that,” she scolds. “Like you haven’t seen a half-naked woman in six years.”
Damn close, Press.
She turns far enough that I can see the curve of her breast, and I nearly fall over when I trail after her, trying to get a glimpse of her nipple. I manage, through the grace of some kinky angel, to make it over to the wall with the metal grid without tripping, running into anything, or otherwise making an ass of myself.
“Do you want to restrain me?”
Fuck yes, I do. But what comes out of my mouth would make Rey Walter so proud. I almost hope he’s watching to see what a good boy I am. “Whatever would make you feel safest.”
She nods and steps up to the grid, gripping a bar at shoulder height. I can’t deny there’s a twinge of disappointment that she doesn’t trust me enough to tie her. But maybe this is a habit—not letting some effective stranger tie her up during a first play session. If that’s what this is, I’m glad.
She turns her head and levels me with an I’m serious stare. “If I say daffodil, you stop, no questions asked. And if I say marigold, you’ll know I’m getting close to my limit. If you don’t respect my safewords, I never let you touch me again. In any capacity. Capisce?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There’s my saucy-fresh Pressly. And flowers, of course, like a kinky goddamn garden party. I used to love seeing her go into her event-planner mode. Bossy and in control and not letting anyone fuck with her. She and India have that in common, although Press is more likely to kill you with sweetness whereas India’s more likely to flat-out kill you with whatever’s handy. Like a paperweight or your own tie.
I take the chance to stand close behind my scantily clad wife, aching to press my hips into her, let her feel how hard she’s gotten me, but I don’t get the impression that’s part of our study session. Instead, I strip out of my coat because I’m getting warm and my movements are restricted by the thing. I toss it over a spanking bench, yank off my tie, and fling it in the same direction, not caring that it slips off the silk lining of my jacket. And then I roll up my sleeves. Time to get down to business.
I touch her lower back, not able to help the stroke of my fingers over her silky skin. I hope I’m not imagining her sigh of pleasure when I do. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, I force my feet backward until I’m standing a good distance away. And then I lift my arm and let one fly. Not hard, because I know well enough that I need to warm her up before laying into her. When the strands hit her and lift away, she laughs. Laughs .
“Is this funny?” I punctuate my question with another thwap of the flogger, and she laughs again.
“I should’ve warned you. I giggle when I get flogged. It’s not you, it’s—”
I hit her again and same thing. It’s as if the falls are driving the laughter right out of her lungs.
“You laugh when you get flogged?” I’ve been warned about a lot of things—like how some people carry on and make enough noise to wake the dead because it’s fun or how it’s not unusual for subs to cry and in some cases that’s a signal that you’ve done something very right. But never did Rey warn me about someone laughing .
“Yeah, it’s a—” Another blow, another gale of laughter erupts from her lips. “—partly a nervous thing? But also, it’s—fun.”
I’m trying to concentrate, make sure I’m distributing the hits evenly over her back and that the blows are actually falling where I mean them to. I need to stay away from her neck and her kidneys and try not to hit her spine directly, but otherwise I’ve got a whole canvas of Pressly to paint with the flogger as my oversize brush.
I keep hitting her and she keeps laughing, but when I increase the strength of the blows, I get a few gasps too. That’s the sound I want ringing in my ears. That’s the sound I remember from when I’d make love to her. And if I could get
Damn close, Press.
She turns far enough that I can see the curve of her breast, and I nearly fall over when I trail after her, trying to get a glimpse of her nipple. I manage, through the grace of some kinky angel, to make it over to the wall with the metal grid without tripping, running into anything, or otherwise making an ass of myself.
“Do you want to restrain me?”
Fuck yes, I do. But what comes out of my mouth would make Rey Walter so proud. I almost hope he’s watching to see what a good boy I am. “Whatever would make you feel safest.”
She nods and steps up to the grid, gripping a bar at shoulder height. I can’t deny there’s a twinge of disappointment that she doesn’t trust me enough to tie her. But maybe this is a habit—not letting some effective stranger tie her up during a first play session. If that’s what this is, I’m glad.
She turns her head and levels me with an I’m serious stare. “If I say daffodil, you stop, no questions asked. And if I say marigold, you’ll know I’m getting close to my limit. If you don’t respect my safewords, I never let you touch me again. In any capacity. Capisce?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There’s my saucy-fresh Pressly. And flowers, of course, like a kinky goddamn garden party. I used to love seeing her go into her event-planner mode. Bossy and in control and not letting anyone fuck with her. She and India have that in common, although Press is more likely to kill you with sweetness whereas India’s more likely to flat-out kill you with whatever’s handy. Like a paperweight or your own tie.
I take the chance to stand close behind my scantily clad wife, aching to press my hips into her, let her feel how hard she’s gotten me, but I don’t get the impression that’s part of our study session. Instead, I strip out of my coat because I’m getting warm and my movements are restricted by the thing. I toss it over a spanking bench, yank off my tie, and fling it in the same direction, not caring that it slips off the silk lining of my jacket. And then I roll up my sleeves. Time to get down to business.
I touch her lower back, not able to help the stroke of my fingers over her silky skin. I hope I’m not imagining her sigh of pleasure when I do. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, I force my feet backward until I’m standing a good distance away. And then I lift my arm and let one fly. Not hard, because I know well enough that I need to warm her up before laying into her. When the strands hit her and lift away, she laughs. Laughs .
“Is this funny?” I punctuate my question with another thwap of the flogger, and she laughs again.
“I should’ve warned you. I giggle when I get flogged. It’s not you, it’s—”
I hit her again and same thing. It’s as if the falls are driving the laughter right out of her lungs.
“You laugh when you get flogged?” I’ve been warned about a lot of things—like how some people carry on and make enough noise to wake the dead because it’s fun or how it’s not unusual for subs to cry and in some cases that’s a signal that you’ve done something very right. But never did Rey warn me about someone laughing .
“Yeah, it’s a—” Another blow, another gale of laughter erupts from her lips. “—partly a nervous thing? But also, it’s—fun.”
I’m trying to concentrate, make sure I’m distributing the hits evenly over her back and that the blows are actually falling where I mean them to. I need to stay away from her neck and her kidneys and try not to hit her spine directly, but otherwise I’ve got a whole canvas of Pressly to paint with the flogger as my oversize brush.
I keep hitting her and she keeps laughing, but when I increase the strength of the blows, I get a few gasps too. That’s the sound I want ringing in my ears. That’s the sound I remember from when I’d make love to her. And if I could get
Similar Books
