There was me thinking the ropes were as far as this would go.
I trust him. That’s all that matters.
With a firm hand, he lifts my upper body, guiding me toward him. I shuffle forward, breathless, until I collapse into his lap like a boneless, spent mess.
But he doesn’t let me linger.
Without a word, he begins to reposition me, reshaping me with confident precision. Hands on hips, then thighs, adjusting each angle until I’m arranged exactly how he wants—obedient, exposed, surrendered to the unspoken geometry of his desire.
“This might sound strange,” he murmurs, tone dark but steady, “but I’m going to remind you to breathe. And when I do, you need to listen. Understand?”
“I think breathing is kind of hard to forget,” I joke, grasping at levity—but he doesn’t laugh.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even smile, not that I can see much from this angle.
I barely have time to register the shift before his palm lands with a sharp, unforgiving crack across the curve of my ass.
Air rushes from my lungs. The sting blooms like fire, hot and deep, lingering far too long.
The second strike follows fast.
Just as brutal.
Just as consuming.
And now I understand why he warned me.
Again, he delivers another with brutal precision, landing just shy of the first.
He’s painting my skin with his handprints, but this time his hand lingers, softening the blow slightly.
“Breathe,” he orders, and I comply, sucking in a jagged gasp of air. “Do you know how long I’ve imagined having you over my knee like this?”
Another blow, and another.
Off instinct I scrunch my face up, bracing for the next wave of heat to sting my ass cheek. But this time he presses into my lower back with one hand and eases two long fingers inside my soaked pussy, commanding my G-spot to do exactly what he wants.
“Fuucckk,” I moan, trying to fight the way my channel tightens.
“Breathe,” he commands again.
I fear now, without him instructing me of this basic function that I’d already have passed out.
“Breathe, Nell,” he says, voice low and patient. “You didn’t breathe.”
He doesn’t move—just holds his fingers still, a quiet threat layered in restraint.
I gasp, panting and flushed, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. “I did!”
His gaze darkens. “That’s not how you speak to the man who decides whether you cum or not.”
I swallow hard.
Because damn it—he’s not wrong.
But if he doesn’t, my little battery-operated friend is definitely making an appearance tonight… as long as I can retrieve my suitcase from the hedgerow first, that is.
He massages my sensitive spot inside again, working me like putty in his hands. God, his fingers are doing something to me I’ve never experienced!
