Aftercare
Later, she will hold him close, and assure him – in gleefully graphic detail – how much she enjoyed herself; shackled widespread to the steel cage, clamped and collared; whimpering and twisting against her restraints as he lands stinging, agonising blow after blow to her softest, most tempting parts.
“No need for guilt”, she says, “you’ve done nothing wrong. I wanted it. I needed it. I loved every second. Uunnffhh, when you fucked me with one hand and twisted my nipple with the other, so damn hot. The look in your eyes when you were calculating where to strike next. Fuck. I’m wet again just thinking about it.”
He reaches a hand downwards, meets liquid heat as her legs part in welcome. Feels himself hardening against the weight of the duvet.
Memory flash: her big dark eyes spilling black-streaked tears, self-control and mascara melting together; how her squeals turned to whimpers, then shrieks as he adorned her with savage artistry.
“You are so fucking beautiful”, he murmurs, “mine, mine.”
“Yours”, she echoes huskily. “All yours. Every way you want”.
Saying the words sends spears of quicksilver through her, a sharp indrawn breath as the lightning blast of want strikes, a long moaning exhalation clenched around an aching need.
Fuck yes
“Yes? Even this?” He prods one of the lurid leather-knot welts inflicted with the cat’o’nine tails, grasps a handful of her bruise-dappled thigh and squeezes. “Like this?”
“Yes, oh yes, please, yes” and she closes her eyes for a moment, the better to recall in loving detail; looking up at him from inside the steel cage, doe-eyed and vulnerable, panting and flushed with endorphins, adrenaline, pure wicked lust. The rough edge on his soft tone as he told her how glorious she is, how much fun to play with, what a good girl, such fun to brutalise. It’s a privilege and an honour, he said, lashing at her hip with the crop; breathing thank you for giving me this into the crook of her neck as he reached around to release the clamps on her nipples – for only a second – then slowly closing them again. I’m so proud of you, he crooned, and kissed her like he’s fucking her mouth with his, hungrily, hard and deep.
The marks she now wears are badges of honour, first-prize rosettes, devotion embossed on her skin in red and purple.
In the pre-dawn bedroom darkness and without her glasses on, she can only just make out her lover’s outline, but lack of light is no barrier; they navigate by touch and instinct. Her hand, spit-slickened, clasping, sliding, stroking; his, roaming and rubbing. He traces from memory those impact sites where his instruments of pain landed, feels her shudder and melt against him, offering herself without expectation or need for mercy.
No guilt, no shame, no regrets – only joy; intimate and intense.
