The Feel of His Hands

I know, I know... it's been a while since I posted. I'm sorry. I've been busy and uninspired. I hope to change at least one of those things. I'm also trying to do a bit more of the not-femdom stories. I feel like I've been letting myself take over too much of what's being written here. I want to be an equal opportunity pervert. So I have to do more stories that aren't just about the wonderful women who do delightfully terrible things.

Today's story is for another friend on my list. When I write these stories that don't technically have any request to them, I go through the fetishes I know the person has. I look at them and I wait for something to speak to me. I don't know why this particular combination spoke to me. But then, I never do.

I just hope that the end result is interesting, sexy, and appreciated.

The Feel of His Hands

            The tearing of the duct tape yanks her head to the side a little bit. Then she feels his hand press the extra flap of tape against itself. Getting it off is going to be a long and difficult process. He had been kind enough to put balls of cotton over her eyes, so the tape wouldn’t tear out her eye lashes or risk any kind of damage to her eyes. But the tape had wrapped over her eyebrows, and around her head, through her hair.

            She had counted the number of times around. Just four quick laps, though the tape seemed to extend from her forehead all the way to the tip of her nose. There was a lot of hair caught up in the tape.

            At least her arms weren’t hairy. At least she had shaved before coming to his apartment. The tape around her wrists and around her ankles will hurt coming off, but not much. Just the tape on the skin; no hair to worry about.

            She gasps as he picks her up and tosses her bodily over his shoulder. So hot the way he does that, moving her around like she weighs nothing at all. He holds her with one hand, just for balance, as he walks her through the apartment. His hand, roughly calloused and firm, holds her implacably. Just the feel of it makes her feel a bit light headed. Well, the fact that she’s hanging over his shoulder and can’t see, having practically no idea which way is up, might have something to do with it. But she’s pretty sure it’s the feel of his hand.

            She soars through the air when he tosses her onto the bed. For all she knew, he might have been tossing her out the window. No, that’s not true; she would’ve felt the wind, or heard traffic or something. But he could have thrown her onto the bare floor. Or into a pit or something like that. At least then she’d get lotion to put on her skin to help get the duct tape off.

            She giggles at the thought, and at the fun of bouncing a bit on a soft mattress.

            “Something funny?” he asks. From his tone, he might very well pick her up again and toss her onto the floor for real. But she knows he won’t. There’s a gentleness to him, hidden there under the rough edge of his Dom Voice, just like the gentle touch is hidden under the calloused and scarred hands. He’s earned his callouses, he’s learned his Voice, and through it all, he has remained safe for her. Even if he doesn’t sound safe at the moment.

            “No sir,” she says, trying to wipe the smile from her face before he does it for her. She gets up on her knees and faces towards the sound of his voice. “Sorry sir.”

            The slap to her face isn’t unexpected. It stings, a tiny burn that she knows is just a fraction of the total strength he could have put into it. She flexes her jaw, wondering, not for the first time, if his callouses would ever leave a scratch behind, or even break the skin.

            “I don’t like it when you lie to me,” he says.

            “I didn’t lie sir,” she says.

            He slaps her again, on the other cheek. She falls into a pile on the bed, and has to wriggle a bit to get back to her knees. “You were laughing,” he says. “So something had to be funny.”

            “Just a thought I had, sir.”

            “So you lied to me.” She imagines the menace in his voice dripping into a pool on the floor. It wouldn’t take long for the pool to get deep. “I don’t like it when you lie.”

            “I’m sorry sir.”

            He laughs then. But his laughter isn’t at something funny. His laughter has no humor in it. Only cruelty and sadism are in that laugh. She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling.

            His hand wraps around her throat, holding tight enough for her to know he’s there, hard enough to make her gasp and pull her teeth away from her lip, but not hard enough to cut off her breathing.

            Once her mouth is open, he slaps her again. Three times, rapidly, in the same place. Her cheek burns now even when he isn’t touching it. But she knows there won’t be a bruise. He’s careful, and after that one time, after those few awkward days when everyone looked at them both like they were contemplating calling the police, he’s taken care never to hit her face hard enough to leave a bruise.

            No matter how much she begs him to.

            Her breath is heavy, the beginnings of a pur at the back of her throat. She opens her mouth wide, stretching the skin a little bit. She’s trying to get him to slap her again, daring him to take another swing. She’d wear the bruise proudly, and she’d have a great time teasing him about it.

            But he doesn’t slap her face. He drops his hand away from her throat. She lets out a disappointed sigh. As if waiting for just that moment, his hand whips through the air, smacking her breasts so hard that her sigh forgets what it was doing and comes out as a high pitched gasp instead.

            The impact almost knocks her over, but before she can fall to the side, he hits her again, this time from the other direction. He puts up a steady rhythm, bouncing her back and forth like a teeter totter.

            She gasps and moans when he finally stops. He could knock her over with a feather, but decides to use his whole hand, gripping her face in his palm like he was considering crushing it to nothing and pushing her, hard, back onto the bed. She feels her heels hit her thighs. She knows how much he likes that she can do that. It’s not just about her feet being trapped underneath her, or about her being now totally exposed to him.

            It’s the flexibility. The casual way she can bend all the way back like that. He thinks that is hot as hell. She likes that it turns him on.

            His fingers slap between her legs, and she gasps again. Another slap and she yelps. Then a harder slap makes her whimper.

            “Are you ready to apologize for lying to me?” he asks.

            She almost points out that she already did. She almost tells him that she won’t apologize because she isn’t sorry. But that’s not what he likes. Resistant, not bratty. She was still supposed to know her place. Any challenges she made, any attempts to bring on more pain, had to be subtle. It couldn’t seem like she was disrespecting him or his power.

            So she catches her breath, bites her lip again, and focuses on making her voice sound more apologetic than horny. “I’m sorry I lied to you, sir.” She says.

            She hears his belt unbuckling. That could mean anything.

            “I don’t believe you,” he says.

            “I’m sorry sir.”

            “Sorry that I don’t believe you?” His voice is suddenly much closer, and she can feel his weight on the bed. He puts a hand to her throat again, pushing her chin back and making her feel like she’s being choked, even though she can breathe just fine. “Or sorry that you weren’t more convincing?”

            “Sorry I wasn’t more convincing, sir.” Always take the blame. Never even imply that the fault is in him.

            “So you were lying,” he says. “Again.”

            She opens her mouth to protest and realizes the trap she fell into. Either blame him for not believing her or admit that she was lying. Spanked if you do, whipped if you don’t. Or something like that.

            He slaps the leather of the belt against her side, making a smacking sound much louder than the actual force of the hit merits. She gasps, and he whips her again. She imagines welts rising on her torso, across her breasts. She imagines that the hits are much, much harder than they are, that her endorphins are fooling her. She moans with the hits, with the imagined intensity of the hits. She groans as the sweat sliding down her stinging skin lets her imagine that he broke the skin.

            She keeps moaning and writhing in pleasure for several seconds after he stops hitting her. Then, just before she can make a noise of complaint, the leather loops around her throat and pulls tight, yanking her back to her knees. He makes sure the belt is loose, but doesn’t take it off.

            “I can’t believe anything you say, you dirty liar,” he says. “So you’re going to have to prove to me that you really are sorry.”

            She likes the sound of that.

            “How can I prove it, sir?”

            “If I cum before you pass out,” he says, “Then I’ll know you’re sincere.”

            He presses his cock to her lips, and she eagerly opens her mouth. He pushes in deep, sliding far enough to fill her throat, to cut off her air, just for a second. Then he pulls out enough for her to take one quick breath in.

            She smiles and moans onto his cock.

            “And if you pass out first,” he says, pushing back down her throat. He makes a disappointed sound.

            The threat, hollow, unspoken, and terrifying, lingers in the air as he cuts off her breath again, forcing her to suck harder, to slide her tongue around more quickly and more precisely, hoping to bring him over the edge before she passes out.

            Before she can disappoint him.