It began with a light smack upside his head. Downton Abbey in the background. Rolling around, wrestling and kissing. Fucking him, on the couch, his arms thrown up over his head, pulled taut but the leather cuffs and the soft tangle of rope, not knotted up properly in some orderly fashion, but set just to hold him helpless.
My cunt, engulfed around him, hilting repeatedly, watching the shaft vanish into the dark pelt of my hair and the lurid pink of my labia. It’s the sort of view that sticks with me, turns me on later when I think about it. He’s swearing, because I’ve been teasing him earlier, palm and fingers, circle grip that swirls and drives him to whimper and arch his back. I note those human things, the way that as he loses himself in the sensations as he comes, his abs push out, legs folding.
Before, seeking, looking for the right button. Trying slaps, spidering my fingers into his armpits in scurrying hooks, seeking him groan as my hand slides under him and the sharpness of my nails scrape his back. Later, in the shower, I will see livid curls of red, tracks of where I rent him. When I uncuffed him, he asked me to rub his upper arms, where they were sore from the pulling and tingling from how he’d pressed into the wooden curve of the couch arm.
The large hall of the shooting range was empty except for six people, giving it an eerie ghost town calm. It was one of the places where Landfall taste was at war with the practicalities: no carved wood and patterned wallpaper, just dull, unreflective ricochet tile on every surface, swallowing every sound, before it could reverberate. The range was lit by bright beaming, ugly shatter proof lighting. By size alone, the room should have been echoing and instead it was stifling, and everyone looked grey skinned and more strained than they were.
They’d left the exclusive residential district of the Harrington townhouse and gone to one of the new but respectable suburbs of the city. Phillip had found he was half dozing, carrying the damage to his body quietly, sitting on the floor or the car. Annette stroked his head distractedly and her two closest guards stayed alert in their seats, expectant. He felt slightly feverish and very tired.
True to her word, Annette let him sleep in her wide, comfortable bed, and he stayed there until one of the chamber maids appeared to change the linens. The maid departed without completing her task, giving him time to dress and reorient himself to the mid-afternoon sun and confusion of his routines and regulations.
She had, in the time he slept, dressed in day clothing, reapplied makeup and changed her hair, though asides from a few loose tendrils, the blonde coils were covered by a simple house cap. Timmans had evidently recovered and was back at work dressing her mistress.
“I don’t like your face, it’s too prickly,” her fingers lightly brushed his cheek. “It’s uncomfortable when I slap you.”
Phillip lay face down on his bed, lying on a new feather pillow with his battered ass still throbbing. There’d been light pain killers with his meal, and the ache was bearable afterwards. He’d taken a worse beating in the hands of the guards back in prison, with their fists and boots, but this was another novelty that was still threatening, but rather than giving him pride in his conviction it made him ashamed and awkward.
Capital city prostitutes that catered to the jaded tastes of metropolitan clients would offer flogging and binding as a novelty service. He’d been exposed to that once, mid way through university when he went out whoring with his friends and a plump woman with two bow decorated braids had tried claiming to be a bad little girl in need of a spanking. He’d passed her over in favour of a less creative red head with more straight forward services and put it out of his mind as a weird perversion some men paid for, but now he wondered if he should have learned more about the practice.