Page 36 of Carrick
Each strike pulsed through her, made her arch, made her breathe like she was exorcising something. She didn’t brace against it. She leaned in. She didn’t want to just take it. She wanted tofeelit. To sink into it.
And I’d give her everything—every throb, every bruise, every slow, perfect ache. Sheneededthis, and fuck me, so did I.
I reached for the crop.
“This one,” I murmured, dragging the leather tip of the crop along the inside of her thigh, “isn’t for rhythm.”
I paused, letting the words settle in the charged air between us.
“It’s for obedience.”
She whimpered—high and tight, breath caught between restraint and need. I drew the crop back and struck. Not hard. Not yet.
The leather snapped against the crease beneath her ass, a teasing kiss of sting. Her cry was sharp, sweet—desperate. Igave her another. Then one more, switching sides, each strike a calculated temptation. Not rhythm. Precision.
Seduction in disguise.
She rocked forward with each hit, then stilled—offering herself, chasing the next. Muscles tensed, released. Her breath quickened, chest rising like she was chasing something just out of reach.
Color bloomed where the crop had kissed her—roses in snow.
I traced a slow circle at the base of her ass, then dragged the leather down the back of her thigh. Her hips twitched, bucked. I dropped the crop into my left hand and slid two fingers between her legs.
Slick. Hot. Dripping.
A growl rose in my chest before I could stop it. “You’re loving this.”
Not a question. A truth.
“Yes,” she breathed. That single syllable—wrecked and reverent—went straight to my cock like electricity through a wire.
I rose slowly, drawing a breath to keep control. My chest ached with restraint—the part of me that wanted to fuck her until she forgot her name snarling beneath the surface, wild and ready. But this wasn’t about taking. Not yet. This was about giving her exactly what she needed.
I unhooked her bra with a flick, letting the straps slide down her arms like silk. The cups slipped free, baring her to the warm air. She shivered—not from cold, but from exposure. From being seen so completely it scraped her nerves raw.
I moved behind her, palms skimming her hips as I hooked my fingers into the lace of her panties. She braced just as I tore them down the seam. The rip was sharp. Intentional.
She moaned like I’d kissed her. Like destruction was devotion.
I stepped back and let her sit in it. Naked. Marked. Offered. Her breath hitched, thighs clenching like she couldn’t decide whether to run or beg—and fuck. I was ready for both.
“You wanted to be used?” I asked, my voice low, quiet, almost gentle.
“Yes, Sir.” That “Sir” hit different. It wasn’t just obedience—it was trust. Permission.
Submission.
“Then I’ll give you what you came for.”
I turned toward the table and reached for the thuddy flogger.
It was the heaviest of the three, suede and weighted, thick enough to cover her entire back in one swing. I let it drag across my palm once, grounding myself in the familiar pull of leather and control. Then I stepped behind her.
Swung it low and slow.
The first strike landed across her ass and upper thighs, blooming heat in a wide arc. She gasped—notfrom pain. From relief.
She melted into the bench like it had always belonged to her.
