Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (4 page)

“Are you going to hit me harder now?”

“You want it harder, don’t you?” he asked with amusement in his voice.

I turned my head to look back at him. “Not too hard, please. I’m a beginner.”

He smiled at me, and I wanted to save that smile forever. He made me move closer to the back of the couch, so my hips were bent right over it, and my palms were braced against the cushions. The paddle and strap stared up at me, taunting me.
We’re next
, they said.
He’s only getting started.

Mateo wasn’t right beside me anymore. He didn’t have a hand against my back to give me courage. He’d moved a little bit away, for more range of motion, I supposed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him move, and then
WHACK
. The belt smacked my cheeks in a line of stinging pain.

It wasn’t too much. I could bear it. It just hurt, and in a completely different way than the warm up had hurt.

“Okay?” he asked.

I nodded, and he started again. Another whack, another shocked exhalation of breath at the impact. Before I could process how I felt, the belt came down again.

“
Owwww...
” I whined. First would come the contact, the sharp, initial pain, and then a spreading warmth that suffused my whole bottom. He hit me ten times in all, and then he put a hand on my lower back to stop me from straightening up. When I tried to reach back and rub my ass, he used the belt to nudge my hand away.

“No,” he said. “Let it sting. That’s part of the experience. Stay just as you are. Don’t move.”

I tried not to move, but I couldn’t help squeezing my legs together. This was so fucking hot. He was so fucking hot, delivering orders and making my ass burn like hell, and not letting me try to rub it better. He threw the belt down on the couch and picked up the strap.

“I should have used this first,” he said. “Your ass is too red now for the word to show. And of course, the paddle will obliterate it all anyway. But we can still try to make an angel of you, I suppose.”

I let out a long breath, thinking about the word “obliterate.” He was kind of obliterating my courage. And my pussy.

He raised his arm and landed the strap where he’d landed the belt, just on the underside of my cheeks. I squeaked and danced on my toes. He had to force me back over again. The strap felt heavier than the belt, and way more thuddy.

“Only five with this one,” he said. “It’ll get you ready for the paddle.”

“Is the paddle going to be bad?”

“Big Red’s the most painful one I have.”

Big Red?
I stared down at the paddle, wondering how it could be so painful when it seemed thinner and lighter than the others. I cringed as the second blow of the strap stung my backside. He stopped, checked my skin, and strapped me again.

“I see the word angel on there.” He laughed and squeezed my ass as I sucked in air through my teeth. “We can always dream.”

I’m an angel
, I said to myself as the third blow fell.
I’m a good girl. He’s making me a good girl.
But ouch... Number four and five fell in hard, stinging impacts. Again, he squeezed my ass, running his fingers over the most painful parts.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Checking you. Straps make bruises. I don’t want you to look too bad. This is only your second spanking, right?”

What, did he think I’d gone out and gotten some other spanking in the last two weeks? “Yes, it’s only my second spanking,” I said.

“Are you hanging in there?”

“It hurts, but...”

“But it’s a good kind of hurt?”

I wiggled my ass under his hand. “Yes. For now. Although I’m a little worried about that paddle.”

He put the strap down and picked up the red implement. “You should be worried. But after ten good stingers with this one, we’ll be done. This time, I’m going to ask you to count like you did at the end of the first spanking. It helps me judge where you are.”

Where I was? What did he mean by that? I knew exactly where I was...bent over my fucking couch with my ass offered up for more hurt.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes. Uh. Mostly.”

“Be still. No reaching back. Keep your hands on the couch.”

“Okay.”

He paused. “
Yes, Sir
sounds more polite for a young lady who’s being spanked.”

Oh my holy shit.
“Yes, Sir,” I said, in my most polite, spanked-young-lady voice, which had a quaver in it.

I waited, tense and anxious, and then a hot, huge crack of pain exploded across my ass cheeks. I lurched forward, screamed
owwwww
, and then reached back to protect myself from any more agony.

“No,” he said. “What did I tell you? No reaching back.” He tapped my hand with the paddle until I stuck it back on the couch. “From here on out, when you reach back, you get that stroke over again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now count, and keep your hands out of my way.”

Count? Oh yeah, I was supposed to count, which was kind of hard when I could barely think. I swallowed hard. “Uh...one.”

One? And there were nine more to go? “
Oww!
Two,” I cried as the next stroke landed. The paddle was wicked for real. It wasn’t just the sting, it was the real estate. It was thinner, but it was bigger in impact area than the other two implements.

The next stroke had my legs kicking up as I cried, “Three!” I had to shove my hands into the cushion to keep from flinging them behind me. He put a hand on my back as if to calm me.

“Okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not okay. That really hurts.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

I thought a moment. No, I didn’t want him to stop. It hurt, but it was exciting. It was thrilling and naughty. “I don’t want you to stop, but...can you be gentler?”

“How about if you be a good girl and take your spanking instead?”

Whack.
I whimpered and obediently counted “Four,” and then an excruciating “Five.” After five he let me take another break, because my legs were trembling and my arms kept rising off the cushion. I didn’t reach back, but I had to try really, really hard not to. I didn’t want any extra strokes. That was the only thing that kept me from trying to protect my butt.

After the break, number six was a bit more bearable, and number seven, too. At number eight I started to reach back again. His warning noise stopped me just in time.

“It’s so hard,” I whined.

“You think this is hard? I’ve given much harder, longer paddlings with no breaks.”

“Yeah, with girls who were probably really experienced, who liked that sort of thing.”

“Are you done with your pity party? Can we proceed?”

I glanced sideways at his huge body, his sexy thighs and his bulging package encased in his khakis. Fuck, he was so sexy. Two more strokes. I could do it.

“Oww. Nine!” I yelled. My hands were in fists. My hips were going to be bruised from pressing against the couch, trying to escape the pain. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you tied my hands. Then I couldn’t reach back.”

“Hmm. I could tie all of you. Arms, legs, waist. Then I could really go to town. Maybe we’ll try that next time.”

Tie all of you. Next time.
With that promise and imagery in mind, he landed the last resounding blow. Pain exploded, more throbbing, excruciating heat. I gasped “Ten” and squeezed my ass cheeks together. I wanted to reach back and soothe myself so bad, but I knew he wouldn’t allow it. Instead I stayed where I was, feeling my hot ass throb in time with my accelerated heartbeat.

“You did it,” he said. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

I didn’t want to stand up. I didn’t think I could stand up. As I lay slumped over the back of my couch, he ran a hand over my hurting cheeks. “You’re so red,” he mused. “You’re so sensitive.”

“Well, I’m kind of new to this.”

“It looks beautiful.” His palms rubbed over my skin, soothing me, but arousing me too. I wanted him to touch me. No, hell no, I didn’t. I was so embarrassingly wet.

“If you want...” His voice sounded thick. “If you want, I can help you take care of your problem.”

“What problem?”

“This problem.” His fingers slid down between my legs and trailed over my sopping wet clit. I jumped. I almost orgasmed. I tried to twist away, but he stopped me. “Don’t move. Let me help you.”

Oh my God oh my God oh my God.
The only thing he was going to help me with was embarrassing myself by losing my manners in front of him. I clenched my hands on the cushion. Oh God, he knew what he was doing with those fingers, stroking slowly, back and forth, with the perfect pressure. His other hand delivered a slap to my hot, hurting ass. It felt like heaven.

“Oh God!”

“Do you like that?”

“You’re going to make me come,” I gasped.

“That’s kind of the point.”

He spanked me again, never stopping the heavenly touches with his other hand. My pussy wasn’t a gay male anymore. It was a Marine, pumping its fists and yelling
Boo ya!
Well, a gay Marine, because it still wanted some cock.

“Put it in me,” I begged, arching into his hand.

“
Put it in you?
Sorry, baby, but no. I never fuck on the first date.”

“I’ve seen what you’re packing there. I need you inside me. Please.”

“I said no,” he repeated, picking up the tempo of spanks. It should have hurt way too much to orgasm. It
did
hurt, but he was also rolling my clit beneath his fingertips, and the combination of pain and pleasure was the drunkest, most potent sex cocktail I’d ever encountered. I was losing it, and the belt and strap and paddle had all been foreplay, and I was so close to coming. The only thing that held me off was the desire to have more of this, more of him and his amazing touch.

Next time
, he had said. There was going to be a next time, and he was going to tie me up, and God knew what he’d do to me then, but if it was half as hot as this...

More spanks, more ridiculously skilled manipulations, and my pussy’s figurative fist-pumping reached a fever pitch. I gave up the fight and let the orgasm take me. It was a monumental climax, way better than any non-spanking orgasm I’d ever had. My ass still hurt, but my pussy was like
yes, yes, yes, YES...

I drooped over the couch as I drifted through the aftershocks. I would have liked his cock too, sure, but he apparently didn’t fuck on the first date.

If my pussy was a gay male Marine, his cock was a virtuous Catholic schoolgirl. Damn.

“That’s it. I’m dead,” I said, so he could go ahead and call the coroner and get on with his life.

He gave a contented sigh instead, and smacked my tender ass.

“You’re amazing, baby. That was hot as fuck.” He helped me straighten up and pushed my hair back out of my eyes. “Now, where’s that tiramisu?”

Chapter Three: More To Teach You

––––––––

M
ateo left after dessert. I was kind of glad. It would have been nice to fall asleep in his arms, but I needed some private time to pull myself together. He was so tall, so hot, so fucking skilled at making my body go haywire. But he’d declined to fuck me, so...what did that mean? I was no supermodel, but when I invited guys to fuck me, they usually did.

But he hadn’t.

I had to be careful here. I couldn’t fall head over heels, even if he’d talked about a next time...with bondage. I wondered how far we would go before he got tired of tutoring me and moved on to some more experienced girl. My fantasies were ramping up, and my surly pussy was grumbling about lack of penetration. My ass stayed nice and flushed and faintly bruised the first couple days, but by the third night all trace of our encounter was gone. That was the night I got a new text from Slab Hands.

How’s my angel?

Being angelic
, I texted back.
You really taught me a lesson on Sunday.

I have more to teach you.

Just like that, my pussy started striking muscle poses. And my ass...well...it reminded me gently that his spankings fucking
hurt
, but that didn’t matter. I wanted them to hurt. I wanted the stuff he did to me to feel intense and real.

Are you busy this Sunday?
I texted.
Maybe you could teach me then.

My place
, he wrote back.
You bring the food.

*****

I
took Italian food for my Italian stallion, wine and bread, mozzarella and capicola, but it wasn’t about the food when we got together. It wasn’t even about his dauntingly masculine apartment, which, it turned out, wasn’t much bigger than mine.

No, it was about the hot attraction between us, the desire we had in common. When I was near him, I was very aware of his hands and his stern expressions. I wanted to bend over. I
needed
to bend over.

Good thing he had a spanking bench in his living room.

I didn’t realize that’s what it was, at first. It looked like an upholstered coffee table until we cleared away the dinner plates, and then he reached underneath it and popped up the middle section. Then it looked like a kinky picnic table, with two side benches and a raised middle platform about three-quarters of a foot wide.

He showed me how the spankee could either kneel on one side and bend over the raised middle, bracing their hands on the other side, or lie face down along the center platform. Either way, there was hardware in place to keep the victim from moving. There were cuffs and straps, and eyebolts in case he preferred to use rope. I was both impressed and terrified by the ingenuity of this contraption, and the fact that it looked like a plain old coffee table when it wasn’t in use.

“Someone really put some thought into that,” I said.

“I did. I built it.”

Shit. I suspected as much. He was
reeeally
into this stuff. “Are you like, a carpenter on the side?” I asked, checking out the expertly constructed underside.

“I’m finishing a Masters in engineering. I build these for people as a way to make extra money.”