Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (79 page)

I adore the
familiar, heady scent of his male musk and arousal. The liquid dripping from
his tip is so sexy—it tastes incredible. The smell of him, the feel of him, and
the thought of making him climax very nearly makes
me
come.

How embarrassing.
That’s one way to lose this game!

Craving the song
of his release, I begin working feverishly, sucking and masturbating him with
my hand simultaneously, but in a more rapid rhythm.

Breathing
heavily now, he makes such sexy sounds of need! I hum loudly with pure
pleasure, the vibration of it shoots through his cock.

When I send a
knuckle down to stroke his perineum, Grant moans incoherently and begins to
quietly cuss. I don’t think he can take much more.

“Stop, stop,
stop!” he finally calls out desperately.

Thought so,
I snicker internally, but I immediately cease what I’m doing.

Sitting back, I
let him go completely. My eyes widen as I gaze at him.

His body is like
rock, every muscle strung so tight. He’s thick and long and hard as a post.
Bright red, swollen with blood, his beautifully formed shaft twitches, dripping
with pre-cum. His magnificent hard on pulses with every beat of his heart.

Panting and
shaking, Grant’s a healthy male animal in rut.
And he’s
all mine.

I don’t think
I’ve seen
anything
sexier. “Fuck, you look amazing,” I whisper, awed.

His chin lifts,
his smoldering gaze locks to mine. “My turn, I think,” he growls hoarsely.

No longer under
his self-imposed restraint, he leaps up, fast as a hungry leopard, and flips me
on to my stomach.

“Fear,
anxiety, arousal, and pain; all are emotions and sensations. They are neither
right, nor are they wrong; good nor bad
.
They are simply passions, a
most important part of life. Feel them, fully experience them, surrender to
them, and learn to accept them.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

We’ve been
playing our teasing, erotic
‘Stop! Stop!’
game for over an hour. First Renata
was in control, then me in charge, then her, now me once more.

I admit there’s
something compelling about being under her control, being at her mercy. I
wonder. Is that because I like it, or because
she
does?

Making her happy
is a bone-deep need of mine, so I suspect it’s the latter. Pleasing her,
pleases me, just as getting her off, gets me off.

Now, I’m back in
the driver’s seat, trying to make her lose control and orgasm against her will.
I’m a little worried my testicles are about to explode, so I think I need to end
this game. Time for us both to climax as I fuck the living hell out of Renata.

I take in a deep
breath, enjoying the heady scent of her arousal. The woman is drenched, so
ready to be fucked.

“Keep still,” I
remind her when she ever-so-slightly squirms in response to a particularly
sensual stroke. “I love to see you struggle—you do it so beautifully. It’s fun
to watch you desperately try
not
to move. Can you understand something
that crazy?”

“Yes, you
terrible sadist. Ah! It’s so damn hard!”

“Yes, it is,” I
agree with a grin, blatantly stroking my rigid length to convey my wicked
misinterpretation of her words. “And very soon now, I’m going to thrust all
this hardness right up inside you, deep into that soft little cunt of yours.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she
moans, her skin flushed with need. “But what about our game? Have we finished
the game?”

“Almost,” I tell
her, as I continue to tease her clit. “How badly do you want my cock?”

“Bad, so bad! Yes
pleeeaaasssse!”

I laugh
heartlessly, happy to make her wait. I’ve changed the rules. I’ve gone back to
my favorite form of entertainment, teasing Renata until she begs me to let her come—or
alternatively, begs me to fuck her.

Either works for
me.

Right now,
Renata’s bent over my bedroom sofa, her ass in the air, her legs spread wide.
She has such a sweet ass, the kind of ass that draws me in. I’d recognize her
perfect backside from across a crowded room. I love her face, her smile, her
breasts, her figure and her sweet pussy, but her ass? Mmm. Nothing makes me
harder than thinking of her ass.

I want to tease
it, lick it, stretch it with my fingers and play with that tight rim, preparing
it to accept my cock. I wish I could banish this craving, this sick desire that
haunts my dreams and fantasies.

God, there’s
something seriously wrong with me.

From time to
time, during my sensual assault of her body, I fondle her full breasts,
stroking and squeezing them. I roll her hard nubs between my thumbs and
forefingers, tugging her nipples, entranced by how stiff they’ve become.

Renata whimpers
with bliss. I smile.

But the main thing
I do is admire her sweet backside. Lord, looking at her bent over like this is
such a turn on. I also love to play with her empty slit, her hard, throbbing
clit, and the swollen, puffy lips of her sex.

Licking her,
sucking her, and fucking her with my fingers and my tongue, bringing her to
climax—what could be more exciting?

I’ll never get
enough.

I enjoyed Renata
controlling me, yet I much prefer to be in charge. Bringing her close to climax
over and over again is so easy. Going down on her, licking her dripping sex,
watching her clit pulse, and her inner channel squeeze shut, clamping down hard
during her release—it’s all fun for me.

“Oh God, oh God,”
she gasps as I run my tongue from one end of her slit to the other, my tongue
swirling, lapping against her as I drink her in. She’s soaking wet. Small,
helpless sounds come from deep in her throat.

When I flick her
clit in exactly the way she loves best, her hips instinctively jerk backward, seeking
more contact.

“Didn’t I tell
you not to move?” I say in a low, taunting voice. I give her sexy ass a quick
slap, an instant naughty punishment—a silly, thoughtless joke.

Face bright with
shock, Renata’s back straightens. Wide-eyed, she stares at me.

Shit! What
was I thinking?

I take a step
backwards, terrified.

“Darlin’, are
you OK?” My hands up in ‘surrender,’ I gasp in horror. “I don’t know why I did
that. I know how you feel about men striking women.
I’m so sorry.
God,
please forgive me. Tell me you’re all right.”

She frowns, I
see her mind processing as she sits up on the arm of the couch. My heart pounds
in my ears. Has she fallen into her past? Do I remind her of her father? Will
she hate me now?

Leave it to
me to fuck this up.

As a sniper, I
never buckled under pressure—I’d lost all emotion by cutting out my heart as a
child. By counting my breaths and pulse, in the army I managed my fears through
unfeeling detachment.

Yet, I can’t be
detached with the woman I love.

A bubble of
panic wells up from inside my chest. I’ve uncovered my feelings with André and
Renata, now I can be hurt. Now I can be
destroyed.

I can’t lose
her!

“Forgive me,” I
entreat her in panting breaths, my voice hoarse and low. I’m desperately trying
to regain control of myself, but it’s not working.

“I swear to God,
Renata. That will
never
happen again.”

“If you are
making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning,
living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing
things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're doing something.”

— Neil Gaiman

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“There’s nothing
to forgive,” she says tentatively. “You know what? I did disobey you.” After a
few beats, she adds, “Oddly, I think I liked that little spank… but I’m not
sure. Do it again, will you?”

“No,” I gasp,
stepping back even further, trying to process her words.

Her smile is
uncertain, her mind is turned inward. Brow furrowed, she’s deep in thought. As
if flipping a switch, she suddenly regards me, becoming aware of my panic. Wide-eyed,
she slides down from the arm of the couch, onto the cushion.

“Oh, poor Grant!
I forgot about threatening to leave if you ever hit me! Come and sit here with
me on the couch and I’ll explain what’s going on,” she says as she pats the
seat beside her.

I don’t move. I’m
afraid to come closer. I’m afraid to do
anything
just now. I’m so
ashamed of myself. I have the crazy desire to drop to the floor, crawl on my
knees to her, to kiss her feet, and beg for her forgiveness.

Why in the
hell did I spank her?

I manage to walk
over and sit on the other end of the couch, far from her, where I can’t do
further damage.

Renata snorts a
small chuckle. “Grant, that didn’t hurt. That was nothing! Sweetheart, you
reacted impulsively. Playfully, even. No big deal. I’m not that fragile, and yours
was an innocent mistake. What kind of person would I be if I jumped down your
throat for every little slip-up? I screw up all the time, but you still love
me, right?”

I say nothing,
but I begin to feel a sense of hopefulness.

“I assure you—
that
was nothing like what my father did to me,” she explains. “André felt I needed
to overcome my fear of being struck. He tried to persuade me to take a
self-defense course so I could learn not to be scared of a hit, or a person’s
hands, or to unreasonably avoid pain.
‘Pain? It is only another sensation,’
he constantly told me. He said it wasn’t pain,
but the significance
of pain that made me fear it. He’d ask me questions like, what does pain
mean
to you?”

I swallow with a
very dry throat. “Are you saying I
didn’t
hurt you?”

She shakes her
head. “No, you didn’t hurt me.” Her eyes glitter, bright with wonder. “You may
have even done me some good. Despite the countless times and ways André tried
to help me overcome my fears, I wouldn’t listen, or I couldn’t hear him. Maybe
I just wasn’t ready, you know?”

I nod, even
though I can barely follow what she says. She hasn’t run away, so I think I’ll
just keep my mouth shut for now.

Renata puts the
tip of her thumb in her mouth, chewing on her nail unconsciously. She does this
when she’s nervous, or sometimes when she’s thinking too hard.

“André used to
say, ‘
Ma belle, decide to return to a state of helplessness—but this time,
enjoy it! Become familiar with vulnerability by choice! Fear and pain are neither
wrong nor right. They create sensations one can experience. Be at the mercy of
someone you trust, someone who you know will also give you pleasure. Then your
fear of such powerlessness will be banished.’”

I run a hand
through my hair. “Are you saying you
want
to feel helpless and afraid?
Because I don’t think I can do that to you.”

“But you make me
feel that way already!”

I frown in
surprise. “I do?”

“Sure you do.
Your little power plays during sex, the way you hold me down, or boss me
around. It scared me at first—it still does sometimes. But I trust you and I’ve
grown to accept being at your mercy. It’s super-hot, really. The way you take
what you need is a real turn on.”

“Oh,” I say
weakly. “That’s… good.”

I do get off on
pushing her to do things in the bedroom—I’ve never understood why. It’s as
though I make her do uncomfortable things in order to prove to myself that she
cares for me.

“André told me
he thought I’d enjoy a spanking,” she continues conversationally. “He was
always trying to get me to associate pain with pleasure, to break that primal
fear I have of it. He wanted me to become more balanced on the subject, not
over-the-top afraid. He said I could overcome my fear of pain or being hit
through interest or curiosity. I never believed him, but you know, I think I
understand what he was trying to tell me now.”

She shifts on
her seat, rubbing her bottom, craning her neck to see my handprint. It’s there,
all right. Pretty and pink on her soft, white skin. It gives me a rush to see
that mark—the color I put there. A strange, possessive thrill.

What in the hell
is wrong with me?

I am a sick,
sick fuck.

“You know, it
feels kind of interesting,” she says. “My butt is tingling, but in a good way.”
She smiles at me. “It’s kind of hot, don’t you think? Some of it is simply the
fact that
you
did it, but also that I took it
for you.
”

For me.
Exactly! How does she know? That’s what I need, that power I have over her.
Proof of her love.

“So, I think I
want you to spank me and make me climax while you do it. Are you up for that?”

I frown,
conflicted. I’ve continued to read books about how to please a woman in bed, a
project started by my own fear of the sexual act. I’ve even flicked through
sadomasochism info. I swear, I don't go looking for this stuff. Sometimes I
just drive the internet information highway like a drunk in a Ferrari.

I did intend to read
about spankings, surprised to find they can cause climax. I picked up on it,
mainly because of the focus on a woman’s ass. It was a different tool to bring
her orgasm, yet, I couldn’t take the subject seriously.

I never dreamed
Renata, a woman whose father beat her as a child, would
ever
consider
such a thing.

“Are you sure
you want to try it?” I ask cautiously.

“Positive.”

I stifle a moan
as I get a mental image of her lying face down over my lap with all of my
attention on her sweet ass. My waning erection hardens.
I dream of that ass
of hers.
It’s so wrong! It’s so, so bad. But it’s also hot as hell.

I love this
incredible woman. Every instinct I have screams for me to cherish and protect
her. I don’t want to hurt her—I
never
want to hurt her. But if a
spanking is what she needs, I’ll do it, despite my misgivings. How can I
refuse?

I press my lips
together, held back by my doubts. “What if you don’t like it?”

She tilts her
head, a devilish expression on her face. “Well, you’d better make sure that I
do then, shouldn’t you?”

“Ah.” I think I
can see how this may work.
Maybe.

“Don’t worry,”
she soothes, sensing my resistance, my fear of screwing up. “I promise I’ll
tell you to stop if I need you to. I honestly think this may help me in the
same way I’ve helped you. This is me overcoming my childhood fears, changing
the associations and getting through it.”

My heart rate
has calmed, but it kicks up at this. Renata
wants
a spanking and I love
to play with her ass. The vision of her laying across my lap makes me hard as
steel. Damn. As long as I ensure she enjoys it, I can give her one.

“Well, if you
put it that way,” I say in a deliberately low, slow drawl.

We gaze at each
other. Her eyes shine with a combination of anxiety, mischief and trust. It’s
her trust that unnerves me. I’d rather cut off my right arm than destroy her
faith in me.

I pat my lap.
“Come over here, darlin’,” I say, relieved to be forgiven, nervous and oddly
exhilarated. “I want to help you all I can.”