His Ch. 02

A bolt in the ceiling, the metal dull, gray, in the harsh light. She didn't know where the light was from. She remembered his leading of her into the room. The room was bland, sparsely decorated. Nothing of any memorable features to be found. She felt a dull throb in her shoulders. A brief test, an attempt to roll knots the knots loose, proved futile. She wrinkled her nose in confusion, a struggle to remember. A pinprick of light flowers in her thoughts.

The dart of a pink kitten tongue across parched lips. She remembers bruising kisses, bitten lips. Memories play across tortured flesh like a dulcimer hammer. The dull thud in her shoulders turning into needles. Her eyes lift, pupils dilating as they focus in on leather and rope. Wrists banded together in butter-soft leather, tight, biting into the skin. Hands clasped together, folded in prayer to her god. A rope, wound about her hands, strung though leather and fingers tethering her to the ceiling.

Her mind is brought back into focus. She could have been here minutes or hours. The last thing she remembered was a scream of pain, the stinging whip of a belt across her ass. A blazing streak of red leads like a path to her cunt, a marker of where the tip of the belt licked her clit, hurling her cruelly into orgasmic spasms, blacking her out.

Her head arches back at the sound of a door opening. She knows better than to turn her head, to reassure herself that it really is him who came back into the room, and not a stranger. A chill traverses her skin. She knows he's staring at her, a buyer inspecting cattle for perfection. She feels his heat at her back, his breath hot on her neck.

"You didn't think I was done with my cunt yet, did you?" There's a mirth in his tone. Her muscles relax a little. He's no longer upset with her. She took her punishments until now, a good girl. The feel of a hand at her throat tenses her again. A trickle of moisture glistens at her cunt, threatening to raindrop to the floor. Her feet are still splayed apart, forced apart by the bindings at her ankles. She's bent slightly forward, back arched, placing her ass on theatrical display. Just because he's pleased with her doesn't mean that he's done punishing her.

Fingers that stroke her throat gently, erotically tantalizing, stop. A slow increasing pressure on her neck. "Tell me what you want me to do. Be my good girl, and I'll stop." Teasing fingers trace patterns across her neck. He moves in, his other arm encircling her waist. She whimpers in soft irritation, fabric blocking her from the sensation she craves, skin against skin.

The dart of his tongue across the edge of her ear. A sharp intake of breath rattles her breathing. She bites down against her bottom lip in time with his feel of his teeth on her earlobe. His hands leave her body, rattle around in his pocket. He produces a delicate looking pair of nipple clamps, a sweetly agonizing adornment for him to decorate her with. He holds them up before her, allowing her to see what comes next.

"Pretty girl, lovely cunt. What better way for you to show your devotion than by wearing my gifts?" Fingers tease at her right nipple, a small raspberry against a honey background, fruit ripe, only his for the picking. Both clips in his right hand, he slides his left arm around her, her right breast roughly handled, flesh bruised, her nipple a hard pebble against his palm. Soft groans escape her throat, leg muscles tight, her cunt walls spasm in want around air. He repeats the same motions at her other breast. Moisture trickles from her.

A squeak of protest escapes her when he pulls rudely from her, her body shaking at the sudden lack of contact. Seconds pass, and still, nothing. The feel of his hands left her greedy and wanting. More time, a minute, a lifetime. She calls out. "Please. I need..." She trails off, never able to complete the need without his prompting.

A minute more, her thighs now slick with want. Stars strike across her vision, the sting of his hand across her face. Never to bruise, only for her undivided attention. "Really, my precious, my sweet, wet cunt, you must learn to tell me what you need." A cruelly loving smile twists his lips. He strokes her nipples one final time before applying the clamps. A hiss of air sucks in through clenched teeth.

The rough scratch of beard against the soft angles of her face, his mouth glues to her. His kiss parts her lips, his tongue seeking out the hidden corners of her mouth, as if searching to pull her soul into his being. She whimpers again, struggling against bonds not allowing her access to touch him. Fingers slip down her form, trailing drag lines in their wake. Mews of agonized pleasure break the silence.

"Tell me what you need. Be a good girl, and then you can come." His fingers roughly part her labia, middle and ring finger barging into her cunt an uninvited, very welcome guest. He pulls them slowly, so slowly from her, muscles rippling around his fingers, small vices trying to keep his hand buried deep. He feels her cunt pulse, her body shaking, begging to be filled again. With wet caresses, he circles her clit, alternating between fast and slow. He played her body like a beloved stringed instrument, plucking at the nerve running from nipples to cunt.

She lets out a sigh, jaw slack. He's pushing her out of herself, keeping the tightrope between agony and ecstasy taut, her balance on the wire shaky. He sinks to his knees. A warm puff of moist air rolls across her cunt. A flood threatens to break through, past his fingers, to coat his hand. He pulls his fingers from her, slaps her cunt. Her eyes water at the sting, at his bringing her back to attention. He's not ready for her to fall over the edge.

A moan in sweet pain. Her eyes roll back in her head. He slaps her cunt, again. "Look at me. I want my toy to see how I play with her." She fights to keep her focus locked on him, only him, nothing but him. He breathes in the scent of her. A slick of spit across her clit send tremors through her. Athena bound before him, his to do with what he wants. Helpless to fight against the onslaught of his lust. He drags his tongue from clit to asshole, back again, stopping to probe his tongue into her depths. She whimpers, rocking her hips, trying to fuck his tongue like a cock.

He ministers to her for a while longer, until he senses she's ready to break. Un-gluing his mouth from her cunt, he looks up at her face, his face bathed in her juice. Soon, too soon. He leaves her on the edge of a precipice. Agony written across her visage. Terrified he'll leave her without coming. He knows her too well.

"What scares you more, pet? That your pleasure is mine to give, or deny? Or that I'm on my knees before you?"

Her voice is shaky, quiet. He watches her screw up her nose in concentration, her mind at war with her body.

"That you're on your knees. That you would be giving me pleasure, when I'm yours to please you. I should be on my knees."

He smiles, his fingers light on her inner thighs. "You are giving me pleasure. You're my toy to make do what I wish. And I wish to worship at my altar."

Still kneeling, he undoes the ties at her ankles, rubbing them for a moment to bring circulation back. Standing, he undoes the rope that tethers her to the ceiling, slowly lowering her arms. Hands still bound together, he roughly guides her to her knees. The sound of his pants being undone runs parallel to the sight of cock coming into her line view. His hand pets the top of her head, gently, before gabbing her hair, forcing her mouth to meet his cock. He rapes her mouth, the head of his cock at the back of her throat gagging her, until she times her breathing to match his thrusts. He fucks her mouth, her tongue licking, flicking along his length.

He pushed her from him, her mouth gaped open at the loss. He pressed her to the ground, shoulders, her cheek, pressed rudely to the floor. A rustle of fabric, a rush of air. He positions her, ass high in the air, cunt once again on display. He dips a finger into her, testing the waters of her pool. Hot, so hot, wet, soft velvet. Custom made to fit his cock perfectly.

"Oh, my wet, wet girl. Sweet, so sweet, like nectar offered to your god."

He runs his fingers along her labia, parting her, spreading her. Open.

"Tell me what you want, cunt girl. Tell me what you need."

He produced a small vibrator from the cast-offs of his clothing. He turned it on, the hum buzzing in the air like static electricity. He pressed his cock at her entrance, pulling back each time she tried to impale herself. He ran the vibrator along the outside of her cunt, leaving her blisteringly aware of the marked absence of direct stimulation.

"Beg."

Her breathing is shallow, ragged. Words pour from her, bidden by him. The girl come undone.

"Please, please.." Her voice a discorded symphony in plea. "Fuck me, just fuck me! Hard, hard, so hard, make it hurt, make it deep, please, fill me, make me, break me, fuck me..."

There's no rhyme or reason to her pleas, only raw need and emotion. He slams himself into her, invading her depths. He pauses, so deep, letting her adjust to the fullness. "My sweet, beautiful cunt. Precious girl. Just hold on a little longer. Good girl."

A sound, a kitten sob. He grasps her hip with his left hand, harsh. An imprint of his hand will remain as a reminder of this. He plays staccato strokes of the vibrator across her clit, slamming into her again. His voice is thick with desire. "Come for me. Now."

She breaks, a torrent of wet pouring from her. Cunt muscles contact around his cock, a vice squeezing, milking him. A scream of pleasure is pulled from her, sweat pooling at the base of her spine. Keeper of her soul, god of her religion, he slams into her over and over, keeping her at the pinnacle of orgasm. Hot light dances across her vision, white, heat flushing her chest, her face. He undoes the clamps at her nipples, his cock rock hard, iron hard, forged steel hard, ripping her open. The rush of blood causes sweet pain, sending her into a blissful oblivion as he fucks her, fucks her harder, harder still, the feel of his cock as he gushes his spend into her.

They both collapse on the floor, him on top of her, heavy. A blanket of protection for her psyche, the weight of him. She lies there, limp. He rolls off of her, pulling her to him. He undoes the bindings of her hands, her wrists. He wraps his arms around her, laying her head to his shoulder, stroking feverish skin. His rag doll. Shudders slowly turn to slight tremors at his caresses. He allows her to calm, time meaningless.

He lays a kiss to her sweat-drenched brow. "Good girl. My sweet, good cunt. What are you thinking?" He wants everything, each thought belonging to him. She is his, more than just body. Thoughts and emotions are owned by the one who creates.

She slowly lifted her head to meet his eyes. A smile played a game of hide and seek at the corners of her lips. "Henry doesn't leave Anais this time."