Month: November 2016
“Acceptable,” she said with a little giggle as she drew her finger along his cheek. See? She was often playful, but she always knew she was taking a chance. Sometimes he would ignore her completely; other times he would give her a sly half smile as he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She felt like a little kitten nipping at a wolf in those moments, and, in fact, sometimes he would cuff her a sharp blow to correct her behavior. Sometimes he would laugh with her and at her—she just never knew, but she always knew she was taking a chance. Sometimes she played her games, and sometimes, there were consequences.
This time, he didn’t even really look at her as he stood facing the mirror, towel around his waist, and his face still half covered in shaving cream. He could still feel the touch of her finger on the spot he had just shaved, that she had pronounced “acceptable”. The razor caught the bathroom light and flashed in his right hand as he reached out with his left, grabbed her throat, and slammed her into the wall hard enough a towel fell off the rack and onto the floor—she felt the rough cloth graze her skin as it settled against her ankle there.
Without a word—and he was always a bit scarier—her more than a bit wetter, when he didn’t speak—without a word he turned to her, and slipped the razor inside the neck of her t-shirt. The soft cotton gave to the blade with no resistance, and he sliced her shirt open in two long swathes. Next, she felt the spine—god, she hoped it was the spine—of the cold blade on her left hip. He slid it inside the elastic of her panties, and pulled the blade forward. She was aware of the barest breath of pressure against her ass before the elastic snapped, then the blade on the other side, and her panties fell halfway off. Only halfway, for she had already dripped enough that the thin fabric clung to her pussy a moment, and she knew he was aware of that as he viciously pulled them between her legs and dropped them on the floor. Another second, and he had ripped the tattered shreds of the t-shirt from her body and she stood there, still pinned to the wall by the iron grip around her throat, chest heaving, as he regarded her with a cold gaze.
He grabbed her wrists, and stretched her arms far above her head. Involuntarily, she squirmed in his grip, knowing that now he would do the inspection. Part of her always fought the violation, the intimacy of these moments, but she had another concern—tomorrow, one more day, tomorrow was her scheduled spa trip. Tomorrow, the next day, or any day after she could have smiled, knowing she would pass his inspection, but what might he find today? These thoughts came in a tumbled jumble, and she struggled a bit as he put both her little wrists in one of his hands, and pinned to the wall.
He leaned forward, the razor still held in his hand, as he ran his thumb over the smooth, tender skin of her left underarm. She knew he would miss nothing, and he did not, his sensitive finger sliding over every curve, every crevice, finding her, as she had said, acceptable. Then, the other side, and now his fingertips, and she felt the cold of the bone handle brushing against her body as his fingertips touched, explored every tiny bit of her. After a few moments’ inspection, he looked into her eyes, nodded, and said “acceptable,” with absolutely no irony at all.
Then his foot kicked gently at the inside her ankles, and she obeyed, spreading her feet wider, spreading herself for him. He held her against the wall, as he traced the cold back (again, she hoped it was the back) of the razor up the inside her left thigh. She could not help but quiver and whimper in his grip as he still held her pinned to the wall with her arms stretched above her head. His fingertips now found her pussy lips, and he knew, with no doubt, how wet, how very, very ready she was. At his touch, her hips rolled, and her entire body clenched. She felt waves of pleasure explode through the center of her body, and they both knew she could cum in seconds. She glanced down and saw his cock strain against the fabric of the towel, and knew that if she passed his inspection he might give her something very nice right there against the wall. Her emptiness clenched at that thought and she came even closer to the point of no return. If he touched her clit, it was all over, and, if he kept this up, they both knew she would cum easily without being touched there—in just a few more seconds. As she started to slide over that edge, somehow he knew, and just gently shook his head to the side a few times. No. That was not allowed. No. He always knew—somehow, he always knew.
Now his fingers explored her smoothness, just below her bellybutton, down to the very edge of her clit. So close, another hair and his finger would be right there—right on the center of her pleasure, and she would cum—no matter what—she would cum in cresting waves while he held her there against the wall and watch. She would cum, would not be able to stop, and she would deal with the consequences later.
But, no. He stopped. He completely froze, and the stillness sent her heart to her throat. He stopped, his fingertips just above her pussy, just to the right of her center. He cocked his head to the side in a curious way, and gently rubbed his finger over a spot–over a spot, and they both felt the tiny hairs, the little rumble of sandpaper stubble against his fingertip. He kept touching that spot and looked into her eyes, and her eyes widened comically in return. Then, very, very slowly, he shook his head again, and spoke the only other words he would say that morning: “Kitten, go get the cane. Now. This… is not acceptable.”
Sometimes she played her games, and sometimes, there were consequences.
