Another Shade of Red

Neely took her coat off and threw it over a box, and Liam set the valentine down and reached for her, wrapping a long arm around her and pulling her close. His hand went to her blouse and cupped her breast, and Neely felt him stop when he realized she was naked beneath the fabric.

Neely stood there with her arms at her sides and watched his face as he began unbuttoning her blouse. When it was halfway open he pulled the lapels roughly apart and exposed her breasts. She watched his eyes, wanting to see the desire there, and she wasn't disappointed. He'd always loved her breasts and liked her without a bra, insisting she didn't need one, and now his face darkened with undisguised lust.

It was just as she remembered: the look on his face still caused the hairs on the back of her arms to stand up. When he reached out and pulled her to him, she gave a little cry of protest, then his mouth went to her breast and she clamped her lips shut, moaning despite herself. Once again she felt him taking control of her body, whether she wanted him to or not. She stood there cradling his head in her hands as he kissed and licked her nipples, ignoring the voice that nagged her about what she was doing.

He had always been able to make her feel insanely feminine. As he held her now and ran his tongue in circles around her areolas and nipped them tenderly with his teeth, Neely felt her legs grow weak and that sweet ache begin between her legs, something she hadn't felt in years.

She gasped and let her head fall back and gave herself over to the pleasures of his mouth, then forced herself to raise her head and look down so she could see him nursing at her breasts, and image that always brought her to a state of helpless arousal. She felt herself grow wet. Her pussy seemed to be opening like a flower under his touch, and it felt glorious.

"Do you want to play, Neely? Is that it? Like we used to?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Yes, but I can't stay long. I have to leave at five. And no marks, Liam. Please."

He picked up the valentine, took her by the hand and let her into the back, into his bedroom where the box spring and mattress lay on the floor, hastily shoved against the wall. There was a sheet spread over the mattress, so new it still bore the folds from the package, and a single pillow on the bed. There was an armchair and more boxes, but they were piled neatly against one wall. At one end of the bedroom was a frame made out of plumber's pipe, a rectangle, braced upright. The tools he'd used to assemble it were still on the floor.

Neely scanned the room and realized that Liam had prepared things for her. She wondered whether she should feel insulted, but she realized she had no right to feel proud and no inclination to feel shame. Her fingers were already on the buttons of her blouse, finishing what he'd begun.

Liam sat down in the chair to watch her undress, then casually opened the valentine. He pulled it from the envelope and laughed.

"You're kidding, right? Flowers and lace? For me? You didn't even sign it."

She watched him until she saw the dawning realization on his face of who the valentine was really meant for, and then she looked away before she could see his judgment of her.

He placed the valentine on a box and Neely said nothing, just unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse and shrugged it off, then turned half away from him as she unfastened her skirt and let it slide down her legs. He'd always enjoyed seeing her undress, and she'd always felt nervous, and so she'd reached this compromise long ago, letting him see her breasts, but turning away from him for the rest. She hooked her thumbs into the waist of her slip and peeled that down, and stood before him in her panty hose and panties and shoes.

"You know I hate those things," he said, gesturing to the hose. "They make you look like an old lady."

"I wear them for work," she said. "I have to wear something."

She peeled off the pantyhose then stepped back into her shoes. The floor was bare wood and cold. She set about picking up her clothes, but her hands were shaking.

"Come here," he said.

He got out of the chair and put his arms around her, grabbing her hair in his hands and kissing her deeply, overwhelming her as he always did, and Neely didn't feel cold anymore. She loved it this way: him clothed and she all but naked, his clothes chafing against her skin and reminding her of her nakedness. He led her to the frame and when he starting wrapping rope around her wrists she felt that terrible aching hunger in the pit of her stomach again, buried dreams and memories stirring like a serpent beneath a forest floor.

He knew just how to tie her, cruciform, arms out to the sides so that she felt like something between a victim and an offering. He'd thoughtfully placed the dresser mirror on the floor, tilted at an angle so she could see herself and see him moving around behind her, getting the crop. It had to be her crop, she prayed. She couldn't bear to think that it wasn't the same one, that maybe he had gotten a new one.

He hit her on the ass, striking her through her panties hard enough to sting but not to raise welts, and she used the first few blows to try and buy her freedom from Ronnie, giving him her pain and trying to send him away. It didn't work though, and so she just closed her mind to him. Ronnie'd never understood this part of her, even though she'd tried to show it to him, and now she couldn't worry about him. The whip struck against her silky panties with a smart little snap, stinging her just right and making her feel as though something hot were already growing inside her.

He knew just where to hit her: how much and how hard, and when he dropped the whip and sank to his knees behind her and began to kiss and lick her ass, Neely looked at them both in the mirror with that mixture of pride and elation that was almost as good as sex itself. She needed this. She needed for him to break through the shell she'd grown around herself and find that part of her that was still living. She knew it was still there, and she knew he'd find it if anyone could.

Liam's big hands were on her buttocks, caressing and squeezing them, then peeling down her sodden panties and kissing and licking the flesh as it was exposed. The man seemed to eat her alive, as if he really wanted to swallow her down, as if there was nothing so precious in the world to him, and Neely was flooded with that feeling of victory, knowing that once again she had brought him to his knees.

He pulled her panties halfway down her thighs and left them there. He stood up and took off his shirt.

The next series was for her alone. They were harder and she knew he was leaving marks but she didn't care. She'd think of something. In each stroke she felt Liam's desire for her, his unquenchable need for her, and she knew she was being punished for his need and for hers as well, and that's what made it alright; necessary in fact. He whipped her till welts piled on welts and a new kind of pain took over, deep and clawing and filling her with fire so that her pussy oozed like a broken blister, wetting the insides of her thighs.

When he took her down from the frame and carried her to the bed she was whipped clean of everything but her desire for him, of her need to have him inside and moving within her. He never let go of her, laying her on her back and covering her with his body, pressing her knees up against her breasts and holding them there as he drew his hips back like a cobra and then rammed her deep, groaning in bliss and triumph.

Neely cried out and buried her face in his neck, She wrapped her thin arms around his back and squeezed him tight; she held onto him as if he were life itself. He filled her completely, not only her cunt but her mind and her awareness: the smell of him, the feel of his skin against hers, the frantic and selfish way he worked to satisfy himself in her body.

Neely gasped and saw stars. When it was this good it was like they were one person and she echoed every grunt and groan he made in perfect empathy: she felt everything he felt as he took his pleasure in her. He fucked her hard and brutally, as if he'd never get enough, and she surrendered herself to his overwhelming male lust, feeling his hardness penetrating her and his strength working to bring them both off.

His prick worked inside her like a piston in an engine, making her hum, bringing her to life and driving her up and up till she dug her nails into his massive arms and held onto him in a convulsive spasm of possession and shot like rocket against the sun, to a place where there was no barrier between them anymore, not even the tissue of their skin. She felt that feeble throbbing inside her – all his strength and passion reduced to that, those hot, liquid squirts – and she threw back her head and sobbed out her complete surrender.

She squeezed her eyes shut so tight she saw lights: hearts, thousands of hearts, and for once they didn't make her turn away. For once, they were perfect.

*****

She rested her head against the rainy window of the bus, dully watching the lights outside, thinking nothing. Her ass hurt from the whipping and she was sore between her legs, but she felt wonderfully calm and strangely at peace. She was almost at her stop and she still hadn't thought of anything to tell Ronnie or even what she wanted to say.

She still had those ridiculous shorts in her purse, but she could hardly give them to him now, and she needed to give him something. When she reached her stop she stepped carefully onto the icy street and walked to the gift shop, the same one whose windows she'd been looking at just that morning, so long ago.

She looked at the hanging Eros. He was still slowly spinning, pointing his arrow first at her and then away. Pointing his arrow in every direction.