Chapter 4 #2
The… what's that? Something is moving through the trees.
Oh, shit. There he is. Holy fuck. He took his mask off. He's not wearing…
He looks up.
I lift my free hand to my mouth and bite the back of it. My god. He's actually fucking hot. I mean, I could tell he was hot. Even under the mask. But seeing it for the—
"There's my good little slut," he calls.
My pussy clenches just from his voice.
"I'll be right there, you naughty whore. Stay wet for me."
Oh, I'm wet all right. I'm fucking wet.
He disappears under the leaves and branches, but I can hear him climbing up. He gets here fast, like he climbs rope ladders for funsies.
And then… he's behind me.
I'm suddenly dying for him. For this touch. For his fingers, his hands, his cock, everything. I want all of him, right now.
His hand wraps around my throat from behind—not choking, just holding—and my entire body goes still.
Prey response. Frozen. Waiting.
His other hand slides between my legs.
I'm so wet his fingers glide through my folds without resistance. Zero friction. Just slick, humiliating evidence of how badly I want this.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "You're fucking soaked."
I bite down on my free hand again.
His thumb circles my clit—slow, deliberate—and I make this pathetic whimpering sound that echoes across the clearing sixty feet below us.
"Do you have any idea how beautiful you look like this?" His voice is low. Rough. "Bent over. Restrained. Waiting for me to punish you."
I can't answer. Can't think. His fingers are doing things that make my brain shut down.
"But you were very, very bad, weren't you?"
His thumb presses harder against my clit and I gasp.
"Those men touched you. Put their hands all over this pretty body." His grip tightens on my throat. "Made you come."
Oh god.
"This body belongs to me. Not them. Me."
His fingers push inside—two at once—and I cry out.
"Say it."
I don't understand what he wants. My mind is fog and need and the feeling of his fingers curling inside me.
"Say you belong to me."
"I—" My voice breaks. "I belong to you."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours. I'm—fuck—I'm yours."
He pulls his fingers out and I actually whine at the loss.
Then his hand comes down on my ass.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot and pain explodes across my skin—sharp, bright, searing—and I scream.
Holy shit.
That hurt.
That actually fucking hurt.
But underneath the pain: pleasure. Deep, throbbing, impossible pleasure radiating from where his palm connected with my flesh.
My pussy clenches around nothing.
"Count them," he says.
Another strike. Harder this time.
I can't breathe. Can't think. The pain is—it's too much and not enough and—
"Count."
"Two!" I gasp it out. "Two."
His hand comes down again. Same spot. Building heat on top of heat.
"Three!"
Again.
"Four!"
The pain is climbing now. Stacking. Each strike landing on already tender skin, amplifying the hurt until I'm sobbing into my arm.
But I'm also grinding against the beam. Desperate. Needy. My hips moving on their own, seeking friction that isn't there.
Five. Six. Seven.
I lose count somewhere around twelve.
Everything blurs together—pain and pleasure and the sound of his palm against my ass and my own voice crying out numbers that might be wrong but I don't care anymore because oh god oh god oh god—
He stops.
His fingers slide between my legs again, finding my clit, and I nearly come on the spot.
"Don't you dare," he warns.
I freeze.
His fingers circle. Press. Tease.
"You don't get to come until I say you can."
I'm shaking. My entire body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Please." The word rips out of me. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
His fingers push inside me again. Three this time. Stretching me. Filling me.
"You need to be fucked. Used. Owned."
He pumps his fingers slowly. Too slowly.
"You need someone who understands exactly how filthy you are."
I'm panting. Desperate.
"Someone who knows you write about being watched while you masturbate. About strangers touching you. About being punished for coming without permission."
His thumb finds my clit again and I nearly sob.
"Someone who's read every single one of your stories and knows that what you really want—what you've always wanted—is to be completely powerless."
I can feel it building. That edge. That cliff I'm about to fall over whether I have permission or not.
"Don't come," he says again.
His fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot that makes my vision go white, and I bite down on my hand so hard I taste blood.
"Good girl. Hold it."
Another spank. Hard. Right on my already burning ass.
I scream.
His fingers don't stop. They keep working. Keep pushing me higher.
Another strike.
Another.
The pain and pleasure merge into something I don't have words for. Something that makes me feel like I'm fracturing apart and being rebuilt all at once.
"Please." I'm begging now. Full-on begging. "Please let me come. Please. I can't—I need—"
"Not yet."
His fingers pump faster. Harder.
My orgasm hovers right there—right fucking there—and he won't let me have it.
Spank. Spank. Spank.
"Please!" I'm sobbing now. Actual tears streaming down my face. "Please, Master, please—"
He leans over me. His chest presses against my back.
His mouth right next to my ear.
"Beg me properly."
I don't even know what that means. I'm too far gone. Too desperate.
"Please let your slut come," I gasp. "Please, I need it, I'll do anything, please just let me—"
"No."
His fingers withdraw completely.
I make this sound—this broken, desperate, animal sound—because he just took everything away and left me dangling on the edge with nothing to push me over.
"You come when I decide you've earned it."
Another spank. Brutal this time.
My ass is on fire. Every nerve ending screaming.
But my pussy is still throbbing. Still desperate. Still needing.
His fingers return. Slower now. Teasing.
"Count for me again. From one. And this time, thank me after each number."
Oh god.
His hand comes down.
"One! Thank you, Master."
Again.
"Two! Thank you, Master."
The rhythm builds. His hand. His fingers. My voice counting and thanking and breaking apart with each strike.
"Ten! Thank you, Master!"
His fingers slide through my wetness—so much wetness I can hear it, slick and obscene—and circle my clit with maddening lightness.
"You're dripping all over my hand," he says. "Making such a mess."
I am. I know I am. I can feel it running down my thighs.
"Filthy little slut."
His fingers push inside again. Deep. Curling.
"Don't come."
I'm dying. Actually dying. This is how I die—sixty feet up in a tree, restrained and desperate and so close to orgasm I can't see straight.
"Please." It's barely a whisper now. "Please, I can't—I can't hold it—"
"Yes, you can."
Another spank.
Another.
His fingers work faster. Harder. Relentless.
"Hold it."
I'm breaking. I can feel it happening. The part of me that's still trying to maintain control, still trying to be good—it's shattering.
"Please let me come. Please. I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Anything."
"Anything?"
"Yes! Yes, anything, just please—"
His fingers stop moving.
Still inside me.
Not moving.
"Then prove you can obey me first."