Page 63 of Trust

I want to see what he’ll do, left to his own devices.

He goes again, slightly harder, but it’s nowhere near enough to hurt. If anything, I would almost say it tickles.

It’s strange to think that a man like Ilya would go so light on me, but he seems so intent on not hurting me that it doesn’treallysurprise me.

“You can go a little harder—” I begin, only to realize this falls into the realm of dictating to him what I want.

This isn’t the place for that.

We’ll go at his pace.

Ilya’s next strike finally brings with it the quick stinging pain, the tails lashing over my skin.

I stifle a small groan.

“It’s hard to tell how much force is good,” Ilya admits. “So don’t hide your noises. I need to hear your reactions.”

I nod into the blankets, then realize he probably can’t see it. “Okay,” I tell him, the word muffled.

The next few blows are about as hard, and I moan, lifting my ass in blatant invitation to continue. He does, and I encourage him with the sounds and movements of my body.

It’s bliss.

He uses the same even tempo, the same level of force, in such a controlled way that I can barely believe he’s never done this before.

Because he’s lying to you,a dark thought whispers.

Because he’s just buttering you up.

I shove that thought aside and concentrate on the sensations.

The next blow is suddenly sharper, harder. I startle and cry out, my back lifting unconsciously.

Ilya says something in Russian, angry enough to make me flinch, and places a hand on my shoulder. “Micah? Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head quickly. “No! Not in a bad way,” I amend. “It took me by surprise. It’s good, though.”

“Should I stop?” Ilya asks. He sets the flogger down on the bed while he strokes my back.

Startled, I shake my head again, turning my head to look at him. “Please don’t,” I say, shivering beneath the touch.

Ilya nods. “Okay.” He sounds shaky, like he’s the one affected by all this, but he picks the flogger up again and gets back into position.

I should tell him that he doesn’t have to do this, but a selfish part of me wants him to continue too badly. If he really doesn’t want to, he’d say that though.

Wouldn’t he?

The next strike is under my ass, along my thighs, and it’s every bit as hard as the previous blow. This time, I’m expecting it, and I moan, clutching the sheets beneath my hands. “Yes,” I whisper. I don’t know if he can hear me, but another few blows rain down upon me, and I moan and writhe and whimper my way through them.

The pain morphs into bliss, and I start to feel floaty, like everything has emptied from my mind and left me capable of feeling nothing but pleasure.

This time, when he sets the flogger aside, I’m ready for more.

I’m ready for the way he trails his fingers along the welts, the way he presses into my ass cheeks where I know I’ll be bruised.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice choked. “Fuck me.”

Ilya groans loudly. “Yes.” He kisses my ass, his lips pressing against one of the welts, before he stands up. He undoes his belt and reaches for the lube and condoms on the bedside table.