Carefully, I Hurt You

Your body, strung up by the over-the-door straps with your wrists bound above your head, all big tits and big belly and wide hips and big thighs... god, it's beautiful.

I reach out, pinch your low-slung nipple, knowing its sensitivity, knowing you'll cry out, and you do. My cock, erect in my pants, tingles pleasantly in response.

Then I do it again, harder. Not enough to injure you. Just enough to make you cry out again.

Carefully, I hurt you.

I take you down, haul you by the arms, throw you onto the mattress. You're prostrate before me, your soft ass in the air, your hairy vulva and hairy asshole softly lit by the low light for my pleasure.

I disrobe.

I tell you I'm going to smack your ass, and you say yes, and I order you to beg me to do it, and you do.

Your pussy is visibly wet, moisture beading up between your plump labia, surely hiding more inside. I badly want to slide my cock in there, knowing how good it must feel inside you.

But that's not what we agreed on.

"Bitch," I call you.

Then I wind up and slap the underside of your ass, sending ripples through your fleshy legs and torso.

I've found it's your favorite. No florid turns of phrase, no elaborate scenarios.

Just a single precision insult to demean you, to belittle you, to let you know you're nothing to me.

Quietly, you complain, "It stings a little."

I don't reply, but, discreetly, I adjust my technique, and the next spanking lands dull and broad, less a slap and more a thud.

From you, it elicits a much more agreeable "No, please..."

I keep spanking you, a dozen of them in quick succession, then laying off a moment to keep you from going numb.

Then I start again. Thud, thud, thud, rippling your flesh, reddening your skin. Carefully, I hurt you. My strikes are precise, pushing you to the limit of what you can take.

I keep this going--spankings, a break, more spankings--until your ass is all handprints and bruises.

I don't break the skin.

I just make sure that anytime you sit down tomorrow, you'll be thinking of me.

By the cuffs that bind you, I hoist you into a kneeling position, arms raised, back to me.

"Hands behind your head," I order, and you do.

I get close behind you, making sure you feel the threat of my hot, hard erection pressed into the cleft of your ass.

Reaching from behind, I grab your chin and tilt your head back. My other hand grabs at your soft belly, great fistfuls, just hard enough to leave lingering marks. Carefully, I hurt you.

I reach your pussy, and, there, I pause.

"Rrrgh," you grunt impatiently, animalistically.

I give your pubic hair an aggressive yank. Again, you vocalize, a deep, guttural sound.

But no safe word.

I touch you between your legs. Your cunt is absolutely sopping. It takes no time to saturate my fingers as they circle you, pressing into your labia, making close calls with your sensitized clit.

I feel the grunting in your throat against my hand, which turns to growling, then yowling, your body shuddering in waves as you come in my rigid embrace.

Expertly, I bring you down, bearing your weight as the tension evaporates and you go limp in my arms.

Leaving you for a moment, I go to the bathroom. I start the water in the roomy bathtub, pour you a paper cup of water from the sink, and bring it back to you.

It takes time, but you manage to sit up, and you take the water down in a single gulp.

I guide you to the bath and we ease ourselves in.

We don't clean up. We recline together, our soft bodies flushed by the heat of the water. With my encouragement, you tell me what you liked while I stroke your hair.

We dry off. I get dressed, get ready to leave. That's when you start weeping, asking me to stay longer, telling me this has been such a busy week.

Despite myself, I'd like to stay. I rather enjoy my sessions with you. But the day is young, and I have other clients to see.

I try to ignore the frustration in your eyes. My heart aches--it really does. I gather my things, slip through the door, and close it quietly behind. Carefully, I hurt you.