“What’s the sad face for, Bree?”
“I’m just . . . ” I didn’t want to say. I knew how dumb the words would sound, and I was certain that Lance would make fun of me. Other people had real, honest to goodness complaints. Mine were like cotton candy floss light and ethereal, without any real substance.
“Tell me,” Lance insisted, leaning against the doorframe of the living room.
I should have known better, tried harder, acted differently. Lance isn’t the type of person to accept an answer like that. He came over to where I was sprawled out on our sofa and waited. I didn’t look at him at first, but he didn’t say anything else. Ultimately, he won the silent contest, forcing me to stare up at him. He didn’t ask me a second time. The question remained in my roommate’s green eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed how striking those eyes were in the past? We’d been roommates for nearly six months, and I’d never actually taken the time to admire how handsome he was. That didn’t make confessing the situation any easier.
“I haven’t been able to get off.”
“Get off what?”
Oh, God. This really wasn’t going well. “You know,” I stuttered, mortified, “jerk . . . ”
“I’m a jerk for asking you what’s wrong?”
Jesus. I needed an intervention for my mouth. My words were failing me. “No, no, it’s only that I haven’t been able to, you know, jerk off. Get myself off.”
He laughed. “That’s why you’ve been moping around the house? Come on, Bree. You’re being silly.”
I got a little huffy at the way he’d dismissed my dilemma. “What’s silly to one person is serious to another,” I said, sounding a bit like a fortune cookie proclamation.
“You think this is a problem?”
Now that we were actually discussing my sad, solo love life, I was willing to delve deeper. “Yeah,” I said, “I don’t operate the same way if I don’t get pleasure.”
He stared at me. “You usually are a bit perkier,” he agreed.
I sighed. Had anyone else in the history of the universe had such an uncomfortable conversation with a roommate? I wished I’d kept my moping to my bedroom.
“Maybe I can help,” he continued, surprising me.
We stared at each other for a moment. Were we going to cross the line? Take our relationship from two people who shared the same apartment to two people who shared the same bed? Several of my girlfriends had already suggested that Lance would make a perfect boyfriend for me. He had a good job. He was dependable. We shared a lot of the same interests. I always thought that was why we were such good roommates. Could we also be good at something else?
“Bend over the arm of the sofa.”
I gazed at him, dumbfounded. Had he just demanded that I get over the edge of the sofa? Bend over and do what? And why did I immediately feel my pussy growing wet? There was something new in Lance’s tone, that’s for sure. He sounded commanding, and I found myself longing to obey. But I hung back. I wanted more information before I committed to something this life changing.
“Get over the arm of the sofa, Bree. If you want me to help you, you have to do exactly what I say.”
“How is bending over the arm of the sofa going to help me?”
I did trust him, but I still wasn’t sure.
“And you have to stop staring at me like a lost little lamb and move your fanny before I move it for you.”
I took a deep breath, and then I bent over. I felt ridiculous positioned over the arm of the sofa, staring at the pillow I’d been sitting on one minute earlier.
“Pull down your panties.”
“What did you say?”
“Are we going to go through this routine with everything I tell you to do? Because that’s not going to work for me.”
“It’s just that that’s not how I do it,” I blurted out. Someday maybe I’ll learn. Today wasn’t the day.
“And it’s working for you, is it? The way you do it.” He couldn’t have been more sarcastic.
I stood up and pulled down my pink satin bikinis. I was glad I had chosen these ones rather than some more utilitarian pair, but I was embarrassed by the wet spot. Sure, Lance had seen my panties before but only when they were hanging to dry in the shower. I wondered if he felt as excited as I did at the prospect of what we were doing or what we were about to do.
“Now bend over the arm of the sofa again and lift your skirt.”
“Really,” I gazed at him over my shoulder, not getting it. “I always do it face up. I mean, when I touch myself.” It’s sad how slow I can be sometimes.
He looked at me. That’s all it took. A look. I reached around and lifted the back of my short, floral skirt.
“Don’t stroke your pussy until I give you permission. Do you understand, Bree?”
I nodded. I liked the way he said “pussy.” It struck a chord inside me. I wanted to hear him say other dirty words.
“Do you understand?” he asked again. The tone of his voice had changed dramatically. I did not look over my shoulder. I didn’t want to see the expression on his face. “Yes, Lance.”
“Choose a safeword.”
I didn’t ask what a safeword was. I knew. But my mind began running away with new fantasies. What was he going to do to me that required a safeword?
I heard him undoing his buckle. This time, I did turn to look over my shoulder. Big mistake. In a second, his leather belt was free and doubled over.
“Safeword,” he demanded.
“Emerald,” I said, thinking of his eyes.
“Don’t use it unless you have to.”
It wasn’t a question, but I said, “Yes, Lance,” for good measure, as if the words might win me some brownie points. I thought I was going to need them.
The belt landed hot against my skin. I flinched and tried to stand. Immediately, Lance pushed me down into place. Feeling undeniably aroused, I wiggled my ass at him, and he smacked me a second time. Then a third. “Let’s see if we’re getting the right reaction,” he said, slipping a hand between my thighs and testing for wetness. I groaned.
“Looks as if we’re on our way.”
How had he known? Then I recalled that drunken night we’d discussed how spankings turn me on a secret I’d rarely confessed to most of the men I’d dated. I didn’t want to see a shocked look on a paramour’s face, or hear a “you like to be what?” from an indignant lover. Lance didn’t seem to have any problem spanking me. He snapped the belt in the air with practiced ease. I straightened up again, even though he hadn’t landed the leather on my skin.
“Jumpy,” he said. “You need to hold yourself still. I’m lining up three in a row.”
“Lance . . . ”
“Behaving is always the way to go, Bree,” he said. “You behave for me, and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever dreamed about.”
I accepted what he said, but spankings sting. I am never able to act the way I imagine I will. In my fantasies, I see myself receiving spankings in the most pristine, passive type of way. No kicking. No crying. No such luck.
He struck. One. Two. Three. I put my hands back to protect my ass. Bad move. Lance had reached the limits of his patience. He dropped the belt, grabbed me in his arms, sat down on the sofa, and hauled me over his lap. Everything was happening almost too quickly for me to process. He ripped my panties from where they’d landed on my ankles and began to spank me hard and fast with his bare hand. I squirmed and kicked. He scissored one of his strong legs over both of mine, holding me easily in place. How had confessing that I hadn’t been able to climax landed me here?
Well, maybe it was more than that simple confession. Maybe Lance and I had shared a few coy gazes over the past six months. Maybe we’d had a slow burn of foreplay up to this moment of no return.
My ass was throbbing, and I was squirming uncontrollably. But Lance clearly didn’t care. His hand moved rapidly left cheek, right cheek, sweet spot and then he shoved me onto the floor facedown and parted my legs. I buried my face in my arms as he tested again for wetness. No, wait. That’s not what he was doing. He was spanking my pussy. Oh, holy fuck.
“Do you like that?”
I didn’t know what to say. Yes, I liked it. But I was embarrassed to admit that the pat a cake he was playing on my pussy lips was going to bring me to climax. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if I confessed or not. I was right on the verge of coming. If he touched my clit, just touched it, the pleasure would come unbidden.
Lance seemed to understand. He spanked my ass five times in a row, so hard that I squealed out loud, and then he brought his hands between my thighs once more and rubbed firmly against my clit.
“I’m coming,” I moaned into my arms.
“That’s my girl,” Lance said softly, continuing to stroke my pussy. “That’s my sweet girl.”
Lance didn’t pause to discuss what had just happened between us. While the blissful sensations were still zinging through my body, Lance picked me up in his arms once more and brought me down the hall to his bedroom. Yeah, I’d been in his room before, but never as a lover, only as a roommate. Why had I not noticed that his headboard had a hook over it? Why had I never really paid attention to the glossy red and black fraternity paddle mounted over his dresser? And why did looking at that formidable paddle make me suddenly ready for round two?
“So you got off, did you?” Lance asked. His voice was back to its menacing tone once more. I knew better than to simply sigh and languish on his black comforter. I said, “Yes, Lance,” as if he was my master every day of the week.
“And we did it differently than you usually do it?” There was a hint of humor in his voice now, but I somehow knew better than to crack a smile. This felt like a test. I wanted to pass.
“Tell me, Bree, do you usually have two orgasms back to back?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s try something else,” he said. “Something special. Will you listen to me, Bree? Will you do what I say?”
Now I nodded.
“Lie down and put your hands over your head.”
He had handcuffs in his hand, as if by magic. My heart started to pound, and I tried to move out of his reach, scrambling toward the headboard. He was having none of my games.
“I’m not even going to ask if I need to tie you down,” he said. “You’ve more than shown me by your behavior that you need some assistance.” I heard the rattle of the cuffs. Why can’t I ever keep my mouth shut? If I’d gone about my day in peace, I’d never have been on the receiving end of a punishment session like the one this was turning out to be. And all because I couldn’t make myself come.
“Take off your clothes.” I’d forgotten I was still wearing clothes! I stripped the t shirt off, lost the skirt. My panties were somewhere in the living room, and I hadn’t put on a bra today. Naked, I felt even more vulnerable than I had before.
“Arms over your head.”
For once, I obeyed without a word of protest.
Like a soldier.
He hesitated. “But how are you going to get off if your hands are cuffed?” Christ, he was teasing me. “This can’t be the way you do it, can it?”
“And yet you’re going to have to put your faith in me on this, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think I like your tone of voice.”
Sorry, Lance. I kept that one to myself. I wanted to be flippant. But I also wanted to be able to sit down again in the near future. Those two wants were quite obviously mutually exclusive. I bit my tongue. He slid on the cuffs, and then rolled me over so I was facedown on the mattress. I felt the wetness in my pussy start to build again. He clearly wasn’t done punishing me, and that thought made my cunt run like a faucet.
“So you haven’t been able to get off?” he asked, and his voice was that low honey of a purr that tends to hypnotize me into saying the wrong thing at the wrong time like in that Depeche Mode song.
“Tell me how you’ve tried.”
I blushed. I’d never told anyone about the way I masturbated. God, I don’t even like saying the word out loud. It sounds clinical, wrong for such a sexy type of action. There really ought to be a softer, sweeter way to describe making yourself come.
Lance spanked me lightly, as if to remind me I was on the hot seat.
“I was just stuck on neutral,” I said, hoping that would suffice.
“You used your hand?”
“And . . . ”
How did he know me so well? “And a vibrator,” I said, suddenly wondering if maybe he’d heard the engine rumble through the connecting wall between our bedrooms. “I did all the little tricks I usually do, but nothing worked.”
“What little tricks?”
I didn’t want to say. Talking about this was embarrassing to me. I pouted.
Lance spanked me again.
“I fantasized about being punished,” I told him. “I thought about situations like this.”
“How like this?”
“Being whipped with a belt.”
I watched as he reached for the belt he’d brought with him from the living room.
“I can get you off again,” he said. “I have no doubt.”
The belt licked at me. I ground my hips against the mattress. Lance struck me with the belt again. I pressed my pussy firmly against the mattress, getting a little thrill from that brief contact.
“You look so pretty like that,” Lance told me. “Your ass is still red from the spanking I gave you in the living room. And now you can’t put your hands back there to ward off the blows. You simply have to take it.”
“I like to take it,” I said, before I could stop myself.
“What was that?”
I didn’t know if I should bite my tongue or repeat myself. I chose the latter. “I like to take it,” I said. “That’s one of the main things I think about whenever I . . . whenever I touch myself.”
“What do you want to take from me?”
I turned my head so I could stare at Lance. I wanted to see his expression. I wanted to feel safe.
“I want your cock,” I said. I hit the word cock hard. Lance licked his bottom lip and stared back at me. “What will you do for me?”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“What will you take for me?”
I swallowed hard. I thought I knew what he wanted me to say. “Ten,” I said. “Ten strokes.”
“Good girl.” He doubled the belt once more. I steeled myself for the first blow. Lance waited. Or, rather, he made me wait. I was hanging in mid air. That’s how it felt. Suspended in hyperspace, waiting for the pain, yearning for the leather on my skin. Right when I was about to start begging, Lance landed the first blow. He hit me a second time, across both cheeks, and I closed my eyes tight. The third stroke made me whimper. The fourth one made me moan. Lance was good. He knew exactly how to lift me up and cruise me back down some of the strikes were hard and stinging. Others were more mellow, a slap of leather on skin. At five, he did something unexpected. He reached for the handcuff key on the bedside table and released one of my hands.
“Put your hand down there and start touching yourself,” he demanded, with a hint of breathlessness.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I started rubbing my fingers against my clit as he landed strokes six, seven and eight. I was getting closer by the second. I knew this orgasm was going to be intense. I felt as if I’d earned the pleasure. The ninth stroke was light, teasing. The tenth he made count. Hard. So hard. Then he was on the bed with me. I heard the sound of him ripping open his jeans, knew that he was pulling out his cock. He got me into a semi upright position so he could slam in from behind. His cock was so hard, exactly as I’d imagined. He drove in fast from the start, and I felt myself melting onto him. He slammed into me, then pulled out, slammed in again, and pulled out slowly. I kept stroking my clit, up on my knees, my cuffed hand clutching the headboard for balance, Lance holding my hips to keep me rock steady.
The rhythm was sublime. He was taking me higher with every stroke. My fingertips were simply enhancing what his cock was doing to my pussy.
“I’ve been wanting to do this, waiting to do this, for months,” he hissed.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t tell . . . ” This was a confession. It made me want him even more.
“Why didn’t you ask?”
He kept driving into me, hitting those secret, special places deep inside me, places that I can’t seem to get with my vibrator.
“Why didn’t I ask?” he taunted, mimicking me mercilessly. “Why didn’t I ask if you were a little slut who needed her bottom tanned in order to get off? Why didn’t I ask if you were a naughty girl who required a bit of discipline before she reached climax?”
“Well, yeah,” I managed to sigh. “Why didn’t you?”
He laughed and grabbed a handful of my thick, dark hair, holding me tight. “I was waiting for the right time,” he murmured as he pounded me harder still. “This seemed like the right time.”
“It was,” I told him. “I mean, it is. I mean, Lance I’m going to come again.”
“Do it,” he said. “Come for me, Bree. Come with me . . . ” That’s all I needed to hear, and we were climaxing together, Lance with his cock buried to the hilt in my pussy, me with my fingers slipping for purchase on my wet clit.
God, it was good. So necessary. So satisfying. I waited as Lance withdrew, as he took the key and undid my bound wrist, as he gripped me in his strong arms and held me to him tightly. I rested my head on his strong chest, relaxing as if this was something he and I did every day of the week. Maybe it would be from now on. We seemed to connect so well, that white hot, kinky sex connection that few people have and everyone yearns for.
And then he asked the question that brought a fresh flush to my cheeks.
“So how long had it been since you’d last climaxed?”
I stared at the ceiling, then out the window, then at the lamp fixture overhead. I didn’t want to say. I didn’t know how he’d respond.
“Tell,” he insisted, gripping my chin in his hand so I couldn’t look away.
“Last night,” I stammered, feeling my heart start to race once more as I saw him reach into the drawer of his bedside table and pull out a paddle. Clearly, my dry spell had come to an end.