I’m determined to get back to writing here, re connecting with the community. I write posts, and press save because they are, in the end, too revealing of my current concerns: Crazed family members. Aging parents. Grown Children. Not enough sex. Untrained, poorly mannered puppy (my fault). Not enough sex.
It’s a scene from my current Work In Progress. It’s definitely longer than a blog post is supposed to be if I want people to read it. Here’s what I want to know: Even to us spankos, or spankophiles (I’ve decided that is the term for someone who loves to read spanking fiction), is there a hint of danger?
Sigh. (picture me shaking my head in fond exasperation) Not that kind!
The real kind!
from: (Working Title) Jenna and Houston © by Saoirse Roghan
Carrie slumped against the wall. Eyes focused on the scene outside the window, she chewed on the corner of her lip, arms wrapped across her chest, hugging tightly. She heard Rick enter the adjacent bedroom. Her stomach did the weird little jump. She hadn’t closed the bathroom door, but she had pulled it almost shut. That would be a problem, although it did grant her time to move away from the window before she would be in his view. She rested her pelvis against the sink, and leaned far in, over the sink, until her face filled the mirror, close and large. Her eyes roamed her reflected face, while she reached for one of the fluffy cloths stacked on the shelf. Carrie wrenched the hot water on full with her other hand. Her face was splotchy from tears.
Rick pushed his way into the room. “Babe.” Voice light, but still authoritative, his palm came to rest heavy on her ass. Stomach jumping again, Carrie wriggled that ass, like this was all still a fun joke, and giggled, pushing her butt into his palm while she brought the hot cloth up to her face.
“You know I want the door open.”
“It was open, silly.”
“All the way.” He whispered in her ear. His hand lifted; her breath stopped, still, in the absence and anticipation. And there it was, his palm, hard, stinging.
“I hate peeing in public, Rick.” She said, her voice normal, pretending the smack hadn’t happened or if it did, was still The Game. She turned and tossed the damp cloth into the basket.
“They’re gone, now.” Rick tilted his head slightly toward the window. “Ms. Important actually got a police escort off the property. I’m not public, Miss.” He reached out and pull Carrie against his broad chest. He nuzzled at her neck.
“Umm.” Carrie moaned, sinking into his mass. Rick could be an ass. But he was soo hot. And the sex was amazing. It was a game, and she wanted to keep playing. For now.
“Let’s put you in the tub, sweet thing.” Rick moved past her, leaning over the tub and opening taps.
Carrie’s fingers grasped the bottom of her blouse, ready to pull it over her head instinctively. Lately there had been no hesitation from her when he issued his directions. But: Did she want a bath?
“Let me, sugar.” Rick pushed her hands down and his large fingers started working slowly at the top button. One finger brushed her breast. And this was why it would suck to stop. Every moment she was with the man weighed, supercharged with sexual energy. Nothing else existed. Or almost nothing. She still went to work, of course, and there were moments when she thought about spending time-more time- with her friends. But this: The heat.
Global warming, poverty, her cable bill.
His hand, warm against her back, pulled her close and worked the snap of her bra. He set her back from him enough to bring his hand to her hip, and let his fingers slip down into her jeans.
The man bathed Carrie like a child, moving her passive body where he wanted it, working shampoo and then conditioner into her long hair, murmuring for her to sit forward and duck her chin so he could rinse. He had her stand, rosy, flushed, in the big tub with water lapping just below her knees, while he sharpened the straight razor on a strop that he kept on the wall near the tub. Slipping a palm around one calf he let her know he wanted her foot on the rim, and he prodded and arranged her until he had good access and began to use the razor on her Mons. He’d done it before, so Carrie no longer stood breathless in fear he’d slice some piece of her off by mistake. Worse that the actual wound, was picturing herself walking into the ER with a slice of her labia in a zip lok. The man knew his way around a pussy, even with a straight razor. She eyed the strop, lying now on the floor near his foot, uneasily.
Rick did the whole routine. towelling, patting her dry, anointing her warm body with scented oil. His fingers wandered, keeping her in a heightened state of arousal. Finally he stood behind her, his fingers rolling her nipples, his mouth hot at her ear. “Spread those legs a little, Sweet thing.”
One hand moved, releasing one swollen nipple, to slide down her tummy. He pulled her pelvis into his crotch. “Lift that sweet little butt into the air, Princess.” His teeth closed on the cord of her neck, sharp, for so brief a moment it might not have happened. “Now bend over and hold the rim.”
He liked to give her orders that were hard to follow. How the fuck could she bend over while he still had one of her nipples in his fingers? She tried to comply and was rewarded by his tightening fingers resisting her movement before he released the nipple. Of course, the sting of release was the worst part. But at this moment Carrie was more concerned about the strop.
“I am the luckiest man alive, Babe.” Rick murmured. His hands caressed her butt, and of course a finger or two grazed the lips of her vagina, swollen, throbbing. “You’re beautiful, and smart, and you have the kindest heart of any woman I know.” One hand remained on her ass, the other reached past her peripheral vision and grasped the bath brush. Shit.
Dipping the brush in the warm water of the tub, he swirled it around, brought it out and rested it next to her hands, water dripping from the bristles.
Carrie tried to giggle.
“And you trust me.” His voice went on. “With you.”
She did? But she gave a little shimmy of her ass. “Of course I do, Rick. You are the best lover I’ve ever had.”
He chuckled, and the brush moved from her view. “I’m the last lover you’ll have, Babe.” The brush, wood side down roamed her backside, her thighs, her calves. He tapped her breasts, hanging heavily down, ever so gently, and then moved it, still carefull, to her cheekbones and finally let it rest on her mouth.
“Kiss it, Miss.”
“Now hold on.” He whispered.
The bath brush came down forty times. Twenty on each cheek, the sting slowly increasing, deepening until it reached the maximum he felt appropriate. Carrie danced, whined, sobbed, but didn’t let go of the tub rim.
Rick’s voice sounded beneath the heat, the pain: He didn’t accept her failure to keep the bathroom door wide open. He found it impossible to understand her inability clearly and firmly say “no” to Jenna. Carrie had committed to dine with Rick tonight. She didn’t make it clear to Jenna. Thus, the fuss with the doorman and police.
This was the game.
He used stuff from their real life in this way and it made the sex so hot it was almost unbearable at times.
The brush was hung up. Carrie moaned, deep from within. Not because the brush had stopped, as much as knowing she would get his cock next. She heard the wonderful sound of his zipper. Felt the harsh rasp of his jeans against her inflamed skin. Felt the slight dip of his knees, his hand slipping under, palming her stomach, yanking, boosting her up while he rammed himself inside her.
Rick was a generous, skillful lover. The entire evening had been foreplay, after all. And that was before the bath, the spanking, the wandering, knowing fingers, hands and lips. He used his cock to bring her close to orgasm and then shut her down.
“Don’t you dare come!”
He didn’t have to say anything more.
Carrie’s knees hit the floor and she opened her mouth wide, keening, moaning, her hands scrabbling at herself.
“Hands behind your back, Miss.”
Rick’s hand wound amidst her hair and then her neck, pulling her forward. His other hand stroked his swollen cock, moist from her juices, and then rubbed her lips with it. “Okay, Miss.”
He enjoyed oral too. So he was in no rush. He moved her head as he chose. Sometimes thrusting hard and deep and grunting in satisfaction as she gagged, choked, teared. He liked to caress the tip of his organ through her cheek, shoving hard against the inside of her mouth and fingering it like it was a marvel, a miracle.
And shit, as far as Carrie was concerned, it was. She longed to break free and release her hold on her wrists. It would not take much, at this point.
But she didn’t.
It was too damn good when he brought her.
And he always did. He almost withdraw completely, eyes fixed on her face, distorted now by anxiety his cock would leave, as well as the cock filing her face itself. He let go, shooting into her mouth, bringing his organ out so the last spurt hit her face. One corner of his mouth twitched in appreciation while she swallowed, and using her fingers, brought the come from her face to her mouth. He yanked her to her feet, locked an arm under her knees and lifted, holding her, heading back into the bedroom.
He tossed her on the bed and she froze there, while his eyes roamed her body. He reached and grasped her ankles and pulled her closer. He spread her wide, shoving her knees up and to the sides, and buried his face in her aching, begging, core. He would play here too. But eventually.
He’d order her to come.
from: Jenna and Houston © (Working Title) by Saoirse Roghan