Blue Tributary

BLUE TRIBUTARY

He traced the blue tributary across her palest flesh, pausing at the edge of her areola. “You’re a marble goddess.” Her skin pricked with tiny bumps. She vibrated deep inside her body. A small moan rumbled low in her belly. She exhaled, and held her breath. “You’re also a sensitive little thing. Are you ready for me? Are you sure? There’s still time to deny…”

“Never,” the word erupted quickly, and even she seemed surprised.

His finger went back to that mesmerize line of blue feeding her nipple. The same little nub that just tightened down and began to glow red. She made an agonized sound, but was a good girl and kept her hands behind her back. She knew if she didn’t, he would ensure she didn’t have a choice.

She liked being obedient without restraints. His commands and wishes should be all the binding she needed. They were. She let her eyelids sag closed.

His big hand cupped her little orb. She pushed into him. He gently massaged it, lifting and supporting it. Her. He had a way of holding her, tying her up, binding her to him without so much as a string. It was just him and his magnetic draw. Just a look and she knew instantly what he desired.

He always asked; always gave her an out. He knew all too well how she suffered, even if it was in silence, mostly. He enjoyed the release as much if not more than she did. She needed this, she needed what he gave her. It was the best therapy imaginable.

Sometimes all she needed was to have the outsides match the insides. Sometimes she was so distraught she needed the bruises and broken skin just so everyone could see the real her, the damaged her, the girl with the broken soul.

“Ask me.”

Her lip quivered and finding the words was difficult. “Please…”
He waited. He also increased the pinching pressure on her nipple. Her pussy flooded. His grip increased until he was squeezing the entire tip of her breast. She gasped and clamped her eyes shut. It’s just pain. Get through this first part and it’ll be okay. Just pain.

His voice was barely audible, “Ask me.”

“Please…Sir.” Both nipples now. Vice like pressure. “Please Sir, hurt me.”

His exhale was full of unspoken understanding and a hint of relief, “Assume the position.”

“Yes Sir.” She turned, pressed her forehead to the bed, pushed her ass up in the air, spread her knees and rolled her pelvis. Her arms remained above her head with her fingers gripping sheets.

“Good girl.” His breathing stuttered as he studied her most private parts. She was after all, bared to him. Shaved, clean, shiny, pink; accessible.

There was always a regimented sequence. First the hot skin of his palm, gentle, caressing, almost worshipful. A wetness check followed by the sounds of him stroking his hardened length, another groan, and often a short moment of lips to bare behind, and sometimes tongue to entrance. Then he would withdraw with a resigned sigh.

The sound of the leather laces as they sliced the air was her only warning. It was a whirling sound, an ominous sound. Then rapport of leather against skin—hide against white flesh—and still the pain was slow to come. The nerve endings sluggish to react. But then they do, and seconds later the burn and sting and so much pain. Sweet, narcotic, endorphin releasing pain.

“Count.”

“Yes Sir…one…two…three.” He always paused after three, waiting no doubt for the red lines to appear and her breathing to change. It always did, no matter how many times she endured, she couldn’t remain silent; her lungs always gave her away. “Four…five,” soon the tears would begin. The cleansing tears. The melting of her brain that she so dearly craved. “Six…seven…eight.”

Now his breathing changed. The exertion of swinging a heavy flogger always made him sweat. He often let out a sympathetic groan. She wasn’t sure if he even realized the sounds he made. Sounds of pleasure and pain, arousal and discomfort.
Often she could get lost in just him and the audio sensations happening all around her. The forecast of leather through air, the swat and machine gun rapport against her skin, his labored breaths; her own mewls and moans.

“Nine…ten…eleven.” Now it was starting to burn. “Twelve…thirteen…fourteen.” She never knew how many, or how long a session would last. It was worth it though, worth every second for the aftercare.

No man on earth was as tender as a dominant, correction, a dominant sadist, after meeting out a flogging to his masochistic submissive. It’s just pain. It’s just pain. “Fifteen…sob…sixteen…seventeen…fuck…eighteen.” Now the tears were falling, but the barriers were too. Now the peace was arriving. The silence and contentment. The belonging. “Nineteen…twenty.”

“I need to take you.”

“Please.” She whimpered. “Please.”

~Payne Hawthorne

All roads lead to Payne