Page 100 of Irish Brute

I trace her left leg, barely touching her damp skin, ankle to knee to the tightening crease of her thigh. I trace the right, moving even slower, keeping the touch even lighter.

She’s whining now, a trilling, purring sound, so far back in her throat she may not know she’s making it. I tease her belly, and her pitch moves higher. I hover over her clit, barely moving, and she arches toward me, shifting as much as her bound legs allow.

“No,piscín,” I chide.

She pouts prettily, but she lowers her hips. She grips her bonds tighter. She waits.

And I start all over again—her tits, her thighs, the soles of her feet, her lips, her belly… I end by dangling the strands above her clit once more.

She tries to mind the rules. She bites her lip. She points her toes.

And I flick my wrist, bringing the strands down hard across her greedy cunt.

She shrieks—a shocked sound, an indignant cry. Her knees fight to draw together, but she’s tied herself too well. Her arms jackknife in their bonds, trying to pull her to safety.

I wait for her to say it—red.

Her throat works. She darts her tongue past her lips. I’ll stop if she tells me to. That’s the only way this works.

But then she whispers, “Thank you…sir.”

Mo chailín maith.

“Count,piscín. Count out loud.”

I strike her pretty cunt again.

“One,” she says.

Twois a flick straight to her clit.Threeis her left thigh.Fouris her right.

Her voice is getting tighter, closer to release. This is the woman who keeps her personal life locked down, bound by morerules than I’ve ever dreamed of giving her. This is the woman who values control over all else. This is the woman who has tortured herself for eleven long years, denying herself anything soft, anything beautiful, all because she believes she’s damned.

“Tell me you want it,” I order, trailing the strands across her straining tits.

“Please,” she whispers.

“Make me believe you.”

“Sir…”

“Beg,piscín.”

She’s proud. She’s stubborn. I’ve offered her a bridge, but she has to be brave enough to take the first step. She has to shed her inhibitions, has to step out into the void, confident that I’ll meet her, that I’ll always be there.

I hold my breath, praying she can make the leap. I raise my hand, ready to give her what she truly thirsts for. But I’m just as prepared to strip loose the knots around her ankles, to free her wrists. I’ll finish the game on my terms—withholding the release she craves—if she won’t do as I command.

That’s why she wears my collar.

She groans first. But then she pleads: “Please. I need you, sir. I’ll do anything for you. Please. I need this. One more time, sir, just like the first time. Please, sir, please. Please, please, please…”

I land the blow with absolute precision. Every muscle in her body clenches. Her mouth stretches in an endless perfect O. I drag the leather over her wet, trembling folds, slowly, carefully, and then I strike one last time.

She soars. She shouts something that might be thanks, that might be praise, that might be the spirit rushing through her body. She strains against the rope, all four limbs fighting to meet, to close around the perfect space between her thighs.

My cock demands to be there, part of her joy, lost in her power. I keep shears in the nightstand, sharp-edged blades meant for an emergency. And I can’t imagine any greater need than this.

All it takes are four sharp slashes—left foot, right, right wrist, left. Then I’m kneeling between her legs, putting the head of my cock against her pulsing lips. I spread my fingers across her belly in a flash of warning before I slide into the heat, into the wet, into the heart of this magnificent woman.