Just his hand

He left bruises with that big, right hand.

My annual exam was today and my OB remarked on them, still purple and fresh. Moments before, she “tsked” when she saw the yellowing fingerprints on my tits, fading from Friday.

I said the only thing that made sense: “I’m sure you’ve heard of ’50 Shades.'”

That awful book is a handy point of reference when one’s feet are in stirrups.

This ‘thing’ with C is still new, but even if it wasn’t, my tummy-toil would be there. I know enough to realize that I’m in big trouble with this one. There are no rules — yet — but I’m already wary of breaking them. Because of his hands. Because of how small he makes me feel in his presence. Because of how well I fit over his lap.

When he slapped my thigh, I squealed in a most unbecoming way and kicked. He immediately did it again. And again. And, later, he found the same spot and tested me yet again. I pounded his Doc Marten-clad foot with my fist and momentarily tilted away from his knees.

“Babygirl doesn’t like that so much, does she?” He asked.

There was no easy answer. I don’t like it. I don’t like the high-pitched sting. I don’t like that it’s not on my ass, where my pleasure receptors seem to be. I don’t like it because it’s all pain, sharp and foul-mouthed.

But I’m a confusing girl sometimes. Here is a man I trust to do just-enough-awful things to me. I love his control; I love submitting to it. His power makes me wet; his power makes him hard.

As a reward, his finger dipped into my pussy, swirled around and teased my clit. Babygirl loves that, as I lifted my hips and rode that finger.

So far it’s been just his hand, but I have a greedy eye on his belt.

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