Her velvet-soft, creamy skin looks beautiful with the trickles of crimson staining it. She’s a stark contrast to my heavily tattooed skin, and I’m thoroughly enjoying her untouched quality—minus some faded scars I’ve noticed on her back. But I’ll keep those questions for later.
I rise, walking behind her as I drag the claw over her skin. Red scratches rise in my wake, some deeper, with tiny droplets of blood welling over them. Wherever I go, she turns her head in my direction, seeking me, desperate to hold my gaze. She’s slightly uncomfortable with all the others watching her, even though they have no idea who she is with that mask on.
I stride to the wall and grab my favorite riding crop—smooth on one side of the clapper, with small stainless-steel spikes on the other. Starting with the smooth side, I slap her thighs as I search her gaze for limits she doesn’t voice. I increase the force, but she barely flinches.
I snap it over her inner thigh, where she’s much more sensitive. Again, she takes it well. Repeating the motion, I hit harder this time, and she gasps, flinching, but I can tell she can take more. Then I drag the clapper over her exposed pussy, stopping right over her slick hole, and slap her once more.
“Aaah!” The moan ripping out of her mouth is nothing short of visceral. Vivid.
I drag the leather over her clit, and when I whip it, she cries out for a god I don’t recognize.
“More,” she urges.
Fuck, she’s exquisite. My cock responds to her demands, desperate to feel her again.
I turn the crop around, the small spikes now the stars of the show as I whip them over her thigh. She attempts to jump within her bonds but fails, and I reach over from behind her, sliding a finger through her exposed center, snapping the spiked crop against the front of her thigh again. Her core twitches, slick pleasure coating my finger.
I drag those spikes up her body and plunge three digits inside her warmth. She cries out, squeezing them, writhing even harder when I slap the leather against her mound.
My fingers thrust and roll in and out of her as I slap the clapper against her flesh on the same rhythm. She moans louder, trying to push against my hand and fuck herself with it, her gaze constantly seeking me over her shoulder.
Only, it’s the pleasure she’s wholly focused on. No pain clouds her gaze. No tears. No soft pleas chanted from her lips.
And that’s whatIneed from her.
I drag the metal claw over Scarlet’s skin, reveling in the arch of her body, muscles pulling against the leather straps. Then I snap the spiked crop against her thigh, harder than I’ve ever done before with any sub. She cries out, breathing quickening, lips parting with little gasps that make my cock ache.
She’s not showing it, but I must have hurt her. I peek over and droplets of blood seep rapidly from the graze I left over her ribs. She might have enjoyed it, but my stomach drops just enough to make me uneasy.
Her gaze flickers to the viewing window again. Frowning, I turn to the crowd, walk over there, and in one swift motion, I pull the curtains shut.
“Better?”
She nods with jerky, rushed movements.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
“I-I know you like it. I thought it’s what you want.”
“You silly, silly girl.” I rip off our masks, grasp her jaw in my hand, and hold her attention hostage. “It’s you I want.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise as her gaze flickers between my eyes and my mouth. She wants a kiss, but I release her without gracing her with one. Instead, I give her one more painful whip of the crop, and her body jumps in response, as much as the restraints allow.
“Look at you,” I murmur, circling her with patient steps. “You take it so beautifully, kitten. But let’s see how much you can really endure.”
I flick the riding crop against her inner thigh, and the spikes leave a delicate constellation of marks. Her body jolts, her head tipping back as she moans—a sound that’s almost too pretty. Too deliberate. It fuels something dark and unrelenting in me.
Switching the crop to my left hand, I let the claw glide up her ribcage, just barely breaking the skin. Her chest heaves, and I drag the claw higher, over her nipple, circling it before flicking the point directly against the sensitive bud. Her cry is sharp, a perfect symphony of pleasure and pain—or so it seems.
I strike again, and the crop lands on her exposed cunt this time. The spikes leave tiny indentations on her soft flesh, the perfect contrast to the slick arousal coating her. Another cry spills from her lips, and her hips jerk forward.
I don’t stop. I scratch the claw down her stomach hard enough to leave shallow, stinging cuts. The crop’s spikes bite into her outer thigh, then her inner, and then directly over her clit. Each strike is deliberate. Calculated. My gaze fixes on her face, searching for the cracks.
Her cries grow louder, more breathless, her body shuddering with every touch, but something about her reactions doesn’t sit right. Her moans are flawless, her trembles almost too perfect. I switch back to the crop only and slide my fingers inside her inviting warmth, fucking her with them simultaneously.
Pleasure and pain are a wonderful combination, and yet, she only seems to respond to one of them.
Pressing the tip of the crop against her clit, I thrust three digits into her, hard, relentless, curling just enough to make her body tighten around me. I strike her inner thigh again, harder this time, and watch her jolt against the restraints. Her head snaps up, and she gasps loudly, a cry spilling from her lips that feels...off.
