She faces the wall, feet spread until she has to balance on her toes, arches taut with tension. He lifts her hands and presses them to the painted plaster – he doesn't need to tell her to leave them in place. They've done this so many times before; he doesn't need to tell her anything. She barely breathes as he undoes his jeans, the belt buckle clattering to the floor – she barely allows her heart to race as the smooth, slick head of his cock brushes for a moment against the cleft of her ass, then is gone again. Her thighs and the small of her back already ache.
She almost misses the ropes, the chains – their absence means that he trusts her to stay, only a single ribbon about her neck signifying her status – but at least the restraints provided some support, some resistance she could pull against. Now, she is forced to provide her own support, her own balance, lest she be punished. The moment of waiting seems to be drawn out into an hour – she moans almost inaudibly, rocking forward, resting her weight on her palms to save her a moment's agony – and suddenly, before she thinks he possibly could have noticed, a searing line of pain lances first one buttock then the other as he whips her with the leather riding crop that is never far from his hand.
He doesn't say a word; nor does she, though she whimpers slightly with surprise and then as the heat of the lashes works its way down through the muscles. They are long past needing to speak, even when he is forced to chastise her. She finds her balance again, barely touching the floor, barely touching the wall – and even as the ache begins again, she feels a slight glow of pleasure at being able to return to the position he has chosen, a fulfillment in the response of her body to his wishes.
She can hear his breathing as he moves close behind her again, and see a shadow from the single bulb hanging from the kitchen ceiling – two shadows actually, one of his silhouette from the bulb and a slight second umbra, cast from reflected light off the white enamel of the fixtures and appliances. She holds her breath again, waiting for his first touch, wondering where it will land. This time, the anticipation (and perhaps, the anticipation of the next punishment she'll earn) leave her almost embarrassingly wet, to the point where she feels the ghost of a trickle of fluid down the inside of one trembling thigh.
Suddenly, his weight is against her from behind, and she has to strain to keep from falling forward against the wall. His breath is rasping in her ear, the bristles of his beard pricking the side of her throat, and she can feel the thick shaft of his cock again, now pressed upward, trapped against the cleft of her ass, pulsing there. But where another man, less used to maintaining control, might have rocked his hips, stroking up and down against her ... he barely seems to notice, far more involved in deliberately digging his teeth into the nape of her neck, in the rough rise of his hands from her hips to her breasts, kneading them mercilessly, tugging at each nipple, pinching them almost flat, rolling them cruelly until she can't help but moan, tears rising in her eyes even as now she pushes back against him instinctively, the pressure driving her need to have him inside, whatever the cost.
But she knows better (or because she knows better); any movement he does not instigate induces punishment, and suddenly he has pulled back from her and he is lashing at her again, long deliberate strokes of the crop down her back, over her hips and ass, each stripe causing her whole body to shake, and she knows lines of welts must be appearing against her skin, knows he will be looking on them and smiling, not because he enjoys the cruelty but because he himself is expert enough at his side of their arrangement that even the necessity of chastisement becomes a work of art – the rise of blood to the surface caused so skilfully that with only a few strokes he can leave marks that she will feel again the next day when reaching up to a high shelf and wince again. It takes almost no time for him to administer the lashes – and like sedation slowly wearing off after surgery, it is only slowly that the true depth of the pain seeps into her consciousness, causing her knees to tremble and her heart to race.
He reaches out again, his touch now tender, and if he is touching skin too sensitive to be stroked he is as careful as possible, not necessarily attempting to soothe her ache but at least gentle with it, caressing her as one might a frightened foal – but possessive all the same, taking pleasure in the shudder of her hips, the almost imperceptible bow of her back beneath the pressure of his hand, the half-hidden whine from the base of her throat as he squeezes her ravaged nipples again ... and now, the pressure of his hands between her thighs, spreading them further apart, and the rough touch of his fingertips as he spread her labia apart and slid not one but two fingers deep into the grip of her cunt, almost impersonally testing her depth and her wetness, the knuckle of his ring finger brushing accidentally against her clitoris, causing a tingle of pleasure even as he spread her a bit too far open and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from groaning. Even as the sensations battled inside her, she tried to focus on her posture and her stillness lest she earn another session with the crop.
The fingers were withdrawn, and moments later were pressed forcefully between her lips, catching her tongue, tasting of her own arousal – almost so hard as to gag her. And at the same moment she felt him in place, the thick blunt head of his maleness catching against the entrance to her sex and even as his presence registered he thrust in deep, so hard she was lifted fully off the ground before crashing back down, feet flat then back in position, bracing herself as best she could, still lapping at his fingers as if they were his tongue in her mouth. She moaned then – she couldn't help herself – and as he thrust powerfully into her again he bit the nape of her neck, digging his teeth in until she felt completely trapped, impaled on his cock at one end of her torso and locked in his jaws at the other.
His breathing was ragged and she felt him swelling in her grip, the head stroking along the walls of her inside, all of the weight of his body crashing against hers again and again. He let go with his teeth and she relaxed slightly – but then his hands were at her breasts again, squeezing painfully and pulling her nipples until she cried out, and immediately choked back the cry but he was beyond punishing her, or perhaps the very act that caused the cry had been pre-emptive punishment, and he was fucking her harder and faster, pushing her up the wall and letting her fall down, caught upon his cock, and the waves of pleasure are washing through her faster and harder, almost obliterating the pain –
And then she feels one hand at her throat, fingers slipping beneath the ribbon she wears, ribbon he wound around her neck earlier that evening after dinner – and she gasps for air, her windpipe suddenly restricted. Her body rises and falls with his, now writhing with need, colours swimming before her eyes as she seems to be teetering on the very edge of unconsciousness –
But just at that moment he lets go, and his hand falls between her thighs, stroking her clit roughly, and he growls the only word of their encounter together – "Now" – and she lets herself go and writhes against his cock, joyous in her moment of release, the pleasure welling up from deep inside, places only the pain have allowed her to explore, and in the end it all becomes a white-hot supernova of bliss as she comes, again and again, shuddering, shaking against the wall, squeezing him so hard inside that he is taken along with her and floods her cunt with his essence, biting the side of her throat hard enough that she'll be wearing turtle-neck sweaters all week, not that she can feel it in that moment – and holding her so tight it's a wonder she can breathe regardless, crushing her in his arms as they slowly descend from those heights, until he slips from her and she is turned around in his embrace, shaking and laughing and crying all at once, burying her face against his chest as he strokes her hair, holding her up from collapsing to the floor, kissing the top of her head and murmuring, "Yes, darling. Yes, my pet.
"Yes, absolutely perfect."