She’d taken her time with his bondage, spread eagled with scarves not ropes on the four poster bed. Pashminas, available in every colour of the rainbow, made soft thick holds around his wrists and ankles. Blindfold, ball gag (he could spit it out if he really worked at it), safeword more for her comfort than his and indicated by a raised little finger.
Flesh, and the abuse thereof came with its own clichés. His torso was not an unmarked canvas waiting for the touch of an artist or a pristine landscape without footprints, it was hairy and warm, every pore on his skin releasing that delicious pheromone she had to call musk because there wasn’t a word for the cloying, back of the nose taste that came with sex.
His nipples were two brown whorls, like matched knots in a wooden plank. She took the left one between thumb and forefinger and rolled it back and forth, gently. Long nails bit into his skin, just below his collarbone, as she grabbed him and took a deep breath.
Scratch, scratch, scratch! Warning or warm up was never part of her style, but flesh rending was. She felt her nails flex as she penetrated the first layer of the skin, and even as she drew red runnels and abrasions the gaps under her nails filled with torn skin. She hooked her hands into cat claws and plucked his chest and stomach with quick, pecking motions.
He was grunting through the gag. With the flat of her palm she slapped his chest, slapped his face and slapped his thigh. Moving lower she cupped and lifted his penis, considering her next move.
She’d taken great care with the nail brush before she did this, scrubbing her hands clean before she hurt with them so there was nothing worse than little flecks of plum “Holly Wood” polish, but concern for his well being as well as wilful cruelty made her take rubbing alcohol and dab it onto his chest, everywhere she’d cut or hurt him. Cheap pharmacy disinfectant that dried the skin and burned and dollar store cotton balls that were stained pink wherever he was bleeding.
Not to let him rest, while he adjusted to the burning she flicked his testicles with her middle finger, letting it bounce off the pad of her thumb so the nail kicked upwards like a little boot into the wrinkled, sweet smelling skin of his scrotum. It made a soft noise, fffft, ftttt, followed by a gagged yelp.
“Aww, babe!” she said, and despite her sarcastic tone she still felt sympathy. Her mouth replaced the flicking finger, finding and tasting his nuts eagerly. It was cock worship, plain and simple- nuzzling, mouth filling desire that seeped through her skin. It took a while to get an erection going, but half hard and her naked, curl furred crotch was grinding his.
“Fuck me, fuck me!” The inanities of a porn star’s vocabulary fit her mood as she clumsily tugged his legs free and pulled the gag out so she could cover his mouth with kisses. Mounting him, she pushed his penis into the engulfing rings of her vagina, shoving it past the tightness with the lubrication of his suffering. “FUCK ME!”
The blind fold came off so she could meet his gaze, begging him with her eyes while he was still stretched in cruciform at her mercy. He humped up and into her, and she found her clitoris in its hood and did her level best to batter it down with her fingers. Frantic self fondling followed, as she was so slippery her fingers slipped and stabbed the inside of her outer labia twice, hard stinging. She knew he was watching her breasts bounce and her spine contorting arousal, but it was the eye contact and the kisses that always brought him off.
She risked her clitoris again, wiping off her extra wetness to awkwardly fret the region until his pounding and her work gave her one of those tingling orgasms, a powerful reflex that drew guttural sounds from her diaphragm.
“I’m going to come!” he warned her, the way he always did as if checking at the last minute if it was still okay.
His own orgasm was always more picturesque, with moaning and delicious sounds marked first by a rapid pistoning of his hips and then a slowing that felt like gentle waves sloshing. She giggled, still afterglow-happy, with radial warmth and tender breasts. Her hands stroked his bound arms. Cold up by the wrists…
“Shit, your hands!” Knots always took the longest when you were trying to hurry them, even big soft clots of fabric. He flexed his finger and she winced. Guilt stabbed.
Though there was pins and needles in his fingers, and she was tenderly squeezing and massaging his hands between her breasts, he kissed her. “Jeeze, they’re fine…”
“No, but…” Her forehead was furrowed with distress.
“Go make me some tea,” he said with mock sternness. “Jeeze!”
When she stood and rushed to the kitchen for the kettle up he clenched his hands into fists, hard so even his short nails bit into his heavily calloused, if blood deprived hands. He smiled.