Kneeling on the middle of my bed, I watched him untie the bow that held together the white curtains of the canopy. I offered him my hands, and he bound them together in the red and gold organza ribbon, before pushing my back against the mattress and attaching my wrists to the footpost of the bed. He threw a sweater over my eyes, and stepped off the mattress. I could hear him rummaging through drawers and bags, so turned my head toward the noise and the sweater slipped away from my eyes. When he climbed onto the bed again, he made a sound of disaproval when he saw my half-exposed face, but pulled the sweater away entirely.
My eyes were now free to watch him straddle me with a sly grin on his face and a belt in his hand. He drew the purple fabric of my dress up around my waist and began to stroke my clit with his free fingers. At first, slow, winding movements. Then quick, sharp flicks. Then, his thumb found itself inside me, and rotated within me, as his other fingers teased the outer areas of my cunt. He leaned over me, then into me, and his lips met, then swallowed mine. His lips traced my lips, the angle of my jaw, my chin, my neck.
And then, he pulled his body away, and with his folded belt in hand, made a motion toward my cunt. I closed my legs instinctively, but he inserted his hands between my thighs them and forced them open. He sat on the inside of my right leg, pinning it against the mattress, and pressed his weight against my left leg, which was bent at the knee, with my foot firmly planted in the bed. Then, after regaining his balance, he commanded the belt to bend, and brought it down against my mons pubis with a sharp snap. He repeated the motion but changed the target; the next snap tore across those nether lips, then the inside of my thighs, the lips again, the mons.
He pulled my breasts out from over the neckline of my dress, and smacked the nipples with the belt. I watched it snap up, fall back down. The pain was slightly delayed, inconsistent with the actual fall of each stroke; stinging only after the belt has lifted it's tongue from my skin. The first stroke would hurt mildly, but everytime he repeated a slash over the same tender flesh, my skin burned and I moaned.
He alternated hitting me, and kissing me, and rubbing my clit. And although I whined everytime that belt broke it's momentum against me, I grew wetter and wetter and wished for another lash. And each time my wish was granted, I resented it immediately and wished for a kiss instead. But when the sting wore off, and was replaced with the throbbing in my clit, I begged, in my head, for another stroke.
A strange cycle indeed. I'm not much of a masochist, but somehow, I like the idea of being challenged by him; of him knowing that he is hurting me but forcing me to take more just for him.