Hurt Me, Please

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Author’s note: This is one of those stories that came to me and demanded to be written immediately. This is a down and dirty story about some down and dirty, rough SM sex. But I hope you like it anyway.

Thanks,
Belle

“Hurt Me, Please”

I’m standing at the sink, finishing up the dinner dishes when I catch his reflection in the window. It’s pitch black outside, and glass has become a dark mirror into the house. He’s grinning.

I smile back at him as I turn to put the last glass in the dishwasher. When I straighten up, he’s right behind me, and it occurs to me that it’s a little strange that he never changed out of his work clothes. His tie is loosened, but he’s still wearing the button-down dress shirt, suit pants, and thick leather belt he put on when he got ready this morning.

I’m wearing one of his old sweatshirts, naked underneath as usual. He snakes an arm around my hips and pulls me back against his chest. I dry my hands on the dish towel, and rest my head on his shoulder. I’m waiting, feeling myself tense in anticipation. His hand slides up my stomach, under the sweatshirt.

He looks at us in the window mirror.

“I’m in a mood,” he says.

“Yeah,” I ask. “What kind?”

“The kind you like.”

He raises his other hand and I see the length of rope and the cordless wand vibrator.

“Oh,” I say. I try to straighten, planning to turn and kiss him. But his hand presses into my abdomen, just below my heart. I widen my eyes, raise my brows, as we stare at each other in the reflection.

“You need to know, Em, I’m not kidding around.”

He sounds so serious, even with the smile and the gleam in his eye. I quiver inside, suddenly too warm for the sweatshirt.

I nod, struck speechless with desire. He slides his hand back, releasing me, and steps away. I turn toward him and strip off the shirt in one movement. He nods toward the small side table at the end of the kitchen island. I walk to it and drape myself over it, elbows on the top, legs spread so my feet are aligned with the table’s. I grip the edge and arch my back and the cool air in the house hits my dampened pussy lips and I shiver again.

He moves behind me, squats down and pushes my legs together. He holds my ankles tightly together, and the starts looping the rope around my thighs. He’s tying my legs tightly, pushing them together so firmly that I have the fleeting thought that he won’t be able to get his dick in there when he wants to.

I twist to look back and I can only see the top of his head. He’s working quickly, not using any fancy technique, but I’m familiar enough with his skills to realize that he’s set up a quick release tie that will undo the bondage with one fast tug.

Then he’s fidgeting between my legs, his hand pressing my inner thighs and he slides the wand vibrator down, stuffing it into the cocoon he’s made of my flesh. The bulb hits my clit. I turn my head back, and he readjusts until the pressure of the cold, unmoving vibrator head pushes my clit into hiding. I feel his fingers spreading my labia, outer and then inner, until I’m completely exposed and the vibrator head has nearly invaded me. He hasn’t said a word the whole time.

He’s stroking my back, brushing my hair off my shoulders, and then running his hands in long passes down my spine and over my ribs. I can feel his body heat behind me, hear the faint squeak of his dress shoes on the tile. I’m trying to parse his mood, to figure out who he wants me to be right now. His touch is gentle, delicate, almost tentative. But his fingers are trembling, and his breathing is heavy, and I know he’s holding something back, he’s building a scenario in his mind.

I could be in trouble.

The best kind of trouble.

He steps to one side and swats my ass. He hits right on the meat of my cheek, with a thud that reverberates through me. Then he hits the other cheek. It’s much less than I was prepared for, a fraction of what I was anticipating. It’s the clue I need.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, softly.

“No,” I say.

Two more swats, no harder than the first.

“No?” he asks, pretending bebek escort to be surprised.

“No, I don’t want that.”

“Hmm.”

I hear him unbuckle his belt. I shiver and my pussy clenches.

He slaps my ass again.

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to hurt me.”

“You want me to hurt you.” He slaps again, lower, closer to the backs of my thighs. “You want me to hurt you, do you? Why? Do you deserve it?”

It’s sort of a trick question. We don’t play punishment games. I’m not bent over this table because we’re pretending that I’ve been naughty, or that I need correction. I’m too much of a pure masochist for that. And he’s too much of a pure sadist.

“No,” I say. “I want you to hurt me.” He smacks my ass, harder. I try again. “I want you to hurt me because I like it.”

“Oh,” he says, faking his surprise pretty well. He’s lightly tapping my cheeks with both of his hands, patting more so than smacking, and the unfulfilled promise is pushing me toward an edge.

He stops, steps away from me.

“You expect me to just give you what you want because you like it?”

I hear him unzipping his pants. I have the sudden thought that maybe he is punishing me. That maybe the mood he was in was just to tease me, to rile me up and arouse me with this promise, and leave me hanging. I can smell his arousal, and the sense memory of the taste of his precum fills my mouth.

I arch my back hard, pressing my tits in to the table, rising up on tiptoe.

“You think you should just get whatever you want, right, Em?”

But his tone gives it away. He’s as aroused as I am. His voice cracks on my name, and I know that’s the last time I’ll hear it tonight.

“No,” I say. “You like it too.”

The sound of his belt sliding through the loops on his pants sends another shiver down my spine. He snaps the leather together as he folds it in half. In my mind’s eye, I can see him gripping the buckle and the tail together, raising it over his head.

But the strike that lands is soft again, a bare butterfly kiss of leather, and I groan in frustration. He chuckles, and the deep sound sears through me. I can’t believe he’s holding himself back.

He swats me with the belt a few times, each one measured and almost gentle.

“I do like it,” he says as he works. “I like the way you wiggle even when you’re trying to hold still. I like the sound you make when you grunt.”

Each sentence is punctuated by a smack, and I realize that they’re gradually getting harder. He’s talking more, about the way my skin looks, and the way I smell when I’m really aroused, and the taste of my sweat.

He stops.

I go for broke. “That’s not all. It’s not about me. You like it because you like it.”

“Oh.” He draws the word out for a long time. I think I’ve struck a nerve. I hope I have.

He steps close to me, and I feel the brush of his pants on my ass and the backs of my thighs. My skin is more tender than I’d thought, and the fabric is rough, sandpaper made of cotton. He bends down, and his heat smothers me, his weight anchors me. I roll my hips and feel his erection, his head poking aimlessly near my asshole.

His breath is hot in my ear. “I do like it.” He kisses my earlobe. “I’m going to make you cry.” He kisses my shoulder. “I’m going to make you scream.” He kisses my elbow. “I’m going to make you beg me to stop.”

He stands, positions himself, and strikes with his belt. A solid, stinging strike that reverberates through me.

“And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

He starts in earnest now, whipping with the belt, making sure both of my cheeks are struck at the same time. He’s methodical at first, walking the belt up and down from just below my tailbone down to the crease of my buttocks at the top of my thighs. Several of the smacks hit the vibrator and push it against my clit.

He picks up speed and I feel my first orgasm rumbling its way through me. When he settles in and concentrates on one area, at the thickest part of my butt, the orgasm bubbles up and I gasp. My fingers dig into the edge of the table mecidiyeköy escort and I rock my hips, grinding down as best I can.

He stops long enough to watch the after effects. Then he reaches down and turns on the vibrator. The pulses transmit through my clit, directly into my brain, and I cum again, crashing before I’ve had time to catch my breath.

He waits, and for a split second I think he might be done. Then I hear the whistle of the leather in the air and the sting of the belt into my butt and I know he hasn’t even started yet. He’s hitting so fast I can’t tell one strike from the other. He’s given up being methodical, and he’s letting the belt land wherever it lands. I’m making a strange guttural noise that I don’t even recognize, as he ramps up the intensity again.

The vibrator is pummeling my clit, and his belt is pummeling my ass and everything below my heart is on fire. It doesn’t feel like impacts or vibration. It feels like holding my hand over a candle flame and daring myself not to move. It feels like a blowtorch. I’m liquid inside, boiling and burbling, rip currents of pleasure and pain colliding over and over until I’m melting.

He keeps hitting me and I barely register the sound of his belt moving through the air. I hear him panting, grunting, and growling. Or maybe that’s me. I can’t tell. I hear his voice, but I don’t have time to think about the words. I’m cumming so hard that it hurts. My stomach muscles contract and release, and start contracting again before they’ve fully relaxed. I can’t get any air. I’m gasping and gasping.

He stops again.

“What did you say?” he asks.

The absence of sensation is disorienting. The vibrator hums, but without the heat of the belt it’s meaningless. I have no idea what I said. I had no idea I was trying to say anything.

I could call this all off. With kinks like ours, of course I have a safeword, but I’ve never used it. I’ve never wanted to.

I push myself up, arms straight on the table. I shake my head. I feel his tension behind me. I twist around, try to see him, but he moves away.

“What?” he asks again.

“Please,” I whisper. And the rest follows unbidden and unthought. “More, please. Please hurt me.”

His hand between my shoulder blades is gentle as he pushes me back down.

He starts again. My body reacts, jerking and twisting, twitching and jumping as he lays into me. The leather is landing more wildly. The vibrator beats against my clit, now mostly numb. But every now and then the end of the belt hits it and the jolt revives me. I’ve had more orgasms than I can count, and my body is wracked. The fire has grown, and covers my whole body, even the parts he hasn’t touched. My nipples are sore from dragging the tabletop, my fingers have cramped from holding on. My arms feel like overcooked noodles. My eyes are hot, because, yes, I’m crying. I’m sobbing, in fact, and still he keeps going, and I’m riding that. I’m riding his need and my need and the endorphins are flowing and I might as well be high. Another orgasm punches its way through me and I cry out.

He stops. I’m panting and so is he. I try to push myself up, onto my elbows, but none of my muscles are working.

“What is it?” he asks. His tone is hard, cold, verging on annoyed.

“I…” There’s a thought in there somewhere. Something I think he should know.

“I…” The pieces are running around loose in my brain.

My cunt hurts. My clit is screaming.

“Seriously. What?” He sounds concerned now. Slightly.

“I can’t…” That’s part of it. That’s the main idea. I blink, press my hands to my eyes. Everything is spinning.

I shift on my feet and the wand rubs. I groan.

“I can’t cum anymore.” I’m not sure where the words came from, but they lined up in the right way.

“Bullshit.”

He reaches down, and flips the wand to its highest setting. He steps to the side, one hand on the back of my head, pressing me into the table. He beats me, mercilessly, and I do cum again. The orgasm roars through me, like Godzilla destroying Tokyo, like the H-bomb taking out bikini island. I lose myself florya escort completely. When I land again, he’s not hitting me. But he’s holding the vibrator to me, pressing it hard into my clit, grinding it against my pelvic bone.

It’s a cold pain in the middle of an ocean of fire. I’m sobbing, screaming, begging him. I slip back into my skin mid-cry, and my whole body shakes. I can’t tell what I’m begging him to do. He twists the vibrator, and I scream.

“NO!” I scream.

He laughs. ‘No’ is not my safeword.

I shudder and convulse. I gag on nothing. He twists the vibrator again, and my body has given up. There’s nothing left of me. No way I can respond. All my nerves and muscles have vacated the premises.

He slams his cock into me in one swift move, stabbing so deeply inside me that the table shifts and I swear I can taste him. He has one hand on the vibrator, holding it for his own pleasure, I think. His other hand digs into my hair, pulling my head back even as he presses down with his forearm on my back.

He fucks me, hard. He fucks just as mercilessly as he’d hit me. His pants and the teeth of his zipper scratch at my tender skin and his thick, rock hard shaft impales me over and over again. I won’t cum from this, I’m not able to. He wrung every last orgasm that I was capable of, and he’s taking his pleasure in me like I don’t even exist. It’s a glorious mindfuck and my very favorite kind of trouble.

He doesn’t take long. With a few more thrusts and a low grunt, he cums. He jerks my head back, hard, and then lets go. He pulls out as swiftly as he’d entered me. I’m disemboweled. I’m a hollow shell about to collapse in on itself.

He walks away and I slide off the table, falling to the floor in slow motion. I lay on the cold tile, eyes closed, still panting, hot, sweaty, freezing, spinning. I manage to turn off the vibrator. When it stops, I scream again.

Gradually I catch my breath and the world stops spinning so fast. Pieces of my mind fall back into place and I start to recognize my own limbs. I open my eyes and see stars. I close my eyes and the stars are still there, a million minute supernovae creating new universes in my brain. I realize that the freight train I’ve been hearing is actually my heart beat, the blood rushing in my ears. I realize that I haven’t actually melted into the floor, nor am I floating near the ceiling. It’s a rather disappointing realization.

Something itches on my leg, and I reach down, feeling the ropes. I remember the quick release and jerk the end of the rope loose. As the ropes slide off and the vibrator slips out, I feel my legs fall off, then gradually reattach themselves. All limbs accounted for, I try to roll over. I think about standing, but the floor has other ideas.

I lay there a while longer.

Then from the other continent of the living room, I hear him.

“Bring that in here. I’m not done with you.”

Grinning, I manage to clamber to hands and knees. I drag the wand and the rope along in one hand and crawl the ten feet to where he sits on the couch.

I’m moving through a fog toward the promised land. The carpet is a desert; the couch an oasis. I’m desperate to get to him. I’m desperate for more.

He’s naked now, siting with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He’s moved the coffee table to one side, and he has more accessories piled on it. I add the rope and the wand to the assortment, and kneel between his legs. I rest my head on his thigh.

He strokes my hair as I close my eyes again. I inhale his scent. I drink in his warmth. I open the towel and press my face into his crotch. I lick his pubic hair, and take his tumescent prick into my mouth, sucking myself off of him. I just hold him there, savoring the sensations. I hear the click of his lighter and smell wicks burning.

I look up, his cock still in my mouth, and meet his eyes.

Zeus himself didn’t look so powerful. Adonis would be hideous next to him. Atlas a weakling; Hermes a plodding tortoise. I know it’s just the endorphins and the trust talking, but I don’t care.

His cock stirs in my mouth, thickening with a pulse. He pulls gently on my hair, signaling to move off of him. Reluctantly, I let him drop, kneeling up with my hands behind my back.

He leans forward and kisses me. He breathes my soul back into me.

“What do you want, love?”

“Please. Hurt me.”

He grins.

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