Page 95 of Coiled Tight
Something made me think that wouldn’t have been the answer if I’d kept my voice shut, or I’d asked all properly.
Damn.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
Did that fix the damage?
My fingers tightened around the feet of the bench. The position wasn’t ideal, but the bench really felt sturdy, and I needed something to hold on to if I didn’t want to lose myself, running three steps ahead.
Well, he wasn’t bluffing. It was what ran through my head when the first actual lashes hit me. My inner monologue helped to cope with the air sucked out of my lungs and the way my entire body clenched, fighting the impulse to run away or scramble.
I didn’t want to run away. I wanted the lashes of the leather to add up and build up that heat and burn that would last for days on end.
Three hits of the flogger, and I was biting on the inside of my cheek. Screaming from the get-go was never a good look. I’d built a reputation, too, even if he wouldn’t know about it. Things didn’t have to be fully logical to make sense.
The fourth hit landed a bit lower, touching the sensitive skin where my thigh and butt cheek met. I grunted.
The fifth didn’t take long, mimicking the fourth one on the opposite cheek.
I clenched my jaw, gritting my teeth. “Green, Daddy.”
Saúl had said I didn’t have to keep track of the numbers this first time, but I was nothing if not an overachiever.
I wanted him to let loose, too. The best way to achieve that was to show I was the best rule follower around. I was, obviously. It didn’t hurt to bring more of a spotlight to the fact.
“Good boy.” Saúl stepped closer. He rested his hand on my ass. It was nothing, but I gasped at the soothing touch. I never quite knew what to do when Doms alternated between soft and hard strokes, between pain and comfort and pleasure.It was the most Sadistic kind of mindfuck. “Now are you going to do a better job of staying still?”
“I—” I sputtered. I’d been moving?Oops. “I’ll try, Daddy?”
For better or worse, losing spatial awareness when surrounded by kinky stimuli also meant losing awareness of my own location. Another part of my reputation back home had to do with needing to tie me up for anything and everything.
I’d lowkey forgotten the reason for it.
“You’re a sight, darlin’.” His thumb stroked up my taint, laying a claim to what I was really hoping would come soon. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you better positioned next time.”
Another day, I’d pepper him with questions. Right now, I did my best to ignore my cock perking up and the shiver up my spine the words induced.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Daddy gave me another soft stroke before taking a step back. Part of me wanted to get a better glimpse of him. I couldn’t hold my head upside down that long, though. I definitely couldn’t when he applied more force to his next strike, and my body snapped up as much as it was physically possible while somehow keeping my hold on the feet of the bench.
I deserved all the rewards for this.
If someone said it was easy, they didn’t have as much experience with impact as they were leading you to believe.
“Daddy!”
“To be clear,” he rumbled, “that’s not a safeword, darlin’.”
It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t pose it as such. No, he just focused on delivering the next four hits, each harder, sharper than the next.
I gave him my color while my entire self was consumed by the heat blooming, the deep burn that would become a medley of colors and broken vessels. With each hit, tension leftmore of my body. I didn’t disappear—I was here, grunting and gritting my teeth every time the leather hit my skin—but parts of me did. The parts that kept me away from this, that hindered my search for the few things that made sense, that stirred me back alive.
The knots at the end of each strand were a reminder. It was a new sensation, one I’d work to catalogue once I wasn’t ambushed by them every few seconds. They feltheavy. Heavier than I’d thought. It was like a regular flogger being followed by a paddle that had some kind of spiked attachment. Theoretically, I knew it was only leather. My brain wasn’t catching on to it, though, the weight and texture of the braided leather disorienting enough that making sense of it became something I couldn’t spend more energy on.
That energy was needed to absorb each hit, each strand that fell against my skin with the intention to break it, to leave a kind of mark that went beyond the superficial.
“Color, darlin’?”
