Two Bites of the Apple

She rolls over to snuggle deeper beneath the slick warmth of her duvet, sliding her arm around her pillow and feels a sharp prickle beneath her outstretched hand – her eyes fly open wide on the cloudy view outside and jerk to the bedside clock – late – late –

Her squirms bring the small hairbrush into view and she stops, stares, and thinks – not a dream –

Dash naked: the short spring and quick squat in her tiny cubicle for sweet release, feeling the sharp sting on tender swollen flesh – remembering pain – remembering pleasure

She'd ended her midnight chat with a promise; a task for Him. She closed the window with a click of her mouse, rose gracefully to her feet, moved through her narrow space, collecting tea cup, latching the stern hatch, readying her bed, herself, gathering – the tube of slick lube, the clean towel – remembering His words to her:

"After you cum I want you to use something to spank your pussy with.... spank it and see if the pain can make you cum again"

She looks round for the missing ingredient; a paddle for afterwards. Her eyes light on the small brush next to her chair and a wicked smile tugs at her mouth. Perfect – an expensive toy bought on whim during a weekend flit to Bath. Small enough for her pocket, from the old London firm of Mason Pearson, with natural bristles and a smooth oval back. Since moving, she has kept it beside her chair and used it to sleek Robyn's soft downy long fur, making her writhe and purr beneath it and converting her from aloof queen into greedy lap cat.

Now she catches up the brush and slides into the cool linen of her bed, leaving the sound system pouring forth the late-night soundtrack to her life from Planet Rock. Sliding the brush between pillow and wall, she uncaps the lube and squeezes the cool gel onto her waiting fingers. Feeling the slick wetness and smelling the faint, sharp tang, she smoothes her hand across her shaved mound, smothering the first rough hint of stubble.

Fingers trace her curves and hollows, slipping easily into crevice and fold, spreading coolness changing to liquid warmth in the wake of her curling, groping fingers. Her lips part and her breath quickens as she starts her first probings. Her mind slides back to the evening's wordplay, recalling the damp mellow forest floor beneath her bare feet, feeling again the dog's hot breath mere inches from her wet cunt, the slack-jawed, be-whiskered stare of the old man as she was made to keen her need and her lust at her Master's command.

Her fingers move deeper into her wetness, thrusting and grasping while she stretches and pinches and pulls at her nipples, rolling first one and then the other, twisting the metal, tugging hard and feeling the twinge as her breasts stretch forward and the nipples lengthen.

She lowers her hand to her nether ring, grasping and pulling hard as she rubs and probes and gropes within herself, rhythmically squeezing and releasing her muscles, bringing her self close to release and then easing back to make it last.

She tastes again the thick cum of her Master on her lips, feels him pulse and surge beneath her tongue as her back arches, her heels press against the mattress beneath her and, at last, she peaks and begins her slide down the back of her orgasm.

Gasping and shivering with the intensity of her fantasy-fueled release, she raises a shaking hand to her pillow and snatches at the hairbrush. Spreading her legs wide and bending her knees to bring her hips up, she turns the brush and administers a stinging slap to her sopping wet cunt – CRACK – the pain makes her buck and a moan escapes her parted lips.

CRACK – CRACK – – CRACK – she continues to slap the brush rapidly onto her tender mound with its shiny ring, pressing the captured ball against the swollen and aching nub and bringing nearly instant heat surging through her again.

Her head whips from side to side on her pillow, her long hair flying as her moans of pain and pleasure fill the small space of her boat. She feels the tears of pain and passion flung across her cheeks. Her hips buck and writhe once again in a stronger longer deeper orgasm than she has ever felt from masturbation. Time seems suspended as her hand and the brush, with a will of their own, administer the sensations she has longed for and feared for so many years.

At last, her body begins to slow its frenzied motion and she rouses, stunned and shocked, to see the shambles her bed and her being have become. Face and hair soaked with tears and sweat, body trembling and sated, spirit soothed and surprised.

Tucking the brush back into its resting place by her pillow, she pulls the duvet about her once more and snuggles deep beneath it. As she falls into the abyss of dreamless sleep, she feels Robyn jump up and settle her tiny, purring warmth in the curve of her neck.