem to have learned your lesson,” he says.

I hear him move behind me, and then the next strike is harder than any of the ones before. Not his hand. A riding crop. He brings it down hard on my already tortured skin. I cry out, and tears start to run down my cheeks as I come again, gasping, sobbing.

“God dammit, Avery,” he growls.

And he does it again. And again.

I might die.

I might want to.

It’s too much but I don’t want to quit. I want him to get what he needs from this. I want him to have everything he needs.

I can do this.

I can endure it.

I grit my teeth and I ride the wave, the darkness pressing in on me. And then he stops.

---