Maintenance Night (3 page)

Please, just fuck me.

“Ah, ah, ah, you little slut,” he said with a chuckle, giving her ass a slap. “It’s not time for that.” His palm clasped the wet heat of her sex, his thumb circling her anus. “Soon though.”

Fuck.

He pushed her off his thighs, and she eased to the floor. He stood, smiling affectionately down at her. “Get up, little girl.”

She scrambled to her feet, trying to ignore the embarrassing sway of her breasts. Not sure what to do, she clasped her hands behind her head again, and presented her breasts to him once more.

Troy admired them a moment, his hand easing over the bulge at his crotch. He locked gazes with her. “Good idea, but we’ll deal with those later. Come on.”

He grabbed one of her wrists from behind her head, and led her swiftly down the hallway. He opened the door, and yanked her close, making her stumble into the stone wall of his chest. “Get in there. You know what I want. If you aren’t in position when I get back, you’ll regret it.”

He sent her into the darkened room with a crisp slap to her throbbing ass, before disappearing down the hallway.

She gulped, turning her head to look at the dreaded corner as she bent over the footboard of their tall bed. She both hated and loved the time-honored position, as the height of the bed always made her picture herself hanging her naked ass out over the precipice of an immense canyon. The helplessness of the position was equal parts mortifying and arousing, as she knew he’d walk in to see nothing but her too big ass, spread open for him and ready for punishment or pleasure — either one entirely at his whim. With a shudder, she realized he’d also see her inflamed, wet sex, smell her arousal. No matter how many tears she shed, no matter how loudly she cried out, her body would tell him everything he needed to know.

He liked to leave her there to stew, to think — to dread. It might be thirty seconds, or ten minutes. She would wonder, her senses amplified, listening for any sound, any hint he might be coming back down the hall. The snap of the house settling made her flinch.

“You’re ridiculous, Lacey,” she told herself. “You asked for this.” The quaver in her voice told her it wasn’t quite that simple. Had she really asked for this?

She remembered thinking about how to ask him. Just how do you tell your husband you want him to spank you until you cry? What is his reaction likely to be when you confess to harboring deep-seated fantasies of putting yourself in another’s hands, relinquishing all choice, all rights to your own body? She knew though, that Troy was the one. He had a core of steel he let her see every so often. His inner strength gave her hope Troy was the kind of man who could satisfy the dark needs seething beneath Lacey’s “good girl” façade.

So she’d finally conjured up the nerve to tell him. It was... weird. There was no other way to describe it. She’d pictured one of two possibilities: he’d look at her with a witch’s brew of shock, horror, and revulsion, shortly before serving her with divorce papers; or he’d take it as a lark, and assume his wife just wanted a little more “spice” in their lovemaking.

But it hadn’t been any of that. He’d just looked at her — through her, and simply nodded, his eyes bright and alive, and said, “We start tomorrow.”

“You aren’t falling asleep on me are you?”

Lacey jerked at his voice, jolted out of her reverie. He had a disconcerting habit of moving silently when he wanted to.

“Sorry, I— “

His hand pressed over her lips. “Shh, just be quiet, little girl. I don’t need your words. I need your cries.”

Oh fuck.

She felt it hit the mattress near her head. She knew what it was even before she laid eyes on that pale yellow length of rattan.

“Troy, you’ve already spank—”

His hand cracked down on her ass, the sound jarring. She yelped at the sting on her still sore flesh.

“I said
quiet
. I hadn’t intended to gag you, but if you can’t follow directions, you’ll be getting that too — along with the cane.”

Her lips moved, but his flinty gaze and clenched jaw stilled them. She nodded, defeated, closing her eyes tight.

She hated the fucking cane! Hated it.

But Lacey knew he particularly enjoyed it for one simple reason: it hurt her. A lot.

Perhaps most women would be horrified to learn their beloved husband enjoyed inflicting pain on them, but not Lacey.

Though terrifying in a way, the realization he had this need within himself, this dark urge, just further confirmed to her they were meant to be. What were the odds Lacey-the-twisted-closet-pain-slut finds the man of her darkest, fevered dreams? The man who not only knew how to fuck (oh Christ, did he), but a man who complemented her need to feel pain, with his need to give it?

However, it was the other things he needed that she feared most. If Lacey had thought dark, troubled waters existed within her soul, then Troy’s soul held a fucking sea of them. Nevertheless, even as she’d plead, tears streaming down her face as his flogger repeatedly smacked her throbbing breasts, she was always thankful he shared himself with her, and made her dive deep into those waters. He made her lose herself in them — to him.

His hand claimed her soaked pussy in his warm palm. “Ready, I see. Little slut.”

She blushed, hiding her face in her folded arms. Her buttocks quivered as his hand gently massaged the swollen, plump lips of her pussy. Agile, knowing fingertips stroked the tender flesh of her inner labia, spreading then open. He tapped between her buttocks with a thumb and she felt her anus clench.

“Worried?”

She nodded against her arms.

He gathered up the heavy weight of her jet-colored locks and laid them over one shoulder, exposing the side of her face. He’d never let her hide. “What are you worried about, Lacey?”

His fingers slipped between the lips of her burning sex, and Lacey sighed. How she wanted him inside her. If only he’d forego that terrible caning, and just take her. Fuck her until she was senseless, boneless. His. All his.

He moved back to her bottom hole, spreading her copious moisture over the delicate whorl of flesh. He’d never done that before

Would he? In her deepest, darkest of masturbatory fantasies, her imaginary Master had taken her everywhere, staked his claim to every part of her body — regardless of her wants and desires. She was his for the taking, and he would take. Selfishly, ruthlessly.

“I’ve never had you here have I, girl?”

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

“No, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Please don’t.”

His fingers plunged deep into her sex, probing to her core, and she moaned. She rolled her hips, unable to control it. He felt so fucking good.

Troy grasped a fistful of her hair, cruelly yanking her head up so she could look at him. His broad, bright grin sent chills cascading down her spine, and yet it made her sex clench with need.

He dipped within her yet again, and he brought them up to her face, stroking her wetness over Lacey’s trembling lips, tickling the tip of her nose, her scent filling her nostrils. “You may say you don’t, Lacey, but your cunt is telling another story. You’re sopping.”

‘That’s not fair, Troy,” she said, licking her own essence off of her lips.

Her husband winked at her, and she wondered for a brief moment just why she had the urge to argue, when the little, evil, honest voice in her head was whispering it was exactly what she wanted. But for some reason, she felt she had to fight, to object. She didn’t really know why.

Because you want it, slut. You like to be overruled… forced.

Troy leaned over her, picking up the cane from the sheets. She froze, the terrifying prospect of the cane’s bite paralyzing her. She felt the cold, hard length of it pressed to her burning buttocks, and she whimpered. She couldn’t remember what the cane felt like anymore, it had been so long since she’d had it. She wondered if that dim memory of the bite of the cane was akin to the pain of childbirth. She’d read about theories which postulated that the foggy memory many women have of the exact severity of labor pains was nature’s way of ensuring procreation would go on. After all, might it put a damper on getting pregnant if women really remembered how agonizing the pain was?

She thought it was rubbish, of course. How could a woman not remember? Now as her cruel, but loving husband held the instrument of correction against her cringing buttocks, she wondered anew. Perhaps her not remembering was a blessing… of sorts.

“Which one should it be first, Lacey?”

All she could manage in reply was a strangled whimper. It didn’t matter; his question was rhetorical anyway.

“Do you think you should be caned?” He tapped the rattan up and down her bottom, even over her tender thighs. “Or should I fuck you first?”

She wanted nothing more on this Earth than to feel the delicious deep penetration of his thick cock. Oh, how she craved it. But she took this for what it was — a game. He’d do whatever the fuck he wanted.

And she liked it that way.

“The cane, Sir.” Uttering the words was so difficult; she had to consciously force her lips to form the proper shapes.

“Good idea.” He sounded cheerful, relaxed.

Lacey railed inwardly at the unfairness of it. She didn’t really deserve the bite of the cane, did she? It didn’t matter what she thought she deserved; all that really mattered was what he wanted to give her. She knew he didn’t need a reason, other than it made his cock hard to watch the weals swell and darken into purplish tracks of woe across the vulnerable curves of her bottom.

The wicked rattan pressed against her ass, rather high up onto the upper curves of her buttocks. It was up far enough that the swing would be more down than sideways. She knew even that was absurd — he didn’t need to swing it. A stiff flick of the wrist was all he’d need. A simple, quick movement. Pure, unadulterated pain.

“Are you ready?” His voice was laced with a faux solemnity in its deep tones.

“Yes, Sir.”

No!

The snap was so quick, for a split second she wasn’t sure he’d struck her. Then the sting clawed in, and she yelped at the crescendo of agony across her bottom.

“One,” he intoned, tapping the wicked rod somewhat lower down her clenching bottom.

The pain was intense, even worse than she remembered it had been the last time. Well, she was about to be intimately reacquainted with it.

”Unclench your cheeks, Lacey.”

She tried, she really did, but the muscles of her buttocks balled up with a singing tension. He rubbed the hard length of the cane over her bottom. “Just take a deep breath. Relax now, girl.”

She felt the tension ratchet down a few degrees.

“That’s it, let them hang. I want them loose.”

You can do this, Lacey. Just get it over with.

The second cut laid itself down across the middle of her bottom, the flesh quivering with the blow. She cried out at the sting, worse this time. Oh god, there was no way she could take more of this. It was too much!

“Please, Troy,” she said, her voice breaking. “How many?”

His hand whispered over the scorched curves. “How many would you say would be fair?”

He asked it as if he were bartering for a purchase at a market. Perfectly calm; perfectly callous.

She could feel the juice running down her inner thighs. For the millionth time she was in awe of her twisted, dark urges. Her cunt was gushing in spite of, because of her husband beating her ass mercilessly.

“Six?”

She thought two was quite enough, thank you very much, as the pain of the strokes slowly morphed into the second stage of heavy aching which followed the sting. But she knew Troy would consider two just the opening course. An appetizer.

“How about eight? That seems fair, doesn’t it?” His fingers pressed at one of the swollen tracks, the pain flaring anew.

“Seven?” She didn’t think it was possible to want something less than seven strokes of the cane.

“Nine?”

“Troy!”

“Should we make it ten?”

She shook her head vigorously. ”Please, please no. Okay, nine.”

His palm patted her bottom gently. “I thought you’d come around.”

Oh God, no!

The next stroke, much harder, caught her across the widest part of her bottom. She rose up at the fire blazing through her flesh. ‘’Oh fuck! That huuurts!”

His soft hand rubbed soothing circles on her upper back. “I know it does, girl. Back down now.”

She could feel it swelling by the second, the heaviness of it warring with the sensation of fire burning just under the surface of her skin. She was quite certain it was the hardest stroke he’d ever given her.

Lacey tried to reach back to rub at the latest track, but Troy batted her hands away. “No, you know better than that, Lace. Get your hands back on that bed. Now.”

She obeyed, biting down a snarky reply. Any lip from her would just make the situation worse for her poor, throbbing ass.

“Now, lay back down, girl. I know you can take these. You’ve had six before.”

Only six? That meant…