Page 35 of His Brazen Tart
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I realize that now, and I cannot express how sorry I am for how I hurt you. I trust you Joan, I need you to know that much.”
“Still,” she said. “I require proof of your trust and ability to allow someone else to take the reins. Remove your clothing and go to the bed.”
Piers stared up at Joan in wonder. Despite how recently she had been introduced to the pleasures of domination and submission, she appeared perfectly natural holding the crop. The words to command him fell effortlessly from her lips. It shouldn’t make him hard, but dash it all, this was Joan. Any other woman trying to order him about would have been promptly laughed at and dismissed. But Joan wasn’t just any woman. He had submitted to various punishments while being trained in dominance at Olympus, but only to learn the feel of various implements—to learn how hard to strike and how to combine pain with pleasure.
Since those days of learning and discovery, Piers had never played a submissive role for anyone and never intended to do so. But he would crawl over broken glass for Joan, and some deep-seated part of himself flared to life at the seductive promise in her eyes and the teasing curve to her lips. He suddenly felt the urge to follow wherever she would lead.
Piers rose, snatching at his cravat and then shrugging out of his coat. Joan stood back to watch, the air between them charged with a current of heat and energy. This change in their dynamic was dizzying, making it difficult for his shaking hands to accomplish the task of unbuttoning his garments. He managed it as quickly as he could, then walked toward the bed.
Joan cracked the crop against her palm when he placed a knee on the mattress to climb up. “I didn’t tell you to get in the bed. Face it and spread your arms and legs wide.”
Piers’ face burned with annoyance at the taunting of her voice, but, oddly, his cock pulsed as he did what she commanded and stood upright, bracing his feet wide and opening his arms to either side. Piers could feel Joan’s eyes roving over his bare skin, tracing every bulge and sinew, inspecting him. His cock arced up in a yearning shaft of steely need, the head already emitting drops of arousal. He’d had no relief other than his own hand for weeks, not wanting any woman who wasn’t Joan. Now, finally, he would have blessed succor. But only if he obeyed. He knew the game well from his usual role in it. Standing in new territory only ramped up his desire.
He sucked in a breath when the crop touched his shoulder, the soft, buttery leather slowly trailing along the back of his arm. The tender flesh rippled with sensation, tingling wherever the crop touched. She used it to stroke along his spine, then the curve of one buttock and the back of one thigh. He grit his teeth when she slid the leather up the inside of one leg, going higher and higher until it cradled his tender bollocks. She gave him a light tap there, sending him up onto his toes as the impact reverberated through his groin.
“Shhh,” she crooned, pressing her body against him from behind. “I’ve only just begun, pet.”
He groaned when her bare hand landed on his chest, fingers raking through hair and raising goosebumps along his skin. She traced a path down his abdomen, combing her fingers through the curls at his groin and then wrapping her hand loosely around his cock. The whisper of a light, teasing stroke had him bucking into that hand, seeking more pressure and friction. Releasing him, she gave his cockhead a light flick, nearly making him double over. He grunted and kept his position, breathing through clenched teeth as his slit wept with sticky, wet need.
The warmth of Joan’s body left him, but then the crop was on his arse again—tracing the contours, teasing the cleft between his cheeks. He stiffened, shocked at how it titillated him. He had never let his guard down enough with any woman to be explored in this way before, but realized he wouldn’t have wanted it with anyone else. With Joan there were no limits, no intimacy he would deny her. He wanted everything she had to give.
The crop fell away and Piers growled low in his chest. She was such a damned tease, and he would punish her for tormenting him at the first opportunity. For now, he submitted to the pull of her hands as she raised one higher, using one of the cords of her bedcurtains to tether his wrist to the post. She did the same with the other, rendering him helpless to her whims. Piers lowered his head and waited, knowing as surely as he would take his next breath what was coming.
“This is for the abominable way you treated me that night at Olympus,” she whispered, just before the first blow fell. The crop snapped against his left cheek, sending heat blossoming over his skin. It was followed closely by another on the right cheek. Piers had only a moment to admire the symmetry, registering the sting in parallel contrast to the first blow. She had obviously paid close attention to her own spankings.
His observation was confirmed as she went at him again, harder this time. He panted, his toes digging into the rug for purchase as he struggled to keep still. The seeming power behind her blows shouldn’t surprise him, as he knew that delivering a lashing was more about skill than strength. The right angle, the right momentum, the flick of the wrist.
His arse flared with more heat as she licked the tongue of the crop at the skin where his bottom cheek met his thigh, sending a sharp needle of pain through his veins. It was followed by a rush of blood, a tingling pleasure that made his cock jump and strain. Sweat broke out over his brow at the effort it took not to fight his restraints and take over. He stood on the edge of a precipice, and truly wanted her to push him over the edge.
The blows ceased, and her hand came against one of his cheeks, lighting fire to his already inflamed skin.
“You’re being so good for me, pet,” she purred, giving him a squeeze and sending another jolt through him. “Shall we see how much more you can endure?”
“Do your worst,” he challenged.
A soft laugh emitted from her. “This is for doubting my love for you.”
He grunted when the crop fell with twice as much force as before. She flicked the crop at him over and over, spreading the pain over his arse and the backs of his thighs. He was burning from the intensity of it, his head spinning from the confused tangle of pleasure and pain. Even his months of training hadn’t prepared him for what it might feel like to experience this in a real sense. Her skillful punishment had him hovering right where he typically liked his submissives to be—right at the point where desire and need combined to become something new altogether. Desperation.
“Joan,” he rasped between blows. “I want you.”
“Do you?” she taunted, flicking the crop at him again.
He flinched, his arse sore and throbbing now. He was nearly at his limit. “I … need you. Now … please.”
The only way out of this was begging and they both knew it. His pride was nothing in the face of how badly he wanted her, how badly he needed her after weeks apart.
“I have yet to hear an apology,” she replied. This time, the crop swung up between his legs, finding the tender skin between his balls and his arse. He cried out, his eyes watering at the new and unexpected ache. It was so glorious he nearly came off then and there. He jerked against his restraints, hoarse groans spilling from him as she reached around his body to grip his cock. The stroke of her hand was like a soothing balm after his lashing, and he pushed into the circle of her fingers with eager relish.
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he managed between panting breaths. She went on torturing him, stroking him and circling her thumb over the head of his cock. He felt as if he might explode with the need to come, but doing so without her permission would prove a grave mistake. “I love you and I’m sorry for doubting you and … for the things I said and for being an idiot. I cannot promise not to … be an idiot again, but … fucking Christ!”
Her fingers were pressing against the soft, vulnerable place she’d just struck with her crop, teasing his tightened sac and edging toward his rear pucker. Her other hand took up his cock to continue his torment, while her fingers toyed with him, introducing him to new, formerly unknown pleasures. Christ, he was going out of his mind, bucking and twisting, his wrists aching from fighting his bonds. But he couldn’t control himself anymore. The pleasure was too much, and he had reached his edge.
“Joan,” he pleaded. “God, please, I … I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”
“You most certainly will not,” she snapped, though she never let up. “Not until I allow it.
Her forefinger circled his hole, pressing against it and sending uncontrollable shudders through his limbs. If she breached him with her hand around his cock, he would lose his grip on control and spill in her hand like an untried youth.
