Page 21 of Fire Under Glass
“Okay, yes,” I agreed to be agreeable. “You just don’t fit in. But I suppose that doesn’t matter.”
“Why don’t we see what happens,” he suggested.
We stood in the center of my living room not saying a word for some minutes. The silence was oppressive; and I felt as though I might smother to death. He was tense, I was tense. My crotch was crawling, I needed to fuck. Truth was, I wanted him in this sullen mood, taking me darkly, trapping me with his body, pummeling my pussy raw. But I wanted more than that. My ass seemed to plead for his abuse—his fire and force, and the determination coming from that black cavern inside of him. No, KC was not an easy man. His moods might be as quixotic and incomprehensible as mine. But I think I liked this alarming part of him as much as I liked his other, steadier side. “I think you need to use the belt,” I finally said to break the strain.
“Think so, huh?” he replie
d being very noncommittal.
I nodded, biting my lip and started to quake with anticipation.
KC went for the buckle at his waist while I watched the ceremony in awe. I saw him pull back the leather and pop the metal from the hole; then watched as the long strap slipped from his waist and one end of the belt unfurled to the floor.
He nodded to a nearby chair, one with a low upholstered back where I could rest my belly. I wish he were taking me over his lap, but this was not the time to argue. Planning to sleep in the nude, I was wearing my bathrobe and nothing else. In one swift movement KC plucked the silk with a swift jerk of his hand. Naked. Not a stitch, my first nude spanking, I remembered thinking. Though, there wasn’t time for thinking much of anything. The leather wrapped my ass with a sharp, crude smack and the punishment began.
This was a night for lots of firsts: nude, belted and ass fucked—the finale to the event. I took quite a beating with KC leveling his leather on my wanting buttocks until it reached that state of fiery bliss that found erotic ends. My skin screamed with heat. I couldn’t wait to have his erection inside my pussy. When he tossed the belt to the floor signaling the end, KC’s hands were on my ass, slapping the red flesh and making it sting even more. Then he pressed close to me, against my left hip, leaning over me to I could hear him speak, “You want more?” he asked as he swatted the hot flesh hard.
“Yes, yes,” I was hissing, rubbing my ass into his smacking hand. “Ooo, ouch, my yessss…” my throaty voice filled with desire.
When he paused, his fingers slipped inside my cunt while my legs parted to allow their entrance. That was not enough, however. His fingers higher, he swathed my anus with the wet results from probing my pussy, then dipped them deep and slowly, letting me relax around the intrusion. My mind flashed back, remembering Rossi, remembering anal fucks and more than that, the crudities my ass endured at his hand.
“You want this, too, don’t you?”
How could I lie? “Yes, but…”
“No buts, darling. Let’s see how wide you’ll spread.”
I thought I’d cum just hearing that remark and feeling the fingers driving deep into the opening hole.
“You did this with him?”
“Yes.”
“And loved it?”
“Yes.”
“And want it now?”
“Yes, yes, please, your cock…”
I didn’t have to plead my case as the truth was understood. Greeting my arousal with his own desire, KC took his lust, frustration and intensity out inside my ass. Having greased the pathway, I was seconds later forcefully entered with his thrusting member widening the doorway further.
Shrieking, I almost came at once. A few proud strokes of his cock, the sensation spilled over the edge. Then I came again as the spasms built to another peak while KC drilled the hole as far as his prick could reach. Hummm, he let loose a low growl, cumming, while my muscles squeezed the milk from his stalk. “Ah, yessss, yes yes,” he was telling me so I milked him more, while I wriggled my ass into his groin, getting to my own end fast. We moved as though we were one solitary being, so that when we finished, I didn’t want him to let me go.
KC didn’t want to let me go either; but it would have been impossible to stay so glued together with me draped over the back of the chair. As he pulled out, I thought I’d lost something; though I seemed to have regained some of his closeness as he put his arm around me and cradled my wasted body.
Later, we sat in my living room facing each other on the couch.
“Tell me about Rossi,” he said, in a refrain I’d hear repeatedly, almost every time I saw him. I suppose I was ready to spill the truth because it came out so easily. After so many years avidly ignoring my memory of the man, and any scene that reminded me of him, my recollection came out fresh, as though it all happened in the last week.
“Rossi orchestrated my senior year,” I started speaking shakily as the images appeared inside my head. “He willfully crept into the corners of my life that aren’t supposed to be the province of a professor—or academic advisor. But then, he did warn me. He began by scheduling my study and work sessions, suggesting that I’d work best in his office environment. By Christmas I was going to the studio in his home for most of my architectural design. He had plenty of room. There was a weird thrill walking in the door of his house. The place was expansive with these fabulous windows looking out into the woods—glass, wood, air, space that seemed to breathe. I couldn’t think of anywhere that would be more exciting to inspire me.”
I looked at KC almost believing he was speaking inside my brain, asking questions, so I kept talking.
“It was more than just the house, though. It was Rossi, being close to him, feeling his fervor for his art, and his passion for me. I felt dwarfed by him, lured by his eccentricities. Behind our interactions, there was always the threat of his heavy-handed discipline, and behind that, the lust. It bred ferociously as soon as I stepped into his world. I seemed to lose myself inside the atmosphere, becoming just another element for him to manipulate.
“At least at the start, our relationship remained platonic. The corporal discipline was routine. Slip-ups, shoddy work, marginal test scores, just about anything was reason enough for him to discipline me. Most of my punishment sessions were precise and formal. I’d raise my skirt, bend over a chair with my palms on the seat, Rossi would lower my panties and deliver twenty-one smacks of a wooden paddle—he had at least a dozen he could choose from…