Autumn Heat

It's a little after six on a chilly autumn evening, a crisp bite in the air as he walks down the busy city sidewalk in the gathering dusk. A well-dressed man in his late thirties doesn't stand out particularly in the bustle; he could be a young lawyer out for an evening bite, or a theatre-goer picking up his date. His leather briefcase - plain black with silver fittings - has clean, discreet lines and the added benefit that it does not detract from the image he projects, while still carrying everything he needs. The only person who pays him a second glance is a passing girl with full cheeks and a shy smile. He flashes her a wolfish grin, all white teeth, good looks, and dangerous charm. A rosy pink touches her cheeks as she sees his return gesture, then she hurries past.

Still smiling, though now to himself, he checks the street traffic and, one expensive leather shoe at a time, he steps onto the crosswalk. Anticipation coils in his stomach and a frisson of excitement electrifies his steps; he is very much looking forward to what he is about to do.

He cuts left and about halfway down the block there's an off-white apartment awning with the building's name scripted across the side in gold lettering. A doorman in matching cream and gold livery stands watch at the door to the extravagant lobby. With a gesture to the uniformed doorkeep that is both deference and a subtle masking of his face, he slips in and heads quickly for the pair of elevators at one end of the lobby. The doors to his left slide open and he is quick to step on and jam the 'close doors' button with his thumb; he doesn't want company on this particular elevator ride. He then selects the button for his floor and watches the numbers climb, thinking, using the long ride to the top to review his plan in his head. The elevator dings its arrival just as he finishes his preparations.

He takes great care to move as quickly and quietly as he can; like an ill-intentioned shadow, he slips from the elevator into the entryway, and then through the unlocked door into the suite itself. He pays no attention to the finery or the wealth, he is no thief here for material reasons, but a different sort of predator. Instead, he creeps toward where he can hear his prey moving, stalking her like an unaware deer.

He reaches the doorway to her bedroom, pressing himself flat against the wall to avoid being seen. The door is slightly ajar and through it, he can see his her.She is slim with long legs and rich auburn hair that tumbles down her back in picturesque waves, still slightly damp from her shower. She wears only a thin robe and has her back to him, humming a tune he can't place.

He wants nothing more than to defile her.

He takes one final breath to steady himself, holds it for a moment, and lets it out, launching himself through her door and into her room.

She doesn't even have time to scream.

His stride snaps up the distance between them in two steps as he drops his briefcase, and then his hands are on her. One covers her mouth while the other cages her fragile neck in his fingers, his forward momentum helping him pull her back against his chest and hold her there. Her hands fly up to his wrists, scrabbling to pull his hands off her, but he is strong and he ignores the scratches from her nails and her muffled shout.

"No screaming, Pet." He tells her; he does not raise his voice over hers, but speaks softly into her ear. His tone does not brook argument; she cannot see them, but his eyes betray that he is not wholly unreasonable. Hers plead with the wall in front of her for him to let her go. His fingertips dig into her neck, squeezing just enough to enforce his words; he does not release her until she nods her acquiescence.

"Don't move." He pushes her to her knees in front of him, still facing away as he crouches so he can reach his case, slide it toward himself and snap open the lid. He leaves a hand on her shoulder as a reminder, a warning that he can have his way whether she cooperates or not.

Her heart beats a wild tattoo against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest, or so it feels, but she dares not go against his warning. She is good at reading people, and even through the adrenaline rushing through her blood and the overwhelming push from her fight-or-flight instinct, she knows he is serious. Instead, she trembles demurely and waits.

He pulls a length of rope from the case and makes quick work of tying her hands behind her back and after a moment's thought, he adds a cloth blindfold for good measure. Last, he pulls a rubber ball gag from the case, fitting it to her mouth and buckling it behind her head.

Satisfied, he pulls her to her feet.

"Stand." He says. And she does. He does not touch her, but circles her still form, drinking in her shape. Her robe does not hide much from his hungry stare, it has come half-open in the front, the pale curve of her breast peeking out, and it clings in several other flattering places.

But there is only so much to admire before the robe is simply a nuisance and he uses the scissors he has brought with him to strip this from her too.

Without the robe, he admires her skin - the soft pink nipples, the curve of her hip, the spot where her stomach meets her waxed pussy - and becomes aware that his pants are no longer entirely comfortable.

She bites her lip the whole time, the silence eating at her. She is painfully self-aware of her own nudity and total vulnerability, and as much as it is terrifying, she feels the rush of anticipation as a shock down her spine that sets her fingers tingling, has her hair standing on end.

She is excited.

His touch breaks her self-analysis as his fingers touch her cheek, trail down her face and chest to cup her breasts. She shivers, the touch is much gentler than she is expecting, the pads of his thumbs rub over her nipples and she feels them peak into his touch. He pinches first the left, teasing it, rolling it between his fingers, tracing circles around it -- then the right. Her toes curl in an effort to keep the rest of her body still, her skin bumps up in gooseflesh and she chokes back a noise that she can't tell whether or not is a sob or encouragement.

The failing light filtering through the windows of the balcony paints her in vivid slashes of yellow warmth; she can feel him moving around her, not by the sounds he makes or the air displacement on her skin, but by the gaps in the faint warmth of the sun on her body. He circles her once more until he is standing behind her, his front and her back mere inches away from one another, the space between charged with electricity, but he doesn't touch her; he simply leans over her shoulder, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot on her neck.

"Tell me, Pet, are you excited?" He knows full-well she can't answer, her mouth full as it is with the gag. She hesitates, then nods, it is the slightest movement, but he can tell; he knows her answer before she nods. He withdraws again and returns with more rope from his leather case; she still cannot see what he is doing, but she feels him lay the rope over her body, around the back of her neck, over her chest; he weaves it into a beautifully-intricate pattern that criss-crosses her skin.

"Spread your legs." She obeys the growled command, her feet moving to shoulder-width apart. He passes the rope between her legs, fingers lingering momentarily to tease, then around her hips, taking a moment to appreciate the softness of her skin. Her slick wetness drips slowly down her bare thighs as his fingers tease her slit, rubbing along the outside before returning again to his rope.

Finished, he takes a step back to admire his work: the rope forms a harness that runs the length of her torso, a trail of neatly-spaced diamonds artfully leading the eye from where the tie starts around her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, to his real prize. The ropes' dark green color contrasts with her pale skin, offsets the reddish hues in her hair. He commits the sight to memory, a snapshot he files away for later, a highlighted moment of beauty before the depravity.

In a moment of sudden rash impulsivity, she has the urge to run. She knows it will be futile, she knows that she is effectively blind, her hands are bound, she is gagged, she will trip over something, run into the wall, but this doesn't stop her thinking. She knows that ultimately, it doesn't matter whether she runs or not because he will catch her before she can do any harm to herself; he likes to see to that on his own terms.

So, like prey, she gives in to her flight response and pivots on one foot, turning and bolting in the direction she knows the door is in.

As suddenly and quickly as she moves, he is, as she predicted, still quicker; he grabs her by a fistful of hair, she lets out a startled yelp around the gag. Stopped short, she stumbles as he begins to pull her bodily toward the bed, lifting her using the rope harness he's tied and throwing her onto the blankets. She bounces up once like a ragdoll, struggles wildly, but he is agile and lithe, expertly avoiding her unseeing kicks and erratic thrashing. He pins her body to the mattress with his own, his wolfish grin back, a sadistic gleam in his eye. He has a hand on her throat, slowly applying pressure and watching her struggle against him as he denies her breath. Her cheeks go pink, then red, she thrashes and bucks her hips in an effort to dislodge him but he is seated on her stomach, his knees on her shoulders, pressing her back into the mattress as her legs kick uselessly behind him.

Just as she feels the fuzziness creep in around the edges of her mind, his hand lets up, she barely has time to suck in a lungful of air before he strikes her, palm-open, right across the face. Her eyes water behind the blindfold, but she is determined to withhold the satisfaction of seeing it affect her this much. He slaps her again on the other side, so that both of her cheeks sting evenly, a bright pink as she breathes past the gag. Her struggling has stopped for the moment, she is a little too stunned and a little too winded to put up much more of a fight.

"You should know by now not to test me, Pet." He suddenly has more rope -- where or when he got it during their previous struggle is a mystery to her -- but he makes quick work of frog-tying her legs, her calves secured firmly to her thighs. He leaves her for a brief moment on the bed while he picks up his next tool; she is just beginning to wonder what is next to come when there is a resounding 'smack' that echoes off the walls and ceiling. Her response is slightly delayed -- it takes a moment for her body to register the pain from where he has hit the tender inside of her open thigh. She clamps her legs shut and tries to roll, but he is having none of it. He pushes her back onto her back and takes a new position kneeling between them. He has a glorious view of her soaking pussy, her pert breasts and heaving chest, he can watch her drool through the gag as he sits with his crop and abuses her body.

"Count, Pet. If you can count to twenty-four, I will give you a reward instead of punishing you for your insolence." However, he doesn't wait for her to agree to this game - her participation is assumed from the moment he raises the crop in his hand.

He strikes her again, aiming his blow so the mark he leaves falls neatly into line alongside the first. She flinches and makes a pained noise that requires him to adjust the front of his trousers before he can continue. She uses this short respite to choke out a garbled 'two'. Three, four, and five follow in quick succession, he lays the strikes in a precise row down the inside of her thigh, the pale skin reddening, leaving dark, ugly welts that will become bruises in the same shape of the little rectangular tongue of leather at the end of the crop. She is sweating, her body taught in anticipation of further pain, her breathing erratic.

"Deep breaths, pet." It's the softest thing he has said to her the whole time. She makes an effort to steady her breaths, his encouragement bolsters her; he waits an imperceptible moment for a cue that only he can see before continuing. Six and seven are still painful, but easier -- intellectually, she understands that this is due to the release of endorphins from her body -- physically, she revels in this second-wind. Eight is where she reaches that sweet spot between the pain and her enjoyment of it. The tension in her body goes slack, she is solely what he reshapes her to be, her existence reduced to the impact of leather on skin.

He lays the last four strikes and she has a tidy row of stinging reddish-purple marks that run along the inside of her thigh, from her groin to her knee. He pauses again, this time to touch her skin. His fingers ghost over the marks he has made. She shivers, his fingers trailing from her knee toward her stomach. He reaches her sex, he is unsurprised to find she is still wet and ready. His fingers tug gently on her labia, stretching them, pulling on them carefully, and she squirms. He lets go and abruptly he shoves two fingers into her. She makes an ecstatic squeal that is muffled by the gag, her back arching off the bed as he crooks his fingers and presses them against that perfect spot. Insistently, he curls and uncurls his fingers, repeatedly pushing her closer to the edge of orgasm; her hands clench and unclench underneath her, she can feel herself riding the wave of her climax, and then suddenly his fingers are gone, withdrawn from her body and she can hear what sounds suspiciously like him licking them clean. A fresh wave of arousal crashes over her and she makes a strangled sobbing noise; he only shushes her gently.

"Patience, Pet, pace yourself, you're only halfway there."

He begins the process again on her other thigh, the first strike has her quivering already and as he hits her, he revels in her responses. Her body is his specialty, he knows exactly what to do to her to make her melt into his domination and there is nothing more satisfying.

Five lashes left and she is struggling to reach the end; her skin hurts, her body is sore from the muscle tension, she is tired and he can tell. His fingers return, filling her deliciously full as his thumb rolls circles over her clit. She pushes her body, her hips, into his touch, craving more, the pleasure balancing the pain.

He hits harder to bring her attention back to him, this one draws blood to just underneath the skin, he can see it sitting there, dark and sensuous. She digs her teeth into the rubber of the gag.

Four left; another smack.

She shakes her head wildly, her blindfold comes loose, light sneaking between the gaps and to stab at her eyes. Momentarily distracted, the next strike takes her somewhat by surprise and she yelps around the gag, eyes watering anew.

Another smack.

Two left, it's all she can think about, she will make it. She wants the reward at the end, wants the pleasure, the orgasm he hasn't promised but that hangs unspoken between them. She wants to show him he is worthy of his attention, that she will take what he can give her.

Yet another smack.

He can see the struggle between her pain and her commitment, he knows he is pushing her boundaries, but she would not hesitate to let him know if it becomes too much. She is almost there.

A final smack.

The last one is the hardest one and it does draw blood, her thin skin breaking under the impact. She squeals and the blindfold comes off, discarded on the bedcovers as the tears she thought she could hold back finally spill. Her eyes brimming with green fire, full of pain but also challenge and triumph.

He smiles devilishly, "Good job, Pet," he praises her. He pulls his fingers from her, flips her onto her stomach, presses her face into the mattress with a palm against the back of her head. He fumbles the zipper and belt of his pants open with one hand as she labors to breathe, squirming once more.

"What do good pets get?" He asks her. Between the bedding and the gag, nothing she says is understandable, but then, it doesn't have to be; he's not asking because he wants a verbal answer.

He lets go of the back of her head and grips her hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, pulls her across the bedcover and props her on her knees at the edge, spreading her legs and then he waits. She can't see him, can't understand why he has stopped, she wiggles and makes a disappointed noise, pushing her ass out toward him.

"I asked you a question, Slut -- what do good pets get?" She hesitates and lightning fast, the crop is in his free hand again and he's laid three sudden, stinging lines of red fire across her cheeks. She flinches hard, but repeats her answer into the mattress, louder and with more emphasis as he grinds her face into the sheets.

Still not good enough.

He gives her another three strikes on the other side, all in quick succession, each harder than the last, and repeats his question again. Red-faced, she screams her answer into the mattress and shoves her ass further toward him, tipping precariously on the edge of the bed as she does.

This is the answer he is looking for -- his cock is already in his hand, uncomfortably hard, and she is ready, and waiting, and quite literally dripping down her leg. The marks he has made are highlights along the insides of her thighs, bright red and purple, their violence make him smile. He rests the tip of his cock against her opening and she knows what is coming, he is simply giving her a moment to prepare herself and she is, as always, grateful.

Without further hesitation, he pushes into her in one long hard stroke and presses his hips against the roundness of her ass where everything fits just-so. She makes a satisfied groan and rocks against him, her muscles involuntarily contracting around his intrusion into her body and suddenly his self-control is gone - the thin veneer separating his mind from that of an animalistic predator is gone, and he is pounding into her relentlessly. One hand has a fistful of her hair, using it as leverage to pull her body against him as he slams into her brutally, his balls slapping against her skin obscenely, the other hand has slipped underneath her to rub her clit. No longer can she keep quiet, she screams against the gag, her body writhing against his, her orgasm building rapidly.

He can feel her finish coiling in her stomach, her muscles clenching against his skin, her body milking his cock. She finishes before him - though not by much - her orgasm exploding from her body as his cock bumps against that delightfully sensitive spot inside her. He fills her with molten heat that floods her belly, dripping onto the bed to leave a soaking puddle of ejaculate as he empties himself, her body already quaking from aftershocks as his cock pulses inside of her.

After a moment to catch his breath, he releases her hair and withdraws from her body, she slumps onto the bed, spent, exhausted, utterly used up, his seed dripping from her body. She looks as used and defiled as she feels, just the way he likes it, her body bruised and red. His deft fingers make quick work of the ropes that still bind her leaving red lines with rope imprints in some places instead. He helps her to stand shakily, using him as a support so that he can remove the gag buckled around the back of her head. She sucks in air like she's never breathed before.

"Are you able to stand on your own for a bit, Pet?" She nods gingerly, and he lets go of her for a very brief moment while he sheds his shirt and steps out of his slacks. He returns to her and helps her to the bathtub, filling it with hot water and her favorite bath mixture, easing her into the tub. She hisses as the heat touches her tender wounds, but it is temporary and the sting fades to a hot throbbing ache after a few moments. Once she is settled, he sits himself on the lip of the tub and busies himself with wetting and washing her hair.