Anticipation of Luc

If there's one thing I've learned in all of this, it's that words can seduce the mind and body as swiftly as fingers to flesh. At first, he was nothing more than words to me, month after month, streams of words in bold type, waiting in an e-mail inbox. I followed them. They told me to touch myself, lay spread wide and naked, let my camera tell the story. They said leave my panties at home when you go to work, and remember me as your bare pussy catches a draft in the hallway. Lock the bathroom stall, and make yourself come for me while unsuspecting co-workers wander in and out. Think of me when nobody knows.

They told me to hurt myself, just a little. Whenever I was a bad girl, or when I was insubordinate and didn’t follow his instructions to the letter, and get a taste for pain.

I wandered into it. I’m unsure where it started. I left a few words, interspersed, on his internet diary. Then I surprised even myself. I put on my best skin and left on my stockings, sending him a picture of my naked body, lying on the bed while I smiled invitingly at him. One little snap and flash, sent to the right address. He took notice. From somewhere on the other side of a digital line, there were words from him, and they were getting more demanding by the minute.

Following his words was like gaining new purpose. I was learning new tricks, and getting off in new ways. He was never there to lay a finger on me, but the words could sting or arouse me at will. Days I failed him, I'd find myself in the corner, clamps hanging from my pussy lips, contemplating my crime. Days I pleased him, I'd find myself coming for him beneath the sound of his voice in my ear, promises of a whip to my chest, his cock in my ass.

I had never had a cock in my ass. But with him, I wanted to feel everything. He sent me out to prepare for him, in case the day ever came. First, I used a little anal toy, snapping pictures of the first taste of it. Tingles in new places spurred me on, and I found myself playing with a bigger one. Hurting, then aching, and then a distinct new pleasure I had to have. I played with it daily on his command. A little movie took place of photos when it came time for me to show him how accomplished I'd become. And I came for him, over and over.

But we hadn't ever stood face to face.

When the word said "fly", I found myself hundreds of miles from home. My white skin glowed a strange shade of red beneath the lights of the cheap motel. I stayed there, unsure if he would even come. After checking in, avoiding the hungry eyes of the filth in the hotel bar, I waited impatiently for his visit; the bed in the next room squeaked and knocked against the wall, making me jealous.

I laid out the toys he asked for, in order, cleaned them one by one: the leather tassels of a hand whip, the clamps for my nipples, scarves to bind my hands, to shade my eyes. And then the bucket of ice he’d requested I fetch from the machine in the hallway. Nervous delight had me throbbing, alone, waiting. He'd made no commitment to meet me here. He only said fly. Stay here. Lay the toys out.

Be a good girl

, I told myself. I might be lucky.

I was as good as I could be, but the things I needed to atone for could not be solved by my own hand, things like insubordination, lack of focus, tempting him, my lust being the worst of all.

It was a sleepless night and an eternal morning. I fetched the ice once an hour, to pass the time. Just before the stroke of noon, I heard footsteps on the other side of the door, stopping there and casting shadows against the bright crack between the bottom of the door and the carpet. His familiar voiced called out, "Slip the key under the door." I moved to twist the knob, hands shaking, and then was stopped cold by the palm of his hand smacking against the wood on the other side. "The key, under the door," he said again. I slipped the key from the ring, and pushed it under. His words were angry, and I meant to please.

He took the key from my fingertips. His hand was close enough that I could feel the heat of his flesh. The reality became striking, and I stood there, nude as I had been instructed, waiting for the sound of key in the lock. It didn't come. He called out, "To your corner, mi'ja. Face the wall." I hesitated, looking at the shadow his feet cast beneath the door, and then hurried to my place.

I laid my head against the peeling wallpaper. The pigtailed braids he had requested swooped down against my cheeks, and I bit lightly at my lips. The click of metal against metal sounded, and a door opening sent shivers of nervous excitement through my exposed body. I had to concentrate on the peeling wallpapered flowers exposing plaster, whispering to myself,

do not to turn around, do not disobey.

The door shut. It locked. His presence in the room was overwhelming, but I squeezed my eyes shut.

Do not turn around, do not disobey

. His warmth radiated as he came up behind me. His hand pushed over my shoulders, and even beneath his slacks, I could feel him, his cock hard, pressing against my thigh. He pulled the scarf around my eyes, knotted it against the back of my hair, so tight I couldn't move my eyelids that were clenched shut. It didn't matter. I could smell him: a mix of sweat, shaving cream, and a touch of gasoline. His breath permeated mouthwash and whiskey.

He pulled me backward, spread my legs further apart, and shoved my body forward till my face knocked back against the wall. My breasts swung, nipples erect. The muscles around my stomach went taut. "Brace yourself," he warned, and I pushed my hands against the pealing shreds.

There was a pause. Quiet. I felt the whoosh of air before his open hand came down on my bare ass, a jolt and crack of sound breaking the silence. A slight delay of shock came before the pain shot through me, and his hand came back again. He spanked me harder, faster, with a deeper grab on impact, pushing into my flesh. The injury became warmth, my ass turning red, flushing across my body in waves. The pain was so good; I could feel warm, wetness begin to drip from my pussy down my thighs. The smell of my sex hung thick, like the excitement tinged with violence. His voice spewed obscenities like pet names: cunt, whore, little slut. My tits lunged forward from the impact of each spank, moving like the lungs in gasps. Crying out, pain became pleasure.

The hand stopped, slinked along my torso and pulled me upright. "My sweet little cunt", he whispered. My knees buckled under my own weight. The tense excitement had made me weak. He stood on my feet with his shoes, pulling me up. We stood face to face for the first time, my eyes shielded, face flushed, body drained. I put my hands against him, grasping for balance. Bringing his hand up, he grasped my chin in his hand and pulled forward in a kiss, a moment of gentle reprieve, before grabbing my pig tails with both hands and tugging me down.

Too shaky to resist, I fell on my knees. The jangle of his belt buckle being unhooked told me of the gift he was about to give. He wrapped the braids of my hair into his fists and pulled forward, guiding my lips to his hard cock. I caressed against him lightly with my lips and tongue, pulling the tip of his cock in, slow and soft. "Do you want more?" he asked. He pulled my hair downward, pushing his cock deep into my throat, fucking my mouth. I sucked harder, bringing my hands to the base of him, and moving his hardness in and out. He stifled moans with curses, calling me a temptress and a whore.

His fists still wrapped with my braids, he yanked my head back harshly and drug me to my feet. Before I had time to steady myself, he brought the leather tassels of the whip down against my throbbing pussy. "Do you see what you do to me?" he exclaimed. The pain spread to ache, the ache to pleasure. The cries came out more like moans, and the whip came harder, now against my breasts. I whispered somewhere, as if beyond me, "please, please...daddy please..."

Wetness from my cunt dripped thick down my legs. The pain became distant to the throbbing of my pussy lips, my clit, my hard nipples. My ears rang. Again and again he spanked my pussy and my tits with the whip, the lovely feeling of the leather carving marks into my skin. My knees caved, and the crack of the whip faded for a moment. He pulled my head onto his shoulders and petted along my neck and backbone. Helping me up onto the bed, he gave pause for me to rest a moment. "You've been a good girl, mi'ja, taking your punishment,” he breathed, "a very good girl."

He walked to the bureau and then back to the bed. A shock of intense cold against my flesh sent chills down my spine. Ice. A gift to sooth the sting of the whip against my swollen cunt. He rolled it in one hand across the marks left behind, and gently comforted in soft strokes against my skin with the other. He cooed,

beautiful, obedient, sweet

. With a moment of peace, I began to notice how the pressure of the blindfold against the backs of my eyes ached and throbbed in unison with the blood pumping to my pussy. Pain lingered in places that hadn't hurt like this before.

His words had said "fly". I felt as though this was as close as I would ever get.

His fingers slipped in and out of the wetness of my pussy. The ice had melted against the body heat and I was left still aching for more. The burn of his touch aroused yet again feelings of need. The whispering again, "please, daddy, please..." like a foreign voice from my own tongue. I rolled my hand over his face, like a blind woman, begging ceaselessly.

He stopped. He angrily grabbed my hands, pulled them back away from me. "I own you," he shouted. He took the other scarf and bound them back, over my head. For a moment I almost feared him, I bit my tongue, my lips, to shut myself up. "I own you" he came again, pushing his weight over me like an animal. He pulled my legs apart, wide and open, the thighs still wet with myself. "And I'll do what I please with you."

Covering my mouth with the palm of his hand and grasping a braid with the other, he pushed his cock inside me, angry, hard. It sent waves of intense pleasure across the ache he had created. Muffled by his hand, he pulled my hair and fucked into me so hard my hands knocked again and again against the headboard. The heavy rattling against the wall must have even surprised hourly customers a thin piece of plaster away. He didn't speak. I couldn't scream, the thud and squeak of the bed, the slap of his flesh on mine. It was like a symphony, the sounds of him fucking me. I could feel the blaze everywhere in sensory overload, the throbbing ache being pushed against, rushing endorphins, creating a burn inside every nerve ending.

He let go of my mouth and I gasped. The heat of my own breath trapped had left a ring of sweat from his hand to my face. It smelled of salt and gasoline. "Get on your hands and knees," he ordered. There was no sense of emotion, but he was breathless. I scrambled into position the best I could with hands bound, presenting my raw ass and wet, fucked mess of a cunt. He squeezed my ass cheeks appreciatively, causing sore muscles to tense against the pressure.

Pushing over me, he reached down and untied the scarf from my hands and cast it aside. Sliding back over in a trail of sweat, he pulled open my cheeks and slid his cock, wet with my own juices, inside my ass. He was patient on entry, filled me up with his hardness, and laid across my back, grabbing onto my tits. The pulsation from his cock so deep inside me left me moaning. He said patiently, "You'll have to ask."

And I begged, "Hard papa. Fuck my ass hard.

Please

…"

Tugging against my chest, he fucked in and out, rapidly, angrily. Neither of us could hold back gasps, cries. He pushed one of my hands to my clit and let me rub it. The fucking made loud slaps against me, my thighs quivering in ache, my fingers rubbing against my swollen clit. The pleasure blazed up to the center of me and gathered there, before it exploded in long waves, coming all the way down to my toes. I struggled for breath, lost grip, and the front of my body caved to the pillow. Shoving a few hard last strokes, he groaned and gripped into my flesh as he came. I was too numb to feel much of anything.

Still breathing hard, half collapsed, I felt him pull out. A wash of hot come spilled out of my ass and ran down my legs. He rolled me over, put his face close to mine, and pulled down the blindfold just enough for me to see his eyes. They were luminous, wide, almost watercolor in my blurry unadjusted vision. He kissed me, sweet and soft in one last moment of gentle reprieve.

The hands refastened the scarf over my eyes, and his body left the bed to creak at his absence. I could hear the jangle of his belt buckle. While I lay there, quiet, still panting, he said "rest well, my dear" before I heard the clicked lock of the door, echoing like church bells against my ringing ears. "Rest up," he came again, "You'll need it." The footsteps echoed and faded away. He was gone. He'd made no promises to come.

I had been blessed. Lucky.