Hidden Desires Page 9

  I was flipped onto my stomach in a no-nonsense fashion, his left arm easily anchoring me there, his right— Well, his right hand did what he would have said it did best. It spanked me. Thoroughly and silently. Relentlessly.

  I thought I'd had bad spankings before, but everything else paled in comparison to this. I was hollering from the get go, trying to twist myself away from him in any way possible, but it wasn't happening. It was never going to happen, unless he suddenly turned into a ninety-eight-pound weakling.

  And, of course, nothing I did disrupted his rhythm in the least. By the time the last powerful swat fell, I was frantic, beside myself, and he was panting—but not just from having delivered that chastisement. Not at all from that. He was panting because he was seething.

  And that knowledge didn't help things in the least. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if this man decided he wanted to truly hurt me, he most certainly could. He certainly had enough implements at his disposal to do so in a very creative fashion. Heaven forbid, he took those ham sized fists of his to me.

  But then, he turned me over and I caught his eye. Yes, he was pissed beyond all measure, and I could even understand his anger to a certain extent. But more importantly, I could see beyond the anger to him.

  To Dart, but past that, to Quint. I might call him by his correct name now, but he would always be Quint to me, the man who had, at times, taken exquisite care of me, who had implemented rules for me that were entirely for my own benefit—well, the majority of them, anyway—and who had, very early on in our relationship, confessed his love for me, even though I hadn't reciprocated and had even pretty much discouraged him from doing so. Despite the condition of my rear end, he was what he had told me he was—a gentleman, predisposed to be protective.

  When push came to shove, I couldn't bring myself to believe that he would ever hurt me in a manner that would make me feel abused—pissed, yes, as in the case of his deception, which I was more than willing to confess at any time, I took my revenge to a bit of an extreme.

  My thoughts didn't really help me that much, except that I came to the understanding that I either trusted him with me, or I didn't. There wasn't much room for middle ground when the man could rip you in half if he really wanted to.

  I was picked up again and brought to where I was now, again with no conversation.

  His inquiry was the first time he'd spoken in a long time and pretty much rhetorical, considering the fact that I couldn't answer him, although I desperately wanted to. I did kind of nod and shake my head, wishing he'd remove the gag and let me apologize to him.

  When I contradicted myself like that—however quietly—his hand found its way into the hair at the back of my skull, yanking my head back, so I could meet his eyes. "I bet you wish I'd take out the gag so you could talk to me—so you could explain yourself."

  I nodded.

  "Well." He almost sneered. "To quote someone we both know, 'that ain't gonna happen'."

  The implement held in his big hand was one that looked relatively innocuous, but I greatly feared it. He could have bought a Loopy Johnny, but he didn't. Unfortunately for me, there was a willow tree in my front yard—and another in his backyard—and after he had bound me up the way I was now—minus the blindfold for the moment—he had left me to stalk out the front door. I knew what that meant, which was why he'd left me there, able to see and thus anxiously anticipate that which I knew was coming.

  And he didn't play around. He didn't just come in with one willow switch. He came through the doorway with a whole armload of them, knowing they had a tendency to rat and break.

  I was already dancing—as much as I could—and he hadn't even touched me—and it got worse when I saw the fairly gleeful grin on his face.

  The bastard.

  I had to stand there and watch him as he whittled them down, stripping them of the leaves and cutting them to a size that he could—horror of horrors—double over and gather into a small—but quite big enough—bunch before he replaced the blindfold and came to stand to one side of me.

  "I don't appreciate being thwarted, Tawna. That was not your decision to make—originally or after you learned who I was. You are the submissive in this relationship, and I intend to impress that fact on you this afternoon so that the next time you are tempted to do something like this, you'll remember the time you spent here, in your own house, tied up like this, with your already spanked behind glowing and hot and getting thoroughly striped on top of it."

  And it began without another word—but, instead, with the muffled sounds of me keening with every single strike. I couldn't see it coming, but I could hear it whistling through the air before it cut into my tender flesh. Because it was such a light implement, he took full, complete strokes. I could tell, because I'd been punished by him enough that I knew how long it took between one horrific point of contact and another. He was using what I assumed was all of his not inconsiderable strength, but still laying down the lines quite expertly, almost thoughtfully, taking his time, making sure that I felt the full measure of every one of his ferocious efforts.

  And the results were cumulative—each time the thin, whippy willow came in contact was bad enough, but he worked very methodically down from the small of my back over what had been—originally—the I was sure it was fire engine red and snaked with the little bee stung, swollen red lines that all interconnected and overlapped, all the way down the backs of each thigh, deliberately applying it even to the tender insides, and not letting my calves escape unscathed, either, so that every single bit of my backside, save my actual back itself, was scourged to within an inch of its life.

  And then he began working his way back up. And he made the trip three times, total, until I was mindless, I thought. Until the only thing I could think about was getting some kind of relief from the burning sting that was going to drive me out of my mind.

  Of course, he had a solution for my preoccupation, not that it was going to make me any happier. In fact, I'm sure he chose it specifically because it was only going to make me even more miserable, to add, in quite a calculated manner, to the power of the correction he was bothering to provide me with.

  Dart came to stand behind me, placing those enormous hands on my hips and pulling me back against the bonds he had placed on me, himself, until my muscles were all taut with it, then just past that point, dragging his denim covered self all over my rump, adding fuel to the fires that were already raging there and making me moan behind the gag.

  He released himself quickly then rubbed his essence all over me, too, as if in a stamp of ownership, dipping the head of his cock between my legs in what I was sure was a portent of things to come, although I wasn't quite right about that.

  "Someday," he whispered cruelly. "I'm going to have to see if I can whip you hard enough that you're not sopping wet when I'm done." He slipped into me, but just the head, not pumping or anything, as if he was just dipping his wick.

  And he was.

  "Of course, considering what I'm going to do to you next, you're going to be very happy that there's so much of you getting my cock all slick."

  Because, the next time he positioned himself against me, it wasn't between those smaller lips. It was at my bottom flower. And he was no small man, in any way, shape or form. He was, in actuality, much bigger than anything he had ever expected me to accept back there—and he spent a good amount of time and had added considerably to our collection of plugs of varying sizes. But none of them rivaled him for girth or length.

  With the broad head of his cock nuzzled menacingly up against that extremely vulnerable spot on my person, he reached up to grasp my breasts—not fondling them, not even really pinching my nipples, but using them more as grips to keep me in place, yet another way he was going to make it damned near impossible for me to move even the slightest bit away from my fate.

  "Now, little girl, this is going to hurt you. I know it, and you know it. And while it's hurting you, I want you to think about why I'm punishing
you. You know that I don't—generally—do that for my own amusement. I try to make sure that everything has a reason behind it, a purpose—and I want you to be thinking of what my reason is for fucking you in the ass like this—and I will fuck you. I'm not going to just sit there like some plug or dildo. I'm going to take you and use you until I come inside you, and you're not going to get away from me, you're not going to be released from your bonds to be held in my arms until I do."

  I had been sobbing and wailing—however muffled—from the moment he'd moved from where I knew I could take him, no matter how hard, to where I was horrified that he wanted to go.

  I was amazed when he reached up and removed the gag and I gratefully spit it out onto the floor, the scarf that had held it in place discarded there, also.

  And then he said it. Something that made my situation much worse without him having to raise a hand to me.

  "So, when you're ready to accept my discipline, you ask me—nicely—to punish you in your bottom. I won't move until you do, and I can stand here all day—can you?"

  My mouth was dry, my voice hoarse, but I couldn't stop myself from saying it, from begging, from pleading, even knowing that I was just debasing myself, that he would never relent.

  But I simply could not believe that he was going to make me responsible for him driving himself inside me.

  "Noooo! Dart, son of a—you can't possibly—how could I—I just can't—pleeeeaaasseeee don't make me!!"

  No response whatsoever.

  He stood there for a very long time, completely unmoving, poised to take me, and I knew he'd stay there as long as he felt he needed to.

  Until I submitted, completely, to him.

  Eventually, his hands left my hips and began to squeeze and pinch my bottom, and I knew that wasn't going to end soon, either.

  I was caught between a hard place and an even harder one.

  One last pitiful attempt at begging him to have mercy on me got me nowhere except more ashamed that I had felt the need to ask it of him.

  Remembering what he always said to me whenever he introduced something into me that I thought was absolutely enormous, I began to take deep breaths and do my best to try to relax in his grip, and the pinching and rubbing stopped as if he recognized that I was trying to prepare myself to meet my fate, his hands coming back to rest on my hips again in preparation.

  After a long moment of quiet weeping, I opened my mouth and whispered, "Please, Sir." I got at least those words out, but I knew he would never consider that to be enough. "Would you…" my voice broke on a sob "…please punish me in my bottom?" I said it all at once, as if doing so would mitigate it, somehow.

  He began to move, pulling me somewhat onto him as he advanced steadily forward. "Again, baby, louder, this time."

  I did it, but this time, it was interrupted by cries of pain rather than just tears as he stabbed into me.

  And when I was finished, he ordered huskily, "Again. Louder."

  I thought he was rending me in two. Because he hadn't used any kind of lube but my own, which was quite copious even at times like this but not very viscous, not only was I having to deal with trying to allow myself to stretch around him, but the lack of easy friction made it much worse than it might have been—but then that, of course, was his point. I was truly learning the meaning of the word "painal". I thought I was going to be bloody and torn and that he was most certainly killing me, maiming me at the very least, at least that's what it felt like. His progress was ruthlessly quick, too, as if he wasn't willing to afford me the time necessary to come to grips with what he was doing to me. He wanting it to be short and sharp and unbearable, and that was exactly what it was. Along with mortifying and humiliating. And—unbelievably—hot.

  When he'd sunk himself balls deep within me, having ignored every bit of my howling that alternated with groveling, he issued a groan that sounded as if it came from the very depths of him and began to rock himself even further into me as I wailed with each jerk of his hips as it forced me to open to him just that much further.

  Even rising up on my tiptoes didn't help me avoid him in the least because of that iron hard grip he had on my hips. And every time he surged forward, everything about him rubbed or scraped or otherwise irritated my butt or thighs or calves.

  It was miserable. It was horrendous. It was very thoroughly humbling and embarrassing.

  And then he began to withdraw, much more slowly than he had entered, as if he was savoring every last second of it—leaving me entirely, only to ram himself immediately back into me, beginning a rhythm that had me chanting "NO!" at him the whole time, not that he seemed to notice in the least.

  He fucked me hard, keeping me trapped up against him with nowhere to go to avoid each snap of his hips.

  The fact that I wasn't used to him doing to this worked for me in one way, though—he wasn't used to doing it, either. I was so tight around him that he didn't last long—even though he was often able to prolong his orgasms quite considerably, he wasn't able to do that this time, although I didn't know if that was because he decided to take pity on me—which was highly doubtful—or if he simply got overexcited by the act itself.

  It felt as if it took several centuries; in reality, it was over relatively quickly, with him arching over me, holding me tight as he released within me, shouting my name at the penultimate time, then remaining there for several long moments, quickly receding from me.

  Before he was even recovered himself, he was busy seeing to me—but everything else before my arms and legs, which had puzzled me the first time he'd done it, until I realized that he knew my muscles would be weak from having been bound so long, and he wanted to get everything else taken care of beforehand.

  So, he scooped up the remnants from the switches, picked up the gag stuff and put it away and generally tidied everything up, since he tended to be just the slightest bit anal in the other sense of the word, too, then he came up behind me again—which had me flinching a bit until he put a gentling hand on my back and squatted down to do something that I never expected him to do and vehemently wished he hadn't—cleaning me up quite gently and delicately. When he stood in front of me this time, one strong arm encircled my waist as he released my arms from the hooks first to be unbound quickly and rubbed briskly to help bring the circulation back, although he was expert enough that it wasn't much of a problem, really, and only then were my legs freed, while he was right there to catch me as I inevitably collapsed.

  He lay me on my bed—what had become our bed—on my side and followed me down, wrapping himself much more loosely around me than he usually would have, but still making sure I knew he was there.

  I turned onto my other side, slowly, painfully, to wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to that warm, broad chest. "I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry," I sobbed.

  Dart kissed my temple. "No, baby, you don't need to be sorry any more. The slate's wiped clean. You've done your penance."

  He held and rocked me as I cried, then spent the rest of the day taking care of me like a baby, spoiling and coddling me in every way—but one.

  Later, when I made so bold as to bring his hand to my privates, he tapped his fingers against them rather than delving into them as I wanted him to, saying, "No, honey. It's going to be a while for you yet. I haven't decided just how long, but I'm not going to bring you off—and you most certainly aren't." He gave me a fierce look. "And I do not want to hear a litany of 'when you going to get me off' questions, either, or there will be hell to pay."

  I couldn't believe my ears and began to cry in earnest again, which he was quite sympathetic about, but which also did absolutely nothing to change his mind.

  I went to bed that night in his arms, just as horny as I had been. And I remained that way for quite some time.

  Not that he didn't avail himself of me—in every way that struck his fancy—and not that he hesitated—ever—to discipline me. That ship had long since sailed. He just left me wanting, each and every time, knowing, especia
lly when he fucked me, that I was just aching and gushing and so horny it was absolutely painful.

  I thought I was going to die.

  It was six weeks—six horrid, awful, atrocious weeks, almost to the day.

  CHAPTER 9

  "T awna, come in here, please."

  We were at his place, where we had begun to stay more and more often—it wasn't the Taj Mahal, but it was a house in its own right, one that he'd already outfitted for his own special tastes.

  I, of course, had refrained from asking him just how many other women he'd brought there, knowing I didn't really want to know the answer.

  I had been right when I'd noted that the rest of the house looked as if it hadn't been updated since the seventies—he had told me that recently. He'd renovated the bedroom—because it used to be his parents, and he had those special considerations of his. The bathroom had been updated, as well.

  I loved that bathroom.

  It wasn't mannish at all or even all that luxurious, but it was good sized—as opposed to mine—and there was a big, deep bath tub with jets as well as a shower stall where the spray came at you from all directions.

  Heaven.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  He'd decided he'd liked the sound of that, so he had me calling him that, which came to me naturally, so it was no problem. As nerdish as he was, he looked like someone's Sir, and I certainly wasn't going to let it be any other woman!