"You modern girls are so hard to scandalize.”
"Is that what you’re trying to do?” she asked. "Scandalize me?”
"Is it working?”
"You’ve turned me into a whore and made me happy about it. Consider me thoroughly scandalized.”
He chuckled and it was a sinister mad scientist sound. "If you think you’re scandalized now…wait until I’m done with you.”
She said nothing to that because she never wanted him to be done with her.
Malcolm lowered his head to her right breast and suckled lightly. She closed her eyes and rested her head back, basking in the bliss of his mouth and the pull and tug on her nipple. It sent rings of heat and pleasure radiating through her chest and stomach, making her inner muscles clench again and again. Her entire sex dampened and stirred, eager for him to enter her. He seemed in no hurry to take her, so she laid there helpless to do anything but enjoy herself. His mouth moved to her other nipple. It hardened as he lapped at it. The aching of the welts had quieted. Before they had screamed at her, but now they merely whispered reminders they were there. The wounds made her very aware of her body. Whenever Malcolm touched one of her welts or bruises, on purpose or by accident, she remembered the kiss of his crop, those words that had melted her down and recast her into a new image. She remembered his twin gifts of pain and tenderness, and she loved him for both.
Without a word of warning, Malcolm lowered his hips and pressed every inch of him into her. She heard herself make a sound, a long low moan, as he filled her to her inmost parts. He rose up and took her breasts in his hands, and he rode her with deep strokes. She couldn’t move her legs or her arms, only her hips, which she lifted to meet his thrusts. She heard the wet sounds of their copulating and it aroused her even more. Malcolm seemed lost inside her. His hands held her breasts in a firm grip and his head was back, his lips parted, his eyes closed as he fucked her. He was a god to her now, a god of sex and sin. If he could have fucked her forever, she would let him. In hell where the sins of lust were punished, they said the lascivious damned tore each other apart with their desires, and the rent and bleeding pieces still found ways to meet and mate with each other. How was that hell, she wondered? These theologians had never met Malcolm.
The frenzy gripped her, gripped her around the hips and waist. She needed release and it was driving her mad not to have it. Mona rocked her hips faster, lifted and lifted them.
"Easy, love,” Malcolm said, but it was too late. She was past all reason. Wild, she bucked as best as she could beneath him with her ankles and wrists bound to the bed. She bucked and writhed, writhed and begged. But Malcolm held back, fucking her with restraint, as if striking her a hundred times with a riding crop wasn’t enough torture for her. Not near enough.
This was the worst torture of them all. She had to come. She had to. No question, no hope, no surrender. She needed him to slam his cock into her a thousand times, but he could not be persuaded. He made her suffering even worse when he plucked at her nipples again. He pinched one, then the other, then back and forth. He was giving her gentle foreplay, when what her sex needed was brutal pounding.
"Are you forgetting something?” he asked. That smile again, that evil devil’s grin.
She’d forgotten to count.
One hundred strikes. One hundred strokes. She’d forgotten she was supposed to count his thrusts the ways she’d counted the cropping.
"One hundred,” she said when Malcolm thrust into her the very next time.
"Now she remembers,” he said, still smiling.
He thrust again, harder, and she contracted inside painfully.
"Ninety-nine.”
Malcolm pumped his hips again. These were vicious, sharp thrusts, as punishing as they were pleasurable. She could barely recognize her own voice as she counted them. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven…
"By the way, darling, if you come before one hundred, you’ll see a side of me you won’t like very much.”
Ninety-one. Ninety.
The counting kept her from climaxing. She couldn’t do both at the same time. The pressure built. The muscles all along the backs of her thighs were so taut she thought they’d snap any moment. And still she lifted her hips into each thrust, not merely receiving his prick but grasping for it with her sex, taking it as it took her.
Eighty-one. Eighty.
To make it even more miserable, Malcolm continued fondling her breasts, pinching her nipples with each number she called out. Her breasts were so swollen from his attentions, they felt twice their normal size.
Seventy-one. Seventy.
She would have given anything to have her ankles free so she could move her legs. She wanted to spread more for him so he could pound her right into the base of her stomach. The very thought of it made her inner muscles twitch.
Sixty-one. Sixty.
Her throat hurt from breathing so hard. She could still taste the salt of his sperm in her mouth.
Fifty-one. Fifty.
Mona pulled on the bonds that held her wrists fast to the bed, anything to relieve some of the excruciating tension in her body. But nothing helped. She was wound tighter than a clock.
Forty-one. Forty.
Malcolm was fucking her harder now. She knew he had to be as desperate to come as she was. Her breasts bounced as he pumped into her cunt.
Thirty-one. Thirty.
He slapped her breasts lightly, reigniting the red pain of the welts. A sound briefly interrupted the counting, part scream and part sob.
Twenty-one. Twenty.
She couldn’t take anymore. It was too much. Her head swam and her eyes saw nothing even when open. Her sex throbbed and she could barely speak or breathe or move.
Eleven. Ten.
At last he gave her the thrusts she needed. Full body thrusts. The soft linen of his shirt grazed her nipples. The stiff shaft grazed her painfully swollen clitoris. She didn’t speak the numbers anymore, she gasped them. The bed rocked underneath her and Malcolm was all over her, sucking her and licking her and biting her and fucking and fucking and fucking her.
Two.
One.
The dam burst inside her. With a cry that surely someone heard out on the streets, she came at last, heels dug into the mattress, hips off the bed, and her sex clenching and clutching wildly all around Malcolm’s cock. He was coming into her, spurts and spurts of semen glazing her inner walls. Her entire body shuddered and spasmed as she was overwhelmed with the paroxysms of her climax. It went on forever, forever, and even longer than forever…
Then it was done.
Malcolm lay atop her, barely moving, though she felt a few last gasps of fluid spurting inside her. She was spent. She had never been more spent. He’d taken everything out of her. She had nothing left—no mind, no will, no energy.
"Was that enough for you?” Malcolm asked as he nuzzled her ear, kissed her neck.
Already her sex stirred back to life at the sensual tone of his voice, the kisses, the bite of his teeth on her ear.
"No,” she said.
"More?”
"More,” she begged. "More and more and more.” He started to move again, to fuck her again, to fill her again and with each stroke she said that word. More. It was her only want. Her only need.
More.
And more was exactly what he gave her.
Dora and the Minotaur
The welts took nearly a month to heal. Mona wondered if Malcolm had timed his evening with the crop to coincide with the coming of cold weather. Whatever the cause, she was glad for the chill in the air to give her a reason to keep her body well-covered as she healed from the crop and its hundred kisses.
In the days after that night, she could barely remember the events without trembling and hiding herself in her office until she’d gotten hold of herself again. How had he done it? Trained her so quickly to crave pain? And she’d asked him permission to love him? What had possessed her to ask him about his children?
Possessed her. That was it. She felt like he’d gotten into her soul somehow, into her mind, and had taken control of her body and her brain. The thoughts she had of him kept her up at night—sometimes weeping with shame, more often burning with longing. Not a day passed she didn’t make herself come once or twice. One day, four times when she became fixated on the specific memory of her lips on his boot buttons, how she’d worshiped him on her hands and knees, how she’d opened her holes up to him in an offering that he’d accepted with a vicious lash of his crop. No man had ever made her feel so much as Malcolm did. Pain didn’t cancel out the pleasure—it doubled it, trebled it. With other lovers she’d felt pleasure and lust. With Malcolm she felt pleasure and lust, but also pain and fear, love and hate. It was the most potent of alchemies. She would have sold herself to him every night of her life for another taste of those boot buttons.