A House Divided

"I literally felt myself drip onto the carpet when he asked me who I belonged to. My nipples were so fucking hard. It took me three tries to choke the answer out around His fingers, but when I did, He smiled. God, His eyes are like pools of onyx when He's happy..."

The detective leaned back and rolled his eyes. "And next you're going to tell me he walks on water."

I smiled. "Don't know, I've never seen him near a lake." I leaned forward and waited until the detective made eye contact again. "He had me get up on the edge of the bed, bent me over so I was on my hands and knees, and He started to slap my ass with his hand. My Sir started slowly-- not too hard, not too soft. Once I started swaying my hips to meet him, He took a step back and put his full weight into it. With each slap, I felt His ring, a fraction of an inch deeper than the rest of His fingers. That same ring cut me a few months ago. I still have the scar on my thigh..."

The bruises from that night lasted until my anniversary. I watched the color shift slowly from red to purple to green and then finally lighten until they were gone. The marks were badges of honor. They slowly faded away, like soldiers returning home after a war. I was so proud of them when they arrived, and then sad they left again.

"I felt the blood rush to my ears, and my vision blurred. He stopped long enough to get the switch Jackson made for him. God only knows when they met to exchange the keys, or the tools, or any of it. The rod was Lacquered rosewood. Quarter inch. Sir always tells me what He uses..."

Sometimes, He hissed it into my ears; other times, it was dangled like a carrot in front of my nose. More than once, He made me fetch it from my closet at home and bring it to him between my teeth like a dog. God, the number of times I soaked my own bed for Him while the kids were at school, while Jackson was at work, when Sir had the spare time to kill.

"And then he was at my throat again, holding me up while he caned me. He pushed me right to the edge of my limits and held me there. I floated in this kind of exstacy."

I've never been quiet when I orgasm, and that night wasn't any different. I used my fingers to bring myself off. He pulled the cheeks of my ass apart and gently blew against me while my fingers pumped in and out of me like a steam engine. I wanted to come so fucking badly. I got right to the edge, and I hesitated. I didn't stop, and I never slowed down, but something in the back of my mind held me right on the edge...until he told me to come. That last resilience shattered, and I flooded the bed. My hand was soaked; my thighs dripped.

"I felt him press against my arm, and his cock throbbed. I wanted to turn my head and taste him so badly--"

"Okay, that's enough!" the detective said, bolting to his feet so hard it sent the chair shooting back and clanging on the rails. "I don't know what's worse: the fact that you're fucked up in the head, or that you know it and seem to get off on it." He shut his folder and tucked his pen back into his disheveled coat. "You want to be into some kind of degraded kink bullshit, fine, go fetch your fucking husband and get the fuck out of here." He turned for the door and whipped back around and pointed his finger at me. "But let me tell you this, Mrs Peterson, don't you dare come back here in a week crying about how you were beaten in a way you don't like. A thousand women a day get the shit knocked out of them because their boyfriend didn't like the way she looked at him or lost a tooth because she didn't have dinner on the table at five on the dot. I deal with husbands who think a wedding band means they can rape their wives every night. I lock those fucks away for as long as humanly possible because they're a god-damned plague."

He looked down at the folder in his hands, then dropped it on the table in front of me. "So I'm done with you. You're on your own." He headed for the door again and stopped at the threshold. "Don't come to me looking for protection, not after today. I don't have the time."

He left like a hurricane, his plain mug abandoned on the table in front of me. I tucked the photos back into the folder and powered on my phone. While I waited, I ran my hands up and down my inner thighs and felt the sting of my fresh bruises. That's when I saw a long thin scratch on the inside of my forearm. It was from the pinwheel He'd used on me while I was kneeling in the closet. I grinned like a schoolgirl, and I couldn't wait to show it to Jackson.