The Playboy's Proposition (14 page)

He said, “You’re tired.”

“Yes.”

“And sore.”

“Oh yes.”

“I want that pain from you.”

I said, “I know.”

“It’s morning now. You can tell me no.”

“No I can’t ... not today.”

My permission granted, his eyes gleamed. His fingers glided
ever lower down my slit, then farther still to push against my swollen asshole.

I asked, “Will you let me orgasm?”

“No ... not today.”

Two long hours later, he called the cab to take him home.

I woke in the late afternoon. I was ravenously hungry and
wanted to race to my kitchen and eat everything in sight. However, because of
the aches and pains left from the activities of the previous night, my planned
mad dash for food turned into more of a comical quick shuffle.

I snatched an apple off the counter and devoured it while I
searched the fridge, freezer and cabinets. Nothing much there but my typical
stash of yogurt and frozen low-cal entrees. Well, hell. That crap wouldn’t do.

I called the only place that could adequately assuage my
dire nutritional needs -- my neighborhood pizzeria. I ordered a large pepperoni
pizza and a two-liter of soda, full sugar, not the wimpy zero-calorie nonsense
I usually drank.

Thirty minutes to wait ... at minimum. Ugh.

I limped my way into the bedroom to get my ratty old
bathrobe. As I gimped back to the living room, I had a flash of memory of an
old-timey television show I sometimes watched after school when I was a kid. An
old man on the show used to joke about the awkwardness of his gait, calling it
a “hitch in his git-along.” That’s what I had. A serious hitch in my git-along.

I plopped down on the sofa. Eep! I actually eeped. Plopping
was a serious mistake. I pitched onto my side and lay there groaning. Damn you,
Michael Weston ... damn you and your inhuman stamina!

The thought struck two chords in me at once. First, I found
it hilarious that I was complaining about my lover’s inexhaustible sex drive.
Second, I scandalized myself by being disrespectful toward my master.

I thought, wait. What? Disrespectful toward my master? Where
had that crazy idea come from? Bizarre. The only plausible explanation was that
I was becoming delirious from hunger.

I lay there and fantasized about gooey cheese, crispy crust
and the salty bite of greasy pepperoni.

By the time I heard the knock on my door, I had drifted off
into a light doze. I made my way to the door as quickly as I could, and yanked
it open. It was him, the pizza delivery boy. I could have hugged him.

I don’t think he would have appreciated a hug, not from me
anyway. He took one look at me and drew backward. The expression on his face
was one of distaste, and his gaze settled on my hair.

I patted my head. Oops. It felt pretty bad up there. I
hadn’t thought of tidying up for the delivery kid. Oh well. Seeing a starving
hag in a ratty bathrobe with a rat’s nest on her head wouldn’t kill the boy.

I shoved money at him and he shoved the pizza box and soda
bottle back at me.

Right before my door swung shut, I heard him mutter, “Geez
lady, get a comb.”

Punk.

I wrangled the box and bottle over to the sofa and got down
to business.

It was one of the best pizzas I had ever eaten in my life. I
chugged the cold soda straight from the bottle, two handed and greedy. At some
point in the carnage, I turned on the television set, more to mask my noisy
chomping sounds than for the entertainment.

The pizza provided all the entertainment I needed. Bliss. I
didn’t even mind that I had to sit on my sore bottom the while.

When I couldn’t shove in another bite, or swill down another
gulp of cola, I fell back and keeled over onto my right side. I had read
somewhere that lying on your right side was good for digestion. I hoped I
remembered it correctly, because I had done some serious damage to that pizza
and my bloated stomach testified to the crime.

I don’t know how long I lay there, dozing, and half
listening to the nonsense of the old sitcom reruns playing on the TV.
Eventually, I pulled myself together enough to limp into the bathroom, swallow
down some aspirin and draw myself a hot bath that I laced heavily with scented
oil.

While the tub filled, I inspected my body in the mirror on
my closet door. As Michael had promised, no signs remained of the paddling and
flogging. Maybe my skin was a little red in the areas I had been struck, as if
I had gotten a bit of a sunburn, but it didn’t really hurt when I touched
myself in those places.

My nipples and areolae also looked a little red, but that
may have mostly been remaining traces of the red stain Michael had made me
apply to them. They were tender to the touch.

I could live with it. So far, so good. Then I finally dared
to take a good look between my legs.

The entire area was red, painful-looking and swollen. I
didn’t explore further, not ready to thoroughly inspect the situation yet, so I
returned to the bathroom.

I turned off the tap, eased into the bathtub and sighed.
Bliss again.

When the water grew cold, I drained some of it out and
replaced it with hot, adding more oils. My bathroom became a steamy grotto,
scented with sweet lavender and violets.

By the third refill, my stiffened body had relaxed and much
of my discomfort had drained away along with the cooled water. I flexed the
muscles in my shoulders and back, hips and stomach, stretched my fingers and
toes and rotated my ankles and wrists. Much better. I was practically human
again.

I may have stayed in the tub half the night, but the need to
use the restroom eventually drove me out of the warm retreat. My exit from the
bath went much more smoothly than my entry. I noticed some remaining tenderness
between my legs as I walked to the toilet, but that was to be expected, I
supposed.

I hadn’t supposed the half of it. The second I sat down and
began to go -- yeow! Fire! I yelped.

Once again I thought of damning Michael to Hades and back,
but this time I was neither amused nor scandalized by the notion.

When I was finished, I stepped into my shower for a quick,
stinging clean up down below, then grabbed a hand mirror and headed to my bed.
Time for a thorough inspection.

I perched on the edge of the mattress, spread my legs, and
studied myself in the mirror. My entire pussy was a bright red, and not just
the red tint noticeable on the rest of my skin from the heat of soaking so long
in hot water. No, this was a painful-looking red.

My labia were puffier than I ever remembered seeing them. In
fact, the entire area was swollen, inflated.

I poked lightly at my puffy mound. Ouch. It was tender to
the touch, not so much on the surface, but down below in the tissue itself, the
feeling of a deep bruise. Also, I couldn’t bear more than the tiniest bit of
pressure against my aching clit.

I tenderly spread apart my labia and took a cautious peek.
Too red, like the rest of me, but the skin itself appeared undamaged. I gently
felt around my opening, pressing the tip of one finger against the bit of
exposed interior. Ouch.

Friction burn.

Mostly caused by the dry finger-fucking Michael had given
me.

It was unnecessary to explore farther inside, because I knew
it would only be more of what I could already see and feel. It was also
unnecessary to inspect my asshole, and not just because it would have been
awkward to find a way to get a good look at it. One touch to my anus and I knew
it was red, swollen and over-used just like the rest of me.

I found the tube of ointment Michael had left for me on the
nightstand that morning. He told me to use it liberally, especially on any
rashes, that it was safe to use everywhere, except internally.

I gritted my teeth, fury blooming bold inside me.

He had said I would be fine.

Bastard.

I stomped back into the bathroom, anger an effective blocker
of my various remaining aches and pains. While I slathered myself in ointment,
I catalogued the ways in which I was not fine.

Nearly every muscle in my body ached, aches not caused by
the restraints themselves or the positions I had been placed in, but by my
fierce struggling and yanking and clenching to either escape or absorb
Michael’s punishments.

My breasts, and particularly my nipples, were sore to the
touch because of the slapper and all the squeezing, twisting and pulling.

My practically virgin asshole had been invaded by a butt
plug, and then fingered repeatedly, leaving my anus inflamed and in pain.

My pussy and pelvic area was swollen, inflated, perhaps
deeply bruised by Michael’s ferocious and mercilessly repeated fucking.

My clitoris couldn’t bear touching because of the chain that
had been strapped so tightly over it.

And the interior of my pussy itself was rubbed half raw,
friction-burned, and over-fucked.

By the time I finished ministering to my wounds, I was fit
to take off Michael’s head. I threw on some sweats and a t-shirt and headed
back to the living room.

I would call him and give him a piece of my mind. Fine, he
said. You’ll be fine. That sorry ass ...

I found my phone and saw I had several voicemails waiting.
One of them was from the Michael. I thought, he probably wants to come over and
fuck me again. Asshole.

But I listened to the message anyway.

His voice sounded deep and sexy as usual, which only served
to rile me up more.

He said, “I hope you’re still resting, Sweet. I know you
need it. I’ve been thinking of you all day. God, you can’t have any idea how
gorgeous you are when you’re asleep, exhausted and well-used. I get hard just
thinking about it.”

I snorted.

He continued, “You’re very sore, and just so you know, you
aren’t the only one who’ll pay a price for a few days from all that fucking. I
welcome the soreness, though, because of the perfection of what caused it.”

Gee, I thought, I’m so glad you can bear it, Mr. Tough and
Mighty.

He breathed out a long breath. “I keep thinking of you this
morning, spread open for me, denying me nothing ... your beautiful surrender.
Nonnie, when you asked me to take you one more time ... oh, Sweet, you don’t
know.”

I hadn’t asked him to take me one more -- no wait. Had I?

He said, “Call me, or email me when you get this message.
Let me know how you are. And rest, Sweet. Recover. So we can be together again
soon.”

The message ended.

Had I asked him to take me again? One more time? What one
more time?

I remembered him tucking me into my bed, and then touching
me, and how I had given in to him, said it was okay for him to fuck me again,
even though I didn’t really want him to, even though all I really wanted was
sleep.

He had taken advantage of me in a weakened state. That’s how
I saw it.

Wasn’t it?

He took me once, then we snuggled together, my head on his
shoulder, my arm flopped over his chest, his arms around me. I slept for a
short while, and woke to him sliding his fingers between my legs, my pussy
still slick in the folds from the lubricant he had squirted on and inside me.

I sniffled, I think, or something like it when he told me to
roll over on my side, facing away from him. He spooned against me, one arm
under my head, reaching under and back to cup my breast in his hand. His other
hand slipped between my legs and rubbed me.

I think I began to cry when he pushed two fingers into my
poor, aching pussy. He told me not to worry, that he wouldn’t fuck me again.
All he wanted was to stroke me, to be inside me. He said he knew I couldn’t
take more than that. Just a few fingers, that’s all he wanted.

I told him yes. And it wasn’t bad, just uncomfortable, his
fingers slowly, so slowly, sliding inside me, him careful not to bring his
fingers all the way out, to spare me the entry. It was gentle, and slow and
hypnotic in a way.

I drifted off, I think, but not for long. Michael’s
breathing had changed, no longer relaxed and steady. His fingers still moved
inside me, but faster than before, and his hand cupping my breast began to
squeeze me. I felt him tense, then heard a deep breath, and soon his fingers
resumed their former lazy pace and his hand loosened on my breast.

Before too much longer, though, his breathing picked up
again, as did everything else. When he took a deep breath, this time I felt the
pressure of his cock growing harder against me from behind.

I didn’t see how it was possible, but he was becoming
aroused again. He wanted me again.  But he was fighting it, trying to
control it.

He whispered, “I love your tightness. But I’ll keep my
promise. I won’t take you again.”

He rubbed his cock against me and said, “I can come just
like this, without being inside you. Don’t worry.”

I lay there listening to him, to his breath, felt the
pressure of his fingers inside me, the twitches in the muscles of his hard
belly pressed against my back. I was warmed by his decision to spare me, and
thought that I could take more if he needed me to.

I said, “You can do it faster than that, if you want. Your
fingers, I mean. It’s okay.”

He groaned. And picked up the pace.

I didn’t need to remember all the details of what happened
next, and then next, and so on. It all escalated, driven forward by my offers
of more. He never asked it of me. I offered it freely.

I offered more, and more, until the only thing left to offer
was everything. And so I offered it. I remembered exactly what I said.

I said, “Go ahead, Michael. Come inside me. Your cock. Go
ahead.”

His fingers slipped in and out of me, his hips ground against
my rear. He grunted and said, “No, I promised.”

I said, “I know. It’s okay. You said that because you
thought it’s what I wanted. It’s not though. Not now. This is on me. Not you.”