Chapter 32
Nash
The private room door closes behind us. I lock it. The click of the lock changes the air.
Ruby stands in the center of the room. The spanking bench is against the wall. Leather restraints hang from the frame. There's a tray on the side table with a vibrator, lube, towels. Everything I requested when I booked the room.
"New rules," I say.
She turns to face me. The defiance is still in her eyes, but the edge has shifted. Something quieter is underneath.
"In this room, you call me Sir." Her jaw tightens. Her chin lifts. "You don't come without permission." Her teeth catch her lip. "You count when I tell you to count. If you lose count, we start over."
"Nash—"
"Sir."
The word sits between us. Her jaw tightens. Her shoulders pull back. Her fingers curl at her sides.
"Sir," she says. Quiet. The syllable lands heavily in the room.
The word hits me low in the gut. Hearing it in her voice, this woman who calls me Nash, Nashville, and Nasty and has never once deferred to anyone. The surrender in that single syllable sends blood rushing south so fast my head spins.
"Good girl." I cross to her. My hand finds the back of her neck. I tilt her face up. Her pulse hammers under my palm. "Colors?"
"Green." Her voice is steady. "Very green."
"If anything turns yellow, you say it. If anything turns red, everything stops. I stop. Immediately. No questions."
"I understand."
"Say it back to me."
"Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. You stop immediately."
"Good girl." I kiss her forehead. Her skin is warm against my lips. I hold there.
I reach for the hem of her top. Pull it over her head slowly. Her breasts bare, her nipples already hard. I trace my thumb across one, and her stomach clenches. I unzip the skirt. Let it fall to her ankles. She steps out of it. Naked except for the heels and the plug.
I unbutton my shirt. Her eyes track my hands, moving down each button. When I shrug it off, her gaze drops to my chest, my stomach, the line of hair below my navel. I unbuckle my belt. Unzip. Step out of my jeans. My cock is hard, straining, and her eyes fix on it. She swallows.
"Go to the bench."
She walks to the spanking bench. Her fingers trail along the leather padding. She looks back at me.
"How do I—"
"Lean over it. Stomach on the pad. Feet on the floor."
She bends over the bench, and her stomach settles on the leather. Her hands grip the front legs. Her thighs are still wet with my cum, the base of the plug visible between her cheeks.
The sight of her bent over the bench, spread open and waiting for me to touch her, nearly breaks the last clean edge of my control. My cock hangs heavy between my legs, aching.
I rest my hand on her left cheek. Let it sit there so she can feel the warmth of my palm against her skin.
She tenses under the touch, anticipating, and I make her wait because the anticipation is mine too.
The weight of what I'm about to do settles into my hands, my arms, my chest. The trust she's giving me by staying bent over this bench lands deeper than the sight of her body ever could.
"Ten," I say. "You count each one."
"Ten what?"
I bring my hand down. The first strike lands on her right cheek, firm, the crack sharp in the quiet room. She lurches forward on the bench. The sting registers in my palm, hot, electric, and the sound of it shoots through me.
"One," she gasps.
I rub the spot. Let the sting settle in both of us. Bring my hand down on the left cheek. Harder. The impact vibrates up my arm.
"Two." Her voice shakes.
The third strike lands on the right again, overlapping the first, and the sound she makes is low, animal, pressed through her teeth. "Three." My cock pulses. The connection between the crack of my hand on her skin and the heat building in my body is direct, immediate.
I reach between her cheeks and twist the plug in a slow quarter turn. Her back arches off the bench, her fingers white on the legs.
"Oh fuck. Fuck. Sir."
"Stay still." I push the plug deeper, hold it, then release. "Count."
The fourth strike lands. "Four." Her voice is wrecked. The print of my hand blooms pink on her skin.
The fifth. "Five."
Her pussy glistens between her thighs, swollen, clenching around nothing. The visual makes my mouth water. I want my mouth on her. Want my cock inside her. I want everything at once, and the discipline it takes to stay on the count is costing me as much as it's costing her.
The sixth hits harder than the others, and she cries out loudly, her head dropping between her arms. "S-six."
"Color?"
"Green." Immediate. "Green, Sir. Don't stop."
Seven. Her ass is red and hot under my palm. The heat transfers through my skin. I twist the plug again and she keens, the sound high, broken. My cock jumps at the sound.
"What number, Ruby?"
Silence. Her breathing is ragged. Her mind has gone blank.
"What number?"
"I-I don't—"
"We start over."
"No. No no no. Seven. It was seven. Please, Sir."
The please. Unscripted. Real. It does something to my chest that has nothing to do with sex. I rub her ass gently. Both cheeks. Letting the heat settle. My hands trembling with restraint.
"Seven," I confirm. "Keep counting."
Eight. Nine. Each one followed by a number in a voice I've never heard from her. Stripped. Raw. Each number tightens something in my chest alongside the ache in my cock. The arousal and the awe braided together so tight that I can't separate them.
Ten. The final strike. The crack echoes. Her whole body sags against the bench. Her ass is dark red, radiating heat. The plug base sits between her cheeks, her thighs shaking.
"Good girl." I lean over her. Press my mouth to the back of her neck. My cock presses against her ass, hard, and she pushes back against it. "You did so well."
She makes a sound against the leather. Half sob, half laugh. "I can't feel my legs."
"You don't need your legs yet."
I pick up the vibrator from the tray. Click it on. Low setting. Press it against her clit from behind.
She jolts. "Oh god. Oh god, Sir."
Her pussy is swollen, dripping, her clit engorged.
The vibrator makes contact, and her hips rock back into it instinctively.
I hold it steady, letting the vibration do the work.
Within thirty seconds, her thighs are shaking and her breathing has gone rapid and shallow.
Watching her build toward an orgasm I'm not going to let her have yet sends a dark, satisfying pulse through my chest. The power of it.
The responsibility. The knowledge that her pleasure lives in my hands and I'm choosing to hold it just out of reach.
"Don't come," I say.
"What?"
"You don't come until I say."
"You have a vibrator on my clit after spanking me ten times with a plug in my ass and you're telling me not to come? Those are—Sir, those are impossible parameters."
I increase the speed. She screams into the bench pad. My cock aches, the sound of her screaming vibrating through my whole body. I'm eager to bury myself inside her right now. I don't.
"Don't come."
"I can't—I'm going to—Please. Please, Sir."
I pull the vibrator away. She sobs. The denial rocks through her body, her hips chasing the sensation that isn't there anymore.
Watching her chase it. Watching the frustration and need war across her body, as well as her fingers clawing at the bench legs.
I'm so hard it hurts. The ache has moved past discomfort into something sharper, something that feeds on every sound she makes.
"Breathe," I say.
"I hate you."
"Color?"
"Green. I hate you and I'm green. Both of those things are true."
I press the vibrator back against her clit.
Build her again. Her moans climb as her fingers tear at the bench legs, her body coiling tighter with every second.
I watch her get close. Feel it in the way her thighs lock, the way her breathing stops.
My breathing has gone shallow. My hand holding the vibrator is steady, but my other hand is gripping the bench so hard the leather creaks.
I pull it away.
"NASH."
"Sir."
"SIR. Sir, please. Please let me come. I need to come. I've needed to come since you bent me over this bench, and I have been extremely patient. The patience is over and I am begging you, which I never do. Which should tell you exactly how desperate I am."
Her voice breaking on the word begging. The brat, begging. Something primal moves through me, hot and possessive.
"Ask me again."
"Please, Sir." Her voice breaks. "Please let me come."
I press the vibrator against her clit. Full speed. "Come."
The orgasm rips through her. Her back arches off the bench, every muscle locking, her pussy clenching in visible pulses.
The scream tears out of her before she buries her face against the leather to muffle it.
Her legs give out and the bench catches her weight.
The orgasm goes on, rolling through her in waves, making her body shake.
Her fingers scrape against the leather. I watch every second of it.
Every pulse, every shudder, every sound.
My cock throbs so hard my vision grays at the edges.
I hold the vibrator steady until she pushes my hand away. Then I click it off and set it down.
"Breathe, Ruby."
She breathes. Ragged. Her face is pressed against the bench pad.
"Color?"
"Colors don't exist anymore. I am beyond the spectrum. I have transcended color."
"I need a word."
"Green." She turns her head. One eye visible. Mascara smudged. "Very, extremely, impossibly green."
I run my hands over her ass. Gently. Over the heat and the redness to soothe it.
Down her thighs. Back up. The skin under my palms is hot from the spanking, and the contact grounds me, pulls me out of my own need for long enough to take care of hers.
I reach between her cheeks and grip the base of the plug.
"I'm taking this out now," I say. "Bear down."