“Do you know how to take a pulse?” Flint asked.
We were on his friend’s couch, my dress hiked up to expose my upper thigh. It was already red and swollen from a few tenderizing punches and a couple of nasty slaps. Upstairs, one of Flint’s partners was messing around with his friend, though we couldn’t hear them from down on the couch. Earlier that week, Flint had texted me about it, saying he’d bring me along as entertainment while he essentially whored out his partner (for free, of course), a shared fantasy of theirs. I’d blushed, but totally agreed.
He made me wait for him on a street corner and pointed out the spot I’d left on his seat the last time I had sat there. Later, I would clean it up with my mouth. But, for now, we were on the couch downstairs. Flint was attempting to disprove my previous claim that I didn’t bruise, which had made him smirk uncontrollably when I had declared it at the munch we met at.
“Yes,” I replied, taking my fingers and finding the artery. “It’s…it’s pretty even.”
Flint grinned and delivered another blow to my thigh. I cried out in pain. I was starting to discover that I just about hated the medium-strength slaps, but I had begun to really enjoy the few that tipped over into the harsher ones. I’d start wailing and collapse into the hit, but would end up coming up giggling. Something about the absurd severity of the pain made me giddy.
“So, this whole thing, hurting you, it doesn’t really bother me,” he explained. “That pout you keep putting on isn’t going to sway me. You know your safewords. Otherwise, I’m just going to hurt you.”
His hands were large and unyielding. He didn’t hesitate before the slaps, going right into them and following through with a violent clap. He had me count down for the particularly hard ones. When he’d gotten me to a point that it was absolutely certain I would bruise, he reached up my dress and pushed a few fingers into me with my thigh still hot and stinging.
“Look at that,” he teased, before pulling back and slapping me across the face. “Going to leak on my friend’s couch, now? After the talk we had about my car? You can’t help yourself. You’re disgusting.” I felt my cheeks flush and looked away, but his fingers slid in me with new ease. He chuckled appreciatively. “Well, that really got you.”
Eventually, the fingers came out and he had me rest my head on his chest while we unpacked the encounter, going over how I felt about it. My thigh was still glowing with pain. Flint reached down and brushed my hair off of my forehead. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.” Against my ear, I felt the thumping in his chest pick up in speed and grinned. “There’s the pulse.”
