Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
My fingers find her pussy, and the wetness I encounter is obscene. She's drenched. Not just wet, but actively dripping, her arousal coating my palm the moment I make contact. Her inner thighs are slick with it, her pussy so swollen and hot that she feels almost feverish against my hand.
The cane did this to her.
The pain translated directly into arousal, exactly the way she's written about in her stories, exactly the way I knew it would.
I press two fingers against her clit.
She comes immediately.
No warning. No build-up. No gradual climb toward release. The orgasm hits her like a physical blow, her entire body seizing against the restraints as she cries out. Her pussy clamps down on nothing, rhythmic contractions I can feel against my palm as I cup her sex. Her hips jerk forward, chasing my hand, trying to grind against my fingers for more stimulation.
I don't move.
I keep my hand exactly where it is, providing steady pressure but nothing else, letting her ride out the orgasm on her own terms. I watch her face the entire time, cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of pleasure and release that crosses her features.
She didn't ask permission.
I didn't give her permission.
She came without my consent, and I'm going to punish her for that. But underneath the cold calculation of discipline, something warm is spreading through my chest.
I was right.
I made the correct choice.
She wanted to be hurt. Not just tolerated it, not just endured it, but genuinely craved it. Her body's response is irrefutable proof. The orgasm that ripped through her seconds after the cane connected is evidence that I read her correctly, that I gave her exactly what she needed.
I've spent six months studying this woman. Six months watching her through hidden cameras, reading her stories before she posted them, learning every detail of her psychology through the fantasies she committed to paper. And now, standing in this jungle clearing with her come coating my fingers, I have confirmation that my obsession was justified.
I know her better than she knows herself.
Her orgasm finally subsides, the contractions slowing, her body going limp against the cross. The only things holding her up are the restraints. Without them, she'd be a puddle on the platform.
She hangs there for what feels like a long time.
Her breathing slowly steadies. The trembling in her muscles fades to occasional twitches. The flush on her chest begins to recede, though her cheeks stay pink.
I wait.
I'm patient. I've been patient for six months. I can be patient for another thirty seconds.
Finally, she lifts her head.
Her eyes find mine, and the expression on her face makes my cock throb painfully. She looks dazed, satisfied, wrecked—but there's something else underneath. Something hungry. Something that hasn't been sated despite the violent orgasm that just tore through her.
"More," she whispers.
One word. Barely audible. Her voice is hoarse from moaning.
"Please, Master. More."
The request hits me directly in the chest, spreading heat through my torso, down into my groin where my cock is already leaking steadily. She's asking me to hurt her again. After one strike, after coming so hard she couldn't hold herself up, she's asking for more.
I want to give it to her.
I want to paint her entire body with welts, to layer pain on top of pain until she's sobbing, and begging, and coming apart at the seams. I want to see how many times I can make her scream before she goes nonverbal. I want to push her to the absolute edge of what she can take and then hold her there, suspended in agony and ecstasy, until I decide she's had enough.
But not like this.
I set the cane aside, placing it on the equipment cabinet with deliberate care.
A proper caning requires proper positioning. She needs to be bent over a bench, her ass presented at the ideal angle for receiving strokes. Or strapped facing a tree, her back arched, her skin stretched taut. The cross is designed for different kinds of play—flogging, nipple torture, pussy torture, edging, denial.
I'm not done with her on the cross yet.
"No more cane," I tell her.
Her face falls, disappointment flickering across her features before she can hide it.
"Not tonight. Not like this." I gesture at her spread-eagle position. "When I cane you properly, you'll be bent over. You'll be presented. You'll be able to feel every stroke across your ass without the distraction of restraints pulling at your wrists."
I walk back to the cabinet.
I know exactly what I'm looking for. I've stocked this station with everything I might need, organized by sensation type and intensity. My fingers close around the handle of a wand vibrator, industrial strength, the kind that can force orgasms from even the most resistant body.
I turn back to face her, holding the vibrator where she can see it.
Her eyes widen.
"You came without permission."