Hidden Desires Page 5

  It was the "long, sore, embarrassing" part—as much as the other—that struck me.

  And that seemed to be starting now, because I couldn't seem to get my legs far enough apart for him. But the worst thing was that he wasn't varying where the spanks landed in the least. Every one of them was piled directly on top of the previous ones, so that I was sobbing inconsolably by the time he got me the way he wanted me.

  I was crying so hard that I could barely see the items he put on the bed directly in front of me, where I couldn't possibly miss them until I blinked away more tears.

  Then I wished I hadn't.

  There was a paddle there that looked positively vicious, along with a cane, as well as two—count 'em, two—butt plugs that looked like they were made of glass, along with a good-sized dildo. The plugs looked vaguely familiar, but I didn't want to think too much about what that meant, frankly. After all, alcohol was a muscle relaxant. I had a feeling I'd be wishing I'd taken a shot or two before I got here, but who was going to think to do that at ten in the morning?

  And, as I lay there, completely exposed to him, I could already feel myself seeping onto the comforter below me. It was an interesting realization about myself—considering how badly my bottom was already burning. This man aroused me like nobody's business. Everything he did, from kissing my hand to whacking my bottom got me hotter than anything anyone else had ever gotten close to. I think that what was going to happen next was going test that little theory.

  He came to stand behind me, his fingertips on the small of my back, which was bared by my position. "Are you comfortable, temperature wise, or would you like me to bump the heat?"

  I knew that he had remembered that I tended to be cold a lot—another endearing quality.

  "I'm all right, thank you."

  "You're welcome," he said gravely, only I could hear the smile in his voice. "If at any time while you're with me, not just now, and you need to communicate something to me—whether you're gagged or not or just crying or whatever, snap your fingers and I'll stop whatever I'm doing immediately." His hands moved down to cup my throbbing behind and squeeze it, making me squeal a bit until I squelched it. "Don't abuse it, though. If I hear your fingers and it's just because I'm lacing into your butt and you want a break from that, I am not going to be happy."

  He rounded to the left side of the bed, and I could see him reach for the smaller of the two plugs.

  There was that squeal again, and it only made him smile.

  "I don't know if you remember these—"

  I shook my head, hoping he wasn't going to tell me about anything I really didn't want to hear.

  "Well, you took them beautifully when we were together that first time—of course, you were much more relaxed then. I bet it's going to be a bit more of a challenge for you now, especially the bigger one, when you're going to be very conscious of that part of you being stretched open—whether you want it to be or not."

  Although that sounded terribly ominous, it also sounded terribly hot. I had always been quite anal, but only on my own. I'd never really trusted anyone to do that for me—except Quint, apparently.

  He stood right there, in front of me, lubing it up. This first one was quite small—or at least it started out that way, I was relieved to see—but it graduated from "no one would even notice this" to "oh my God please stop!"

  Before I knew it, though, before I had a chance to come to grips with exactly what it was that he was going to do to me, he moved to stand behind me and I immediately felt the small end of it at the entrance to my bottom, which yielded—since it was so small anyway—with depressing ease.

  And he didn't take it very slowly, either, until the thing—which was about ten inches long—got to the point that he thought I would consider it harder to accept—only our assessments of those points differed wildly, apparently.

  "It will help if you try to relax and breathe deeply, but whether or not you do, it's going to happen anyway, since the entire purpose of this exercise is to remind you that you have no control."

  No amount of whimpering had any effect on him, either. He was resolute and firm, and I felt myself stretching more than I would have thought possible.

  And then, all at once, it was gone. But my respite was short lived, because after he disappeared into the bathroom, he picked up the second one, which was a true plug with a flange. It probably wouldn't be considered horribly huge, but it looked big enough to alarm me. I'd never let anyone else do this to me, and I wasn't at all sure I wanted him to, either.

  He lubed this one, but much less than the first, which also worried me. He caught my look and said, "You have more than enough slippery stuff already. Any more and you'll be able to push it right out of you."

  I didn't know exactly how much I believed him, but it didn't really matter, anyway.

  When I felt it at my little rosebud, I whimpered, "No, Quint, please!" and I felt his hips jerk forward at my plea.

  "Mmmmm, honey, I'm afraid this is going up inside you like the other one did, and this one is going to stay there for a while, too."

  As he stood over me, he noticed—as he seemed to notice entirely too much about me at inconvenient times—that my hands weren't out as far above my head as they used to be—they had minds of their own, wanting to reach down and rescue my poor bottom hole.

  "I certainly hope you're not going to get yourself into even more trouble by bringing your hands down to interfere with your punishment," he warned almost casually.

  My hands immediately found their previous position, and perhaps even past that, and I renewed my concerns that he was a mind reader.

  With the snubbed nose of that plug snugged up against me, Quint began to speak, pressing it gently into me then retreating, a little further then back again. "I'm taking pity on you this time, since you said this kind of play is so new to you. Normally, when you're punished in your bottom, I will simply put it in its place with no preamble. And that, frankly, is what I should be doing now. But I have a soft spot for you, and I'll give you a bit of a head start—although not much of one."

  Oh, dear God. I was being forcibly stretched around that thing, wider and wider, and he hadn't even reached the largest part yet. I had no idea when this little preparation period was going to end and he was simply going to drive it home inside of me, which made me that much tenser, which made it that much harder to accept its invasion. To say nothing of the fact that it felt entirely too good—much better than I expected—and much, much better than anything I had ever achieved on my own.

  To my horror, I heard him say, "It sounds to me as if someone is enjoying this entirely too much." And with that, he popped it into me in one push, ignoring my keening cry as I was opened further than I ever had been in my life. The pressure and the pain both scared and aroused me, mounting until the widest part was beyond my tiny ring of muscles and my body swallowed it automatically, clenching tightly around the much narrower flange.

  Somehow, I expected that he would move to my head, then, or pick up one of the implements, but he didn't. He remained back there, twirling the plug within me, obviously enjoying the sounds of my discomfort as I squealed and mewled and begged him to stop fiddling with it.

  Then he slipped two fingers between the wide end of the plug and where it disappeared into me and began to pull, as if he was going to remove it.

  The "no, no, no, no, no, no, please no, no!" that fell out of my mouth was entirely involuntary and completely useless. He was my dom, by my own agreement. If he wanted to remove it, he would.

  And he did.

  And it hurt.

  And I cried.

  Especially when he left half of it still inside me and began to press it back in, twisting it as he did so, back and forth, not letting up, not easing back in the least until he had drilled it into me a second time, completely ignoring my weeping, reaching beneath me to force me to offer up my bottom to him even further when I wasn't doing it to his standards on my own.

  Hell, no
, I was trying to cringe away from it, but his hand prevented that as he shoved a couple of fingers rudely into my pussy.

  And when he removed them, he brought them right up to my head, putting them right next to me. "You were doing a lot of complaining about taking your punishment plug. You're crying right now. It hurt a bit, didn't it?"

  I nodded, sniffling. It was better now that I wasn't so horribly stretched.

  But then he wiggled his fingers in front of me and I saw that they were covered in my own wetness.

  "I wonder where I got this from, then?" he whispered, catching my eye and making me blush furiously, even though I knew it was stupid to blush in front of him. He'd seen all of me more than once. "I know what you like, Tawna. I know what you want. And I'm going to give it to you. Some of it, you might discover that your body wants more than your mind does, like this."

  He took a position behind me again, reaching between my splayed legs, letting his fingertips land directly on top of my clit and saying, "Mmm-hmmm. Just as I thought. You're enjoying this entirely too much. I can't have that. This is a punishment, little girl. You haven't earned your pleasure. As a matter of fact, you've been so naughty that you owe me some of your pain and a lot of my own pleasure."

  With that, he grabbed the paddle, which was about eight inches long or so, not including the handle, and began decorating my ass with it. The sound of the swats echoed horribly in the room—it was like being swatted twice, once on the ass and again in my ears.

  Every time that horrible thing connected with my bum, it left a large patch of what I knew had to be inflamed skin that I was desperate to soothe, but I also knew I couldn't. And in very short fashion, it began to fall on spots that it had kissed before, until there was no virginal spot on the flesh of my behind—or down the backs of my thighs—that hadn't felt its sting at least two or three times—and he seemed in no hurry to stop, either.

  I cried and keened and moaned and wailed, but I also stayed put. I didn't even want to think what he might do if I moved out of position. But it was darned near impossible. I wiggled my butt as much as I thought I could get away with, which wasn't much—and it didn't help in the least. He landed every crack against me in exactly the spot he wanted it to land.

  And every wiggle, every time I automatically tried to arch away from that searing connection, I was reminded of the presence of that horrible thing inside me. Sometimes, although not very often, I had to admit, the paddle would actually hit the end of the plug and it would jolt me like a bolt of electricity, making me emit a high-pitched squeal, along with whatever outburst the smack itself inspired from me.

  It was terribly humiliating—both parts of it. To be naked and exposed and plugged and punished—it was horribly embarrassing—and even more titillating—although I couldn't always really see my way to that side of things, my body could, despite its distinct discomfort.

  When he stopped, and he didn't move away so I couldn't even be sure that he really had, I knew my butt had to be neon red and it felt fiercely swollen, too. I was crying and shaking, and even that hurt because it moved my butt.

  I should have known that he wasn't quite done with me. After all, I could see what he hadn't used on me yet, although I certainly didn't want to. I felt his hands on the insides of my thighs, spreading them even further apart until I thought I'd split in two, fondling me, almost gently touching that tender, sensitive skin but completely ignoring where I wanted him to touch me.

  And then he put the last three inches or so of the end of that paddle right between my legs, up against the bare, vulnerable inside of my right thigh, and I knew what he was going to do. There was nothing I could do to prevent him from doing it, but I knew and I began to howl. Even before he even drew his arm back, I began to howl, knowing what was coming for me.

  "Oh, yes, Miss Tawna. I intend that you will think twice the next time you decide to be late for your appointment with me. It was not at all a good idea for you to do that the first time we were to get together formally. It would have been a much different experience for you if you had decided to obey me, as you should, than it's going to be now."

  With that, he raised the paddle.

  CHAPTER 5

  I don't think I had any idea how much something like that could hurt—I'd never envisioned it or fantasized it. It was entirely untried territory for me in more than one way and I hated it.

  But it was happening and it was going to continue to happen until he decided it wasn't any longer, which was when he had distributed about ten swats per inside thigh.

  I was so preoccupied with my misery that I barely noticed when he moved to bind my wrists together and then to the headboard so that I would have no choice but to keep my hands above my head, and I figured that that was not a good sign for what was to come. He did the same to my knees and ankles so that I was going to stay obscenely open like that until he decided to release me. And then he picked up the cane.

  "Have you been caned before, Tawna?"

  "No, Sir," I barely breathed, not wanting to not answer him and adding the "Sir", even though he hadn't asked that of me, hoping it would make me some points and perhaps convince him to go easy on me. But no such luck, of course.

  "Well, then, this is a day of firsts, isn't it? I can assure you, it's not a pleasant experience, and it's going to be even less so, considering the condition your bottom is already in, but then you should have thought of that before you disobeyed me, shouldn't you?"

  On a long, miserable sob, I nodded and answered almost silently, "Yes, Sir."

  "I want you to count each stroke, and you will begin the counting so that you are the impetus for each stroke, as you actually are."

  "Please, no, Quinton—pleeeeaaaaaase, no!"

  He ignored my pleas. "When I put the cane against your bottom, then you are to say the count, and the stripe will follow. Do you understand?"

  I understood fully. I might think I had control, but in actuality, I had none.

  Back in place behind me, he reached down and adjusted the flange of the butt plug, twirling it slowly within me, making me groan not necessarily in pain, per se, but in deep embarrassment and humiliation that the thing was inside me and would be inside me as I was caned.

  He left it so that the flange, which was more vertically long than horizontal, was in line with my cleft. "That way, the cane will strike it, too, effecting two punishments with one effort."

  "Nooooo—"

  Then I felt it, in mid-howl. The cane was lying against the full curve of my buttocks.

  "Tawna, begin the count, and say each number clearly, or you will receive a stroke but it will not become a part of your total."

  My voice trembling with fear, I said, "O-o-one."

  I heard him draw his arm back and—long before I was ready for it—as if anyone could really be ready for it—the long, whippy rod crashed into me, the stroke expertly placed, not wrapping in the least and catching me exactly where he wanted to.

  It also came down directly across the top of the flange, sending a second, terrible jolt through my body of a very different kind.

  And there it was again, the signal to count again, long before I was even human again.

  "T-twooooooo," I wept.

  There was no way to get used to the feeling—it seemed new and infinitely worse each time. There was no relief whatsoever from the stinging, burning lines—that I knew had to be forming welts—that quickly began to overlap each other.

  And even screaming, every time I felt its kiss, didn't move him in the least. He gave me no time to recover, whipping me relentlessly, even on the backs of my legs—and I quickly came to the conclusion that those were the worst—although all of them were Hell.

  Pure, unadulterated Hell.

  All in all, he gave me twenty strokes, and I would swear that I was delirious through most of them. How I kept count, I will never know, but I will be forever grateful that I did.

  He left me there, bound and whimpering and sobbing inconsolably,
while he put things away, then came back to me and untied my wrists, keeping my hands together and slipping, naked, beneath my head, coaxing it down to his rampant cock, saying, "Suck me off as if you think it'll help you avoid another twenty."

  It was an unusual position, and I had no use of my hands. He had one big paw holding the ropes in one hand, the other leaning down to haul me up a bit, so that I was almost lying over his lap, his cock shoved to the back of my throat. This was going to be entirely oral, and he was a very well-endowed man. Still, he had certainly given me the right motivation.

  I took every bit of him, forcing myself to relax, doing my best to concentrate on him, which did help me ignore—to a certain extent—the agony that was my bottom—at least until his hand came down on my thoroughly insulted flesh, squeezing and pinching it horribly, even swatting me when I let what he was doing distract me from pleasuring him.

  And then he reached for the plug and began to play with it and I received another round of smacks for the same reason.

  "Perhaps you'll get the cane regardless of how well you bring me off, simply because of how you keep allowing yourself to be distracted from the goal I have set for you."

  I vowed within my own head that I wouldn't let that happen again, and despite the fact that he continued to spank me vigorously on top of the tracks he'd left with the cane, and that he kept crooking his fingers beneath the flange, threatening to pop it violently out of me, I turned all of my attentions to what I was doing, and minutes later, he exploded in my mouth with a guttural groan that quickly descended into a growl that lasted for a very long time as he emptied himself down my throat.

  Hoping he would appreciate my manners, I cleaned him up thoroughly, ending by placing my mouth over him, even though he was nearly completely soft.

  "Very nice. Very, very nice. Possibly nice enough to have earned you an orgasm."

  I couldn't even begin to think that I could come. I knew I was wet—the abominably sore insides of my thighs were moist with my own secretions, but I was a wreck.