Authors: Kendall Newman
Through the Hole (5 page)
It would become a game; she would try to hold back, try to keep his justly earned reward from him, keep from crying out at the hot pleasure with which he flooded her flesh, making her skin burn and tingle; his crop would be wielded then, to masterful effect, lashing screams of gratified sensation—almost unknowing as to
which—
and slowly reddening her breasts and her shoulders, always careful to avoid her nipples except during her most reluctant, most held-out moments of naughty, bad-girl denial. Oh, that was when she
deserved
to be punished…to be beaten, by her Master…and the crop would strike her throbbing nipples right in the exact, most perfect moment, and she would scream…scream for him…scream anything he wanted…and
love
every moment of it, because it was about the two of them becoming one. The perfection of their union would be like nothing she had ever known before, or would ever know after him…and even if it only happened once, she would remember it for the rest of her life.
Her fingers slipped; she was shaking. Marissa skipped the eighth setting on her new device, and went directly to nine, and the leap in sensation was beyond words. This was
hot
, and amazing, and
punishing
, and no more than what a naughty girl deserved for teasing her man so relentlessly, showing herself to him, moaning with pleasure at his actions…such a
dirty
little girl she was, and now he was grabbing her…pulling, and pinching, and
twisting
, but with the fine-tuned precision of something inhuman, something like a God. Marissa was barely aware of the fact that she was clinging to the sheets with toes squeezed into a white-knuckled grip, and on the verge of breaking the end off of one of the wooden bedposts with one hand…the one not “occupied.” In her fantasy, straddling the worlds of reality and imagination, she was bound and helpless as her lover made her move however she wanted, straddling her…pinching, where he knew it would make her squeal, and twisting what could be twisting, turning her nipples slowly between his fingers until an arched back turned into a scream, and squeezing her breasts…then, her ass, tickling his way down to it slowly until she bleated with laughter and promised to do anything,
anything
he wanted, before the way he struck and squeezed her ass took away her ability to form words amid cries of pure pleasure, drawn out by now from something which ought to have simply been painful…
Nothing is simple…Not with my Master.
Ten.
Marissa
screamed
her pleasure, her body arching up off of the bed, fingers released from their labors as she needed them for her support…as her body rose up, on wrists and ankles, feeling almost as though she were actually secured in place, incapable of escape because she didn't
want
to be capable. She wanted to be held, forced to feel pleasure, forced to arch and scream for her sexy, sensuous Master's pleasure in her own turn, and so she was—somehow—as her cries seemed to bring down additional bits and pieces of drywall, minutely small particles, which cascaded down from behind the hastily hung mirror behind her bed—or was that her own bed, now, banging against the wall with the force of her own throes of intense, passionate arousal, the cries escaping from her throat being more and more like those of an animal in the full grip of heat than anything else? She hadn't even noticed…but there it was:
WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP
against the wall, over and over and
over
, until with what seemed like it must have been a tremendously loud
CRASH!!
her mirror itself fell to the floor, behind the head of the bed.
Marissa could hear the glass shattering, and imagined the bottom edge of the metal frame bending, warping out of shape…
twisting
in response to someone else's desire that it
be
twisted, like
she
was twisting; she was drenched in sweat, and gasping from the agony of exertion held out over time…too much time,
wonderfully
too much time, a trial and a test in the name of someone who deserved to have her love for them
proven
again, and again, and again. And, so it would be; night after night of pleasure, performed in the name of one who might not even remember that she existed…
He's worth it.
So it seemed to her, even as she was slowly able to pull herself up to her knees, gasping with the effort, sore from her head to her dainty little toes and entirely, almost impossibly happy with the feeling of it. As she felt the way her body responded to each little movement with resentment, wanting her to lie still—wanting
more
of that soul-bending pleasure she'd imparted upon herself with his apparently unknowing assistance, there
was
a certain pang of loneliness…the sense of something missing, which might have been provided had her encounter been complete with her neighbor's presence. The thought of his lips actually touching her skin…his crop whipping her across the ass as she bleated like an animal and begged him for mercy; it was enough to set her on fire, but it seemed—if anything—an even more remote possibility than it had previously.
It's like I've fallen into a dream, a beautiful dream, one I can have while waking…but a dream is all that it is—and if you reach for imaginary stars, how much closer are you
really
coming to the real thing?
It was one of the more profound thoughts she'd had recently…not to paint Mar as being simple. She'd simply always known what she wanted, before—and had never been afraid of reaching out to grasp at it and pull it in.
Perhaps that was the reason behind why, as the girl rose to her knees on her bed, moaning softly with the strain of it, she decided to lean forward and press her eye to the hole in her wall, the mirror that had covered it now lying as it did upon the floor below her…shattered, by the scintillating impression of the scattered glass shards, into dozens of little pieces.
As Mar looked into the hole, she saw immediately the clear, bright blue iris of an eye looking back at her.
She pulled away again, much as she had done before. Then she paused, set herself, and looked back. There would be no more wondering, no more
maybe he didn't see me.
The eye was still there…He seemed to be waiting for her. And as she looked back into the hole, her own warm gaze wide, curious, and vulnerable, it winked. She pulled her head back from the hole again, feeling her chest rise and fall and
heave
with wonder and dread as his deep, sensual, and so utterly
masculine
voice drifted through the hole, only to echo through the room as though he were somehow in there with her…
Perhaps…standing,
right
behind her…
“Somebody's been a bad,
bad
girl,” he said, and there was no judgment in his tone…only a simple statement of the facts.
Marissa wanted to turn, to look behind her, to see him there…to
will
him into existence behind her bare, naked flesh, ready to take her and use her all over again, now that she was spent and sore and aching…but her heart pounded in her chest, and for a few more precious moments, she was actually afraid to look.
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