Lucy wants to bring her knees together to protect herself, but also wants to let them drop wide open. Her knees flutter back and forth in little shakes, pulling closer together when one of my slaps is particularly vicious.
Every once in a while I shift my gaze to her eyes, to see what she's feeling -- because she certainly isn't thinking -- but, for the most part, I look at her exposed cunt, flared red and open and full and leaking excitement. I'm slapping her even harder by now, working my way rhythmically across from one thigh to the other, backhanded, building on the red heat I've created. The rhythm means she can anticipate the next impact. I love the way the muscles of her thighs tighten then relax, her knees come up then fall away, reaffirming each and every time that this next blow, whether thudding or stinging, is exactly what she wants.
I don't tease her with breaks to penetrate her with a finger or rub her clit. I just focus on hitting her, the sound of my hands against her skin, the way the force of the impact makes her jiggle and swell, the way all of that makes my pussy clench and some unnameable force in the core of me tread a dangerous dance between the desire to fuck her and kill her.
Just as I did when I abused her breasts and face, I listen to the sounds she's making. I want to hear her at the edge, I want to hear her decision to bring her knees together the instant before she actually does, so I can stop them, push them away from each other and onto the bedspread, beyond the lift of the pillows under her hips, and remind her just who that cunt belongs to.
Her cries reach that crescendo as she passes over into the kind of pain that's too much. Her knees come together and I force them apart. I slap her pussy one last time, hard, making her make that noise again, only louder, before covering it with the flat of my palm and pushing firmly to help ease the pain. I can see her whole body relax in response to my nonverbal signal that the hitting is over for now.
"Thank you," she sobs. My heart breaks and is made whole. This is how I knew Lucy belonged to me even before Ray gave her to me. It doesn't matter that the desires and responses she has -- to pain and to domination -- were wired in from some external source, what matters is that what she needs to receive is precisely what I need to give.
"Stay," I say, and, as I get off the bed, she stays, one hand limp by her hip, the other across her mouth, palm up. Her eyes are closed, her head turned a little to the side. She doesn't bother to wipe at the tears leaking from her eyes. Her braid forms a thick, brown line alongside her neck and shoulder and down her upper arm to end just above her elbow. The soles of her feet are pressed together, her knees make open moth wings. The moisture from her cunt has collected and trickled all the way down to the pillow closest to the bedspread.
I can't help staring at her, my gaze traveling up and down her body, as I undress. Everything goes in the hamper in the closet. The rain, the piss, the blood, the fear -- from myself and others -- needs to be washed out soon. Next to the hamper is my toy box, a little cabinet that sits upright on the floor, with shelves behind a door and a little pullout drawer. I get the harness from the drawer and choose the extra-large Fuze Tango, large enough to make the harness little more than decoration. I like that sort of decoration.
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