Page 4 of Hurts So Good
“You’re so wet,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you do like the sting. Perhaps not from the needle but from something more intimate, like my hand. What do you think? Should we experiment a little?”
I whimpered, not sure which way to go, but she made my mind up for me by giving my pussy a little tap. That didn’t hurt at all. In fact, the pressure felt pretty good, if only for a moment. I wanted more and started to thrust upward, but then remembered she didn’t like that and quickly stopped myself.
“Ah, you’re learning. That’s very good.”
She continued to administer quick slaps, a little harder each time and with a little more frequency. The more she spanked my pussy, the more aroused I got, and eventually I didn’t even mind that the slaps were getting harder. Finally, I couldn’t control my body anymore, I had to move. I started thrusting my hips gently in time with her hand, and she let me. At one point she pushed my legs apart, and the effect of her bare-hand spanking my open pussy was almost too much to take. Each time her hand came down on me, she hesitated momentarily, keeping her hand there, putting pressure on my clit for a prolonged moment. I knew it was only a matter of seconds and I wouldn’t be able to hold off any longer. Then she bent down and bit my clit gently, pulling with her teeth, and that was all I could take. I gripped the table, clenched my jaw shut, and came in her mouth while three of her fingers deliciously fucked me.
I collapsed against the table, exhausted. After a few moments, I forced my eyes to focus and looked at her with a mixture of relief and surprise.
She winked at me and said, “Welcome back. That was amazing, but I need to finish you off now.”
I gave a short laugh and said, “I think you just did.”
“No, I mean your tattoo. It isn’t finished yet.”
“Oh, yeah,” I replied, suddenly aware that I wasn’t feeling any pain.
NO SUBSTITUTE FOR EXPERIENCE
James Walton Langolf
Ryan doesn’t realize how much he wants to hurt Julia until she lays the strap across his palm.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I want you to.”
Even then he is thinking about his mother, the stern look on her face when he’d step out of line. She didn’t have to lay a hand on him. The look was enough.
Julia has a look, too. This one thrown back over her shoulder, casual as a pinch of salt for luck. Ryan can almost meet her eyes.
“I can’t,” he answers, but he knows it isn’t true.
She takes the trailing end of the belt and brushes the leather against his cheek.
“Why do you keep coming here?” she asks.
He feels his cock throbbing against the zipper of his jeans, and he can’t suppress a grin. “Is that a trick question?”
A flick of her wrist and the belt snaps against his skin. He cries out, more in surprise than pain. “Jesus, Julia. What do you want me to say?”
It’s always this way with her. He never knows the rules. Sometimes she doesn’t speak to him at all, fixes her gaze on a point somewhere over his shoulder while she writhes on the floor. On these days he wonders if maybe he’s a ghost. Maybe she’s been touching him all along, but her hands just slip right on through with nothing to connect to. All he needs now are some chains to rattle, or maybe he’s already wearing those, too.
“Nothing,” she says. The belt drops from her hands, useless at her feet. She turns toward the window. The blinds are up, and the field behind her house is drifted white. The sun is setting, and the honey-colored light reflected off the snow turns her bare skin to gold. She cocks her head to the side as if listening to the sound of the icicles melting from the roof, and the angle of her neck seems to draw his teeth. He sets his jaw and waits for her to speak again.
Her curly black hair is cropped short, leaving her skin naked and vulnerable. Tattoo vines snake across the small of her back, blood dripping from the thorns. Ryan moves to touch her but stops before he reaches her skin. He wonders what it would feel like. Her actual flesh. Would it be warm? Smooth? Like silk laid out in the sun? Or cool and hard like pearls at the deep dark bottom of the sea where the sunlight never penetrates.
“Julia,” he says, and his voice scrapes in his throat.
She won’t turn back to face him, and still he doesn’t understand her. Doesn’t understand himself. Ryan is only nineteen and she’s older. Maybe forty. Maybe a year or two younger and just tired, but she carries it well.
When Julia asked him why he was here, he’d laughed, but it’s a valid question.
She’d come into the store nearly a month ago. He remembers it was slow, the summer people long gone. There hadn’t been a customer all night. Her short denim skirt was frayed at the hem, and her top was made of some filmy purple fabric that looked like a silk scarf tied at the back of her neck.
She wore too much lipstick and mascara, and both were smeared prettily on her freckled cheeks. Wrinkles deep as scars creased the corners of her eyes when she smiled. Her hair was snarled and tangled like she’d just rolled out of bed. Ryan imagined her sheets still wet.
He watched her move through the store, aimless but graceful, like she’d forgotten what she’d come in for but knew she’d remember when she saw it. Then she turned and stretched to reach a bottle of tequila on a shelf above her head, and Ryan saw the red stripes running up the back of her legs, peeking from under her shirt as the fabric rode up on her back.
She’d heard his sudden inhalation.