Paul takes the hairbrush from my mouth and pushes me, face first, against the wall before I know what’s happening. “Hands on your head, legs apart,” he says. “Place your forehead against the wall. Good. Now, keep still.”
This is easy. I love it. I absolutely adore it when he takes control. What he does next, surprises me. I thought he’d spank me with the brush. Instead, Paul uses my hairbrush, to brush my skin. He starts with my arms, firmly applying the bristles, in long, hard strokes. He varies this with a circular movement. First on one side of my body, then the other side.
When I shift restlessly, he slaps my thigh with the hairbrush. “Didn’t I tell you to keep still? I don’t want you to move.”
My core contracts with this curt command. “Yes, Paul,” I murmur.
Holy crap. How hot does he make me? Sex has never been like this. I once found it impossible to climax when I was with a man. But even with my face pressed against a wall, being brushed with a hairbrush, I swear that I could come right now.
“Do you trust me?” he asks softly.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says. I smile because I know that he’s smiling. I can hear it in his voice.
“I’m going to hurt you,” Paul adds calmly. “I’m going to give you pain, for your pleasure, and my own. You experienced pain with André already, so you have an idea of what to expect. We discussed safewords. Do you remember?”
“Sure. Red, stop. Green, go. Yellow, slow down.”
“Excellent. Use yours if it gets too difficult. I’m going to be careful. I’ll try not to give you more than you can take. Okay?”
“Alright,” I agree warily.
Initially, when he strokes my skin with the hairbrush, it feels pleasant. Kind of like scratching an itch. Everywhere he brushes tingles and warms. He soon picks up force and tempo, and his strokes become rougher.
“Ouch,” I gripe plaintively. “Shit, this really hurts!”
“Just take what I give you,” he says mildly, ignoring my protest, and continuing without pause. “That’s your job. Accept this. Do exactly as I say and do it immediately. You don’t need to think about anything else except obeying me.”
“Yes, Paul,” I say. It sounds easy, but it’s fucking hard to stay still.
He pauses and places a kiss on my neck, between my shoulder and my throat. I quiver. I can feel that soft touch lower. In my highly sensitized state, his lips feel like a heated brand of raw sex on my skin.
“I promise you won’t regret it. You please me,” he murmurs in my ear, with a tone of appreciation. “You please me very much.”
His approval, combined with his deep, sexy voice both arouses and calms me. “Thank you.”
My tormentor continues to energetically stimulate my skin. I struggle to remain motionless. My breath increases, coming in gasps. I think of women in childbirth. They’re supposed to breathe through the pain. I try long slow breaths. Is it helping? I can’t tell. Whimpering, I bite my lower lip, stare at the wall, and say nothing.
From time to time he slows, or stokes me gently, allowing me to collect myself. He uses softly coaxing words such as, “You’re doing so well,” and, “Good girl.” It’s like he’s the ‘horse whisperer,’ gentling a nervous mare. But he’s not the horse whisperer. He’s the ‘Emily whisperer,’ training me to do exactly as he wants. He’s also intuitive. I swear that he’s aware of exactly what I can take.
“Do you like this?” he says, vigorously scraping my back, my buttocks, and my thighs. My pulse pounds in my ears, in my veins, and in every inch of my skin. Christ on a cracker, is he going to draw blood?
Tears sting my eyes. “Um, no, I really don’t,” I say, hoarsely.
His laugh is heartless. “Good. Then I’m doing it right.”
The big sadistic bully.
I grind my teeth and clench my jaw. I almost don’t recognize my own voice. Why do I sound so strange? There’s an echo of throbbing agony there. If Paul keeps introducing me to pain and sensation, will I sound like a completely different woman? Will I be a different woman?
He’s awakened a part of me that I never knew about – yet it was always there. It’s like walking through a door to wonderland, and finding marvels that you’ve not once seen before. And yet, they are familiar. I’d had sexually charged fantasies of being dominated in the past, but consistently denied them, even to myself.
On the outside, I’m a good girl.
On the inside? Who knows what I’m capable of?
My skin is so hot. It stings and tingles. Just when I don’t think I can take any more, Paul stops and physically turns me around. He moves me easily. He’s so much stronger than me, but that isn’t why. I’m putty in his hands. He’s in control. Despite any physical discomfort, my surrender to him gives me a sense of safety, security and inner peace.
My thoughts turn whimsical. Hey. I don’t even need to go to yoga, or to meditate for this transcendental high.
After focusing on accepting and absorbing this bizarre, brushing pain for so long, standing directly in front of Paul is a shock. He towers above me, exerting incredible physical dominance. His potent masculinity is overpowering.
My mouth feels dry as dust. I swallow, hard.
With those high cheekbones, and perfect full lips – he has the face of an angel – and the mind of the devil. His eyes are bright, glinting with fierce pleasure. All this time, I’ve been suffering acute discomfort. Is that all it takes to make him happy?
Shit. It’s worth it.
He’s only wearing his belt and his jeans. My heart soars when I see the bulge along his zipper, outlining his straining hard-on. I feel beautiful, desirable and wanted by the man that I adore. I love the fact that I arouse him. I seriously want him to come.
The beauty of his face, combined with his broad shoulders, naked chest and abs, take my breath away. He’s deeply tanned from time spent in the sun. I know I’m staring, but what can I do? I can’t help it. I’m mesmerized.
His possessive gaze makes me tremble.
His eyes narrow, as he studies my expression. I can hide nothing from him. I swear that he knows exactly how I feel. “You’re mine,” he reminds me. His voice rings with authority, profound conviction, and hints of sensual pleasure.
“Yes, Paul,” I agree, feeling utterly owned. I may not have him forever, in fact, I’m pretty sure that I won’t. Yet, in this instant, we belong to each other.
Right now it seems like more than enough.
Chapter 16.
“The submissive willingly gives power away. The dominant accepts and uses that power.”
– André Chevalier
~~~
Paul’s lips curve at the absolute confidence in my reply. He nods his acceptance. It’s a simple transaction, this tangible power exchange of ours.
I agree to be owned by him. He agrees to own me.
When he starts to brush down the front of my arms, I gasp. His eyes meet mine and I cannot look away. They have an amazingly steadying effect. If his eyes could talk, they might say, “Yes, I know this hurts and I know that you hate it, but you’ll take this pain for me, won’t you?”
And my eyes, meeting his, would reply, “Yes, Paul. I’d probably do anything for you.”
Talk about kinky. Has the man put a spell on me? What is this magic? This deep, visceral connection that we share?
The simple truth of this moment is that he wants this. And I want it, because he does. Why? Because it makes him happy. I give him pleasure and satisfaction. In fulfilling his desires, I am fulfilled.
I’m so wet, that despite the pain that he’s inflicting, I can feel the warmth of my arousal, as it runs down my thighs.
I’m pleasing him. Knowing this turns pain into immeasurable pleasure. This sexual longing that Paul has awakened is deeper than anything I’ve ever known. It’s a feeling from both outside and inside myself.
Its source is my connection to Paul.
He hurts me and then he soothes the hurt. I crave comfort from the source o
f my pain. What the hell is this all about?
Dizzying, sensual warmth creeps up from within my molten core. I’m scorching hot, both inside and out. My hungry longing to be fucked is unbearable. Talk about kinky. Anticipation is part of it. What will he do next?
Paul surprises me with what he does, but I surprise myself even more. My responses to him are passionate and profound. I love these strange, captivating, heaven and hell sensations. Whatever he wants – things I’ve never even thought of – things that actually hurt, are exactly what get me hot.
I exhale sharply when he brushes my soft, sensitive inner thighs. But he tells me constantly how well I’m doing throughout. His voice is calm and soothing, he’s back to gentling an anxious horse.
Taking what he doles out makes me euphoric. It overrides everything, infusing me with aching hunger, caused by our bond. There’s a profound connection, here and now. He gives; I take. I give; he takes.
Somehow the end result of this exchange is the same for both of us: Intense and unbearably intimate pleasure.
Paul brushes every part of my body with ruthless force, neglecting only my breasts, and in-between my legs. He’s got something special planned for those ultra-sensitive spots, I suppose. Meanwhile, not even my toes or the bottoms of my feet escape his spirited brushing attentions.
There must be a billion nerve endings on my skin.
Right now, I can feel each and every one of them, all awake and screaming.
My flesh is alive, invigorated, and bright red. I’ve never been so aware of every inch of me. This sensitivity goes beyond mere touch. My whole body is burning. My eyes glance toward my fiery arms. I’m genuinely surprised that he hasn’t drawn blood.
“Look at me,” he says, standing directly in front of me. I do, of course, and he smiles. “I want you to look into my eyes, while I attend to your breasts.”
A tremor shakes my body. “Yes, Paul,” I say.
He holds my right breast first, pulling it up with an erotic pinch on my hard nipple. Just that sensation alone inflames me. He doesn’t hold back, he vigorously brushes under, over and around my breast, until it’s red-hot, throbbing and aching.
Throughout this torment, he stares at me with firm lips, studying my face. He’s riveted by my expressions, grimaces, and contortions. I’m in sensual agony.
After he completes my right breast, he starts on the left. When he finishes torturing them, he holds the curve of my breasts still, one at a time, and vigorously brushes each swollen nipple.
I whimper and wrestle helplessly with these powerful sensations. The sounds I make are continuous, one long, wordless noise. I’m in pleasure. I’m in pain. I am also ridiculously aroused.
There’s a stern set to Paul’s jaw. His hard eyes narrow. A flash of cruel joy sparks his expression. I know that he likes to hurt me. A shiver of fear floods my body and my inner core spasms. What is that about? Fear is an inexplicable aphrodisiac; it heightens my lust.
I’ve known Paul Jarman all my life. But do I really know this man? What is this darker part of him that enjoys giving such punishing torment?
“Good girl,” he says thickly, gently running his knuckles across my face, down my throat and along my burning breast. “Don’t resist the sensation. Try not to tense up. Just relax and take the pain. Take it as the gift that it is.”
Yeah right. Some gift. Most men send flowers or chocolate.
“Okay, Paul,” I say, while I force my body to let go and accept it.
Studying me, always watching, he continues brushing. “That’s right. That’s good.”
His low voice vibrates deep inside, elevating my pulse further. And the desire for me I see in his eyes? Man, it’s thrilling.
Paul’s so deliberate and controlled, but holy shit. He really wants to fuck me. I give a low moan. God, I hope so and let it be soon.
My breasts swell and they tingle. Leaning in, he suddenly tongues my nipples, squeezing and pushing my boobs up into his face. I call out from the incredible feeling of it. He takes his time, clearly enjoying himself, as he bites, licks, pinches and strokes my red skin. I love him touching my breasts, but right now, after being brushed, the sensation of it is more intense than anything I’ve ever known in my life.
“That feels so good. Please, Paul. Please,” I whimper. It would take very little to make me climax. “Can we have sex? Now? Please?”
“No,” he says.
I groan my disappointment but he ignores me. He can do as he likes, or not do as he likes. I’m his toy and his possession when we play his games.
He’s very aware of me. He’s not indifferent. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a conscious choice. Yet there’s something incredibly compelling about his complete disregard of anything, except for his own, single-minded intentions.
Paul wields and exerts his authority over me with calm confidence. His every action is a physical demonstration. He’s in complete control.
He claims my body and fills my senses. I’m in a fog of erotic joy as he does whatever he wants. I need his touch. I crave skin-to-skin contact with him. Touch me! Take me, use me, fill me! Fuck me, eat me, beat me… who cares? Just don’t stop.
Paul is my whole world.
My hands clench into tight fists, I wrap them into the hair on my head. I can barely contain an irresistible urge to put my hands on his shoulders, chest, or face. Most of all, I want to get those jeans off and hold that pulsing, hard cock of his.
He pulls away from my breasts and returns to wielding the hairbrush on my skin. The man is determined not to let anything deter him from his self-set project. When he firmly brushes my aching, swollen clit, I scream.
This doesn’t even make him pause.
I flinch and squirm, shifting restlessly as he continues brushing.
“Uh, uh,” he warns me, “don’t move.” He smacks me with the brush, straight on the tender flesh between my legs. I shriek. Shit that hurts! But I remain still.
My abused sex throbs.
His hazel eyes burn with pleasure. I try to obey him. I struggle to do exactly as he commands. I feel so needy and desperate. I’m frantic to gain his approval. I can see that he enjoys this look of desperation on me very much.
Raw, burning lust roars through my veins. “Fuck me, Paul. Please, please, just fuck me,” I whisper in a hoarse murmur. Those words just mindlessly bubble out of my mouth. I’m at the end of my rope. I need him inside of me. If I don’t have him inside me soon, I honestly think that I may die.
For that instant, his concentration and control shatters. He drops the brush, and pulls me into him, in a passionate embrace. My hands leave my head of their own accord, reaching for his broad shoulders.
“Hands on your head,” he growls, and I jerk in my rush to comply. His gaze is stern. “I didn’t give you permission to move them, did I?”
I could kick myself for screwing up. What was I thinking? Was he going to fuck me? Dammit. “I’m so sorry, Paul,” I apologize, and I really am. I could wring my own neck. I hate the idea of disappointing him.
He tangles his hand in my hair, and yanks my head back, bringing me to his mouth for a rough kiss. The bite of pain to my scalp is delicious. He’s using my hair like a leash – and I love it. I’m his devoted pet, his slave. Right now, for one kind word, look, or even his nod of approval, I’d give myself, or my soul.
I love everything he does. I need this.
I’m bright red all over. With my skin buzzing, his touch feels like a brand. He smells like man and musk, he tastes of coffee. My entire body feels like one huge, throbbing clit. I’ve never felt so sensitive, so sexualized. I tremble uncontrollably.
When he pulls back, he studies me. I fight not to flinch. Everything about him is so powerful. So intimidating. And so fucking hot.
Just like the sun coming out from the clouds, on a dark day, he smiles.
I melt from the sensual heat of it.
My skin burns. Paul’s worked his will upon my flesh, and he’s pleased with w
hat he’s done. How does he do it? He evokes the most powerful emotions and sensations that I’ve ever experienced.
His sharp gaze meets mine. Raw power emanates from him. I inhale a deep breath. His eyes search my face, looking for… what?
This urgent need to satisfy him staggers me. It’s all-consuming. I ache to give him more… to give him everything. Palpable energy passes between us. Can he see how I feel, just from looking into my eyes? Can he see right through to my soul?
I can tell the moment he sees what he’s searching for. It’s like he suddenly found the answer to a secret. His features soften. “You’re so beautiful in your submission,” he says, his voice is low and filled with awe.
Oh. Once again, I suddenly recognize something important.
This is what it is to be submissive. It’s a deep physical need, this ache of inside me. Only his dominance can give me relief. Only his pleasure can complete me.
Holding my wrists, he takes my hands from my head, and kisses each open palm. I’m completely overwhelmed. I can hardly meet his eyes. The look in his gaze is intense. What is this? Devotion, adoration, or perhaps an act of worship? I’m blown away.
What does he see that makes him look at me like this? How wondrous would it be if he always saw me this way?
Paul’s sensual lips sear my flesh. Of course, my palms weren’t spared his vigorous brushing attentions. Neither was my face, or neck. I realize then, that there is only one place on my body that he hasn’t used my hairbrush on.
Despite the somewhat reverent moment, I giggle.
His expression registers surprise. Smiling, he tilts his head, and arches an eyebrow. “What?”
My giggle bursts into a chuckle, then a laugh. “Do you realize, that the only part of me that you haven’t brushed, is my hair?”
Paul bursts out laughing. His joy is uninhibited, which is amazing. He’s always been too serious. My heart swells, because I’ve made him happy. This makes the sound of his lighthearted joy even more precious.
Entranced, I stare at him. He’s the most beautiful man I know. Paul swings me up in his arms, spins me, and kisses me thoroughly.