Page 82 of Carrick
Not performative. Not dramatic. Just raw response. Honest. Beautiful. I worked her slowly, letting the rake kiss the curve of her ass, the inside of her thighs, the soft skin behind her knees where sensation lived close to the surface. She writhed, and I watched every twitch like scripture.
This wasn’t for spectacle. This was for truth. And her body was shouting it with every breath. I grounded her with my free hand—palm firm at the small of her back, skin to skin—holding her steady while I played her like a goddamn instrument.
“Color?” I asked, letting my voice drop like a weight into the charged silence.
She gasped so hard her whole body jerked. “Green.”
I smiled. Still with me. Still mine. I turned the dial just slightly, letting the rake bite—not with cruelty, but with the kind of pressure that lingers. The teeth kissed her skin and leftbehind angry pink trails, and her thighs began to tremble like stillness was no longer possible. Like she didn’t want it to be.
“Tell me what it feels like,” I said, voice tight with restraint.
Her lips parted, then faltered, and when she tried again, only a sob came out—pure, wordless surrender. She shook her head, mute and shaking, and I softened.
“That’s okay,” I whispered, drawing the rake down her spine with barely a touch. “You don’t have to explain. You just have to feel.” I set the wand down, and the silence that followed was absolute—no spark, no static. Just the sound of her breath and the echo of her own heartbeat crashing in the quiet.
She whimpered, body trembling in the cuffs—held open, held still, completely exposed. I crouched beside her and slid two fingers between her thighs.
She was soaked, slick and dripping, need pouring from her in a way that stole the breath from my lungs. A low growl escaped me as I leaned in, mouth at her ear.
“You’re loving this,” I said, letting the words drag along her throat like a brand.
“Yes, Sir,” she breathed, her voice hoarse and shaky, raw with truth.
“Say it.”
She swallowed hard. “I love it,” she whispered, like the confession cost her something to give. “I love how it hurts. I love how it makes me forget.”
That last word—forget—hit harder than I expected. I didn’t answer. Just rose slowly and reached for the next tool: the fine-toothed comb. Deceptively delicate. The kind of pain that didn’t scream. It crept in. Stayed. Haunting and holy.
“You’re not done,” I said.
“No, Sir.”
“Good,” I whispered. “Because neither am I.”
She was already shaking when I picked it up again, her body strung tight with sensation and need. Tiny arcs of violet jumped between the metal tines, flickering like lightning searching for somewhere to land.
I didn’t warn her. She didn’t need me to. She trusted me, and that was all that mattered. I pressed the wand to the back of her knee, quick and sharp, and she shrieked, high, breathless, and perfect.
Then again. Left cheek. Right. Lower back. Each contact sent her jolting forward, breath torn from her lungs in cries that blurred the line between pleasure and surrender.
She didn’t call yellow. Didn’t flinch away. She took it like she needed it. And I knew she did. So I gave it to her. Every fucking volt.
I moved behind her again, circling with the kind of slow, deliberate control that made the air itself feel heavier. The wand trailed up her inner thigh, crackling softly with power. I held it just close enough that the current teased her skin without touching, electricity dancing over heat-slicked flesh, hungry but patient.
She whimpered when I reached the edge of her pussy, her entire body tipping forward, desperate and undone. Not a word passed between us. But I could read her just fine. “Sir—” she gasped, voice shaking. “It’s—fuck—it’sso much?—”
“I know,” I said. I wasn’t teasing anymore. I was holding her through it.
She was past arousal. Past pain. She was floating in that raw, weightless place where the body could no longer lie and the mind had nothing left to hide.
Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven—and then she broke. It started with a sound, low and wrecked, spilling from somewhere deeper than her throat. Her body curled in on itself, like she could finally stop holding it all together, breathfracturing into pieces as the sob rose from her chest—not fragile, but primal. It didn’t come from fear. It came from the hollow part that had been stretched too wide, too long.
“Please,” she choked out, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t?—”
I froze, not out of doubt, but reverence. That kind of surrender didn’t demand action. It demanded stillness.
This wasn’t a collapse. This was release.
