He shook out the whip. It was a single tail leading into five thin braided fingers, long ones. Each finger ended in a single knotted tiny decorative rose. He’d braided the whip himself. The handle was flexible, just as the other whip had been, giving him plenty of control and movement. The first strike had a satisfying crack as he snapped it using a well-practiced flick of his wrist. The tail was fast, a blur, as it whipped out those five long, wicked fingers seeking their target unerringly.
He saw them hit perfectly just below her hips, all five laying those stripes that ended in the gorgeous roses pitting into her delicate skin. The fingers stung like a mother, and she reacted with a stifled cry, her body flushing, endorphins bringing a fine sheen of sweat and goose bumps to the surface. A fresh flood of tears trickled down her face.
The power settled into him, drove him higher. The music took him, thundered through his veins, pounded through his blood as he rained lash after lash down, over and across, creating the perfect pair of shorts to go with the bralette. The welts were a darker red, and there were more of them, the lines curling around her thighs and hips. This whip was a step above the last one, and he put a little more punch into it.
Savage moved around her continually, the whip never stopping, although he had to remind her not to move. Her body shuddered. Her breathing was ragged. She struggled not to move her hips when the wicked stimulation at her clit pounded to the beat of the music. All the while, the plug in her ass pulsed and massaged in counter rhythm. She needed those pleasurable sensations desperately to counter the terrible pain of those stinging fingers.
He found himself putting more and more strength into that flick of his wrist, just a little harder, watching her closely, seeing how much she could—and would—take for him. The high was getting higher. The rush stronger. His cock was close to exploding.
She had such a perfect ass, and he made certain that those curves had perfect lines all the way around, the welts raised and dark, especially on her sit spot. He studied his handiwork, his heart nearly exploding with the high.
“Yeah, baby,” he said softly, as he moved around once again to her front. “Let me see you cry for me. Give me your tears. Those are mine. All for me. That’s you loving me.”
Power and control wrapped him in euphoria and arousal beyond anything he’d known. Dominance and a primal feeling of sheer ownership, as if she belonged to him and he could do whatever he wished with her, settled over him. He needed this. He wanted it and he needed it. The craving was so strong, and she was his to do with whatever he willed.
He sent the whip snapping through the air, those beautiful, wicked roses with the tiny thorns hit in a beautiful fall, one after another, like a flowing waterfall this time, right on her mound. He didn’t wait, bringing it back and snapping it out again and again. Five times in a row.
The world seemed to stand still. Stop. Or maybe time did. Seychelle thought that whip was agony, but she’d been determined to bear it until she was certain Savage had purged the deep well of rage in him. But this … This was beyond any pain she had ever thought possible. She truly thought he was ripping her body open with the whip, and if she could look down—which she couldn’t because he’d tied her hair and trapped her—she’d see blood running like a river. But she could see him.
Savage looked insane with sensual power. He was definitely out of control. So high, she would have thought him on drugs. For the first time, a shadow of a doubt passed through her mind that she might not be able to stop him. She was entirely alone with him, and he was definitely out of control. All of that flashed through her mind with the first fall of those evil roses on her mound. She opened her mouth to scream, to put a stop to the whip, but no sound emerged, the pain was too excruciating. He struck so fast he’d managed to lash her several more times before she was able to find her voice.
“Red.” The first was a whisper. Her eyes were on him. Watching. Willing him to hear her. To listen. “Savage. Red.” Her eyes burned, she’d cried so much. This had to be enough for him. It was all she had to give, but more than that, she knew she had to stop him before he went any further. The next step, he might do something he would regret.
The hand holding the whip froze so that the tail and the wicked fingers fell close to his side. His eyes moved moodily over her body. At first, she didn’t think he really heard her. His eyes were so dilated, the pupils looked almost blown, but he coiled the whip and then tossed it aside, coming to her, stepping close.
She couldn’t stop her hips from moving, or the tears from flowing. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Chanting his name. A plea. She needed him.
He pulled the button from her clit. “You want my cock, baby, or do you need to go inside?” His hands were up, releasing the scarf tying her hair.
She wanted his cock desperately. She wasn’t certain she could live without it. That was always the way it was, but she didn’t know why. The tears wouldn’t stop. Savage leaned down and released her ankles from the cuffs and then her wrists before swinging her up to cradle her in his arms.
She shook her head, burying her face against his chest. “I need your cock. I do. Please.”
“I know, baby. Not like that, not in the cuffs. Somewhere a little more comfortable for you. You took a lot for me. You’re still going to be taking it because you know I’ll be rough.”
Seychelle didn’t care. She needed his roughness. She needed his cock. She needed him. Still, being in his arms hurt like hell. He kept leaning his head down and nuzzling her breasts with his chin. The bristles rasped over those dark, sensitive welts, sending stinging darts that became streaks of fire straight through her skin, setting her squirming to try to stop the sensation from traveling through her body straight to her sex.
Savage hadn’t removed the plug, and as he nudged open the sliding glass door leading to the master bedroom, another song began to play, and the plug pulsed and moved to the pounding beat. The music filled the room, already lit with candles and the scents he loved. Red wax fell like tears through the black honeycombs on the tall pyramid stands where the large candles sat.
He took her to the bed and laid her on her back, a shocking move when he usually liked to take her from behind after one of his heavier sessions. Even so, he positioned her with her legs wide, draped over the sides of the bed. He didn’t wait, just stepped to the end of the bed and slammed his cock into her. She was slick and hot and so in need, but still his girth was big enough that with his scarred ridges, it felt as if he were splitting her in two. Still, fire streaked through her and she nearly shattered.
His hands gripped her hips, and he yanked her body into his. “You are so fucking tight every damn time, Seychelle.” He wasn’t looking at her, only at the dark welts on her body. “Look at your tits, baby. Look at how beautiful that pattern looks on you.”
He kept surging into her, nearly lifting her off the bed with every stroke so that he drove the breath from her lungs. The pain was almost unbearable, but there was so much pleasure streaking through her, consuming her. It mixed together until she couldn’t tell one from the other and she didn’t care. She only needed him filling her, stretching her to the breaking point.
He took her up so high, that terrible tension coiling tight, and then he leaned over her, his mouth on her nipple, teeth clamping down, tugging with the other hand, fingers biting into the roses while his thumb thumped her clit hard. She exploded into impossible cataclysmic waves, so powerful she screamed and screamed, trying to hold on to him for an anchor, but he was riding her hard. Then he flipped her body over, uncaring of the welts, as she came, belly down on the material.