His by Carolyn Faulkner (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

- if he hadn't already brought her to a thundering orgasm that outstripped any amount of pain he'd inflicted.

He adored her breasts, and adored torturing them even more. They were perfectly shaped, as far as he was concerned, and definitely had not undergone any sort of enhancement surgery, which he personally detested. They were still relatively high and firm, though, even more so now that he'd gotten to work on them with those stretchy stockings of hers.

Standing directly in front of her as he forced her to throw those slim white arms wide, he began to lazily flick those clothespins up and down with one finger of each hand, letting the sounds of her anguished whimpers flow over him like the auditory aphrodisiac they were. He was, of course, rock hard, tenting the dress pants he hadn't bothered to change out of when they'd gotten home. He was still in his Italian leather shoes, the sleeves of his hand tailored, white silk shirt rolled up to just below his elbows, accentuating the heavily muscled forearms he was using to fiddle with those poor, beleaguered breasts, as well as when he'd laid deep lines of anguish across her bottom and the back of her thighs.

Now, though, he'd put the thick leather belt he'd used to decorate her backside down, and, instead, had taken up a small leather flogger where each small strand was knotted at the end. It was designed for maximum sting with minimum effort. He could stand there and abrade her breasts for hours without breaking a sweat.

And she knew it.

He'd blindfolded her, with a comfortable, padded leather blindfold that he'd had custom molded to her face, so that she could wear it for hours and it wouldn't become uncomfortable, and not so much as a peep of light leaked in. Since she couldn't see what he was doing, he was very careful to tell her. She'd seen every implement in her closet, and she knew how pretty much all of them felt against that tender skin. He'd seen her flinch when he'd dropped the belt to the floor with a clunk, and then flinch again when he told her what it was that he was picking up as he made his way to stand in front of her.

At first, all her master did was just draw the small cat over her burgeoning, already over sensitized flesh, letting some of the tendrils dance down onto the edges of her nipples where they were squashed out the sides of the clothespins.

She was swinging her head around wildly, knowing what was coming next and not wanting to think of it, chomping at the wide, leather covered bit he'd forced between her teeth and well back into her mouth, strapping it tightly behind her head near where her pony tail trapped that long mane.

The bit assured him that she wouldn't be able to utter anything but long, anguished moans and high pitched shrieks as he had his way with any part of her body he chose to turn his attentions to.

"I love to see your breasts like this," he whispered hoarsely, having to hold himself back from just taking her and having done with it.

Raina wanted to twist and turn and wiggle and writhe, but every movement merely accentuated the agonized condition of her breasts, so she stood as still as she could, whimpering softly behind her gag.

And then the cat fell, softly at first, almost caressingly, once on the top of each breast as he picked up a rhythm and began slapping that horrid thing down on her more frequently, windmilling it as he heard the knots splat against her skin, and watched her struggle not to dance to the tune he was calling and thus increase her own suffering.

Then he moved the windmill forward and to the side, so that it would hit that nipple flesh that was already in excruciating pain, adding another layer of explicit discomfort, and she did begin to move then. She had absolutely no choice. The stinging added to the incessant ache he'd already created had overtaken her brain, and Raina could no longer think; she could only react.

When he was finished, when there were lovely, angry red lines criss crossing that plumped out breast flesh, he stood in front of her again, the cat discarded, listening to her soft, stunted sobbing. He held a wicked looking knife in one hand. "You must remain still, Raina. I don't want a nick in my property," he ordered. Seconds later, he had cut through the nylons binding each of her breasts, slipping his fingers beneath them so that they fell to the ground, releasing all of that pent up blood into her starved body.

Raina's breasts tingled and prickled terribly, and her poor beleaguered nipples that were still trapped and clamped by those torturous clothes pins swelled immediately as much a they could, which wasn't much, and that only made them hurt more. Then, after she'd settled somewhat from that latent insult, in one quick movement, he set his fingers on the closed ends of the pins that were pinching those sweet nipples, and opened them quickly, removing them entirely and dropping them on the floor with the strands of stockings.

Her squeals and shrieks as those small buds became engorged, as they were meant to be, as they had been trying to be all along, brought a barely there smile to his face, and suddenly, he couldn't wait any longer to do what he wanted.

He lowered her arms some, so that they were more to her sides than stretched upwards as if she was pleading with the ceiling for mercy, so that she could lean into them. And she would need it. He was throbbing so badly he was afraid things were going a lot more quickly than he intended.

Moving around behind her, he ran his hands down her flank possessively, squeezing the already blazing red cheeks, noting with immense satisfaction the bright red stripes he'd laid there.