Page 36 of Salt in the Wound
I was carried to a padded leather table and bent over it without ceremony, my dress impatiently shoved up past my hips and a large hand coming between my shoulder blades to pin me to the table. The room behind us was desperate now, a keening, hungry edge to their calls and cheers, and the first hard smack to my ass came with thunderous applause.
Mark didn’t pause to acknowledge it, didn’t slow down in the least. His hand came again and again, harder than the flogger, and faster too—strike after strike after strike.
On the sixth one, I cracked, letting out a grunt, and on the seventh one, I moaned so loudly that the audience heard. They stilled, going quiet, treating themselves to my choked-off cries and groans, which were fast turning into sobs.
It hurt so badly, and it felt sofuckinggood—like being filled with cold, clean water, filled with stillness and peace, and also like being purified like gold in a fire. The pressure against my aching breasts felt like destiny, and my nearly exposed cunt as I was bent over the table felt like fate.
Mark’s hands were on my back and punishing my backside, but his touch was everywhere, hiswillwas everywhere, and there was no unspooling that from any other feeling, the cleansed feeling, the God-feeling, the euphoria of it all… Each strike was a fresh surge of heat to my sex, an invisible mouth licking me between the legs.
I lost count after the eleventh strike, my body shivering and my heart sliding into my stomach, and I wondered if the lights were bright enough that the audience could see the shape of my pussy through my underwear. I wondered if they could see that I was flushed and slick there. I wondered if Mark could see. I wondered if he wanted to fuck my cunt, right now on this stage, pulling my underwear down to my ankles and unbuttoning his tuxedo pants and impaling me in front of everyone here. I wondered what it would feel like, him sliding thick and merciless inside me, taking his pleasure, using my hole until he filled me full.
I wondered if he’d leave me there after, for everyone to see how I’d been used.
I almost didn’t realize it was happening as it was building, the rest of my body was so hot and tight—but it was unmistakable, urgent. Necessary.
I was about to have an orgasm.
I was about to have an orgasm in front of hundreds of people, with my dress shoved up around my hips and my bottom red from my future husband’s hand.
No.No, that couldn’t happen—that wasn’t me, that wasn’t supposed to be how this worked. I was supposed topretend; I wasn’t supposed to do this for real, be this for real—
Hyssop.
I could say it. I could stop it before it happened, claw back whatever dignity I possibly could before my body betrayed me. It was as simple as one word. Two syllables.
I could say it, and I believed that Mark would honor it.
But I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything.
I grunted and I cried. I gasped against the leather top of the table.
And then pleasure ripped through me like fabric tearing in two, sudden and violent and irreversible, and my pussy clenched tight and then released. Again, again—clench, release—surges that stole my very breath, until I was panting, mouth open against the leather, shuddering and shaking and crying.
I’d never felt anything like this. Not with my furtive grasps toward pain with my kneeling and my kicking post. Not during my tentative flirtations with pleasure, alone in bed with my hand between my legs and my face turned toward the wall. Not even in my dreams, knotted and coiled as they were.
This—this was new.
And it was breaking me, soiling me, tearing all my good and dignified intentions in half.
Mark was still spanking me through it, and after a final strike that sent a ragged moan from my lips, I felt him step closer. He rubbed a hand over my abused backside, sending sparks trailing after his touch.
“What do you think?” he asked his admirers in that cool, seductive voice. “Has she pleased me? Has she earned something in return?”
They went wild, of course, but I wasn’t paying attention to them. I was only paying attention to Mark’s hand sliding under my ribs to find my throat, to him pulling me up against his chest and turning us so that we faced the crowd. A thick erection dug into my back; he was hard from beating me. My sadistic fiancé.
His free hand found the hem of my dress and moved up my thigh to cup my pussy.
I shivered against him, the pressure and heat of his hand so wonderful that I wanted to push against it, grind shamelessly against it. Make him hold me there forever. Even in front of everyone here. Maybe especially in front of everyone here.
Distantly, I knew I would be appalled by these thoughts later, but I didn’t care, I couldn’t care. I was pressed against Mark Trevena with his hand between my legs and all I wanted wasmore.
I knew, also distantly, that he would probably be able to guess the effect the scene had on me, and whatever shred of self-preservation I had left was begging me to stop this before he could find out. Begging me to keep it our secret, because once he knew the effect this had on me—thathehad on me—he would never unknow it. And surely he would use it for his own agenda somehow.
I would, in his shoes.
But I didn’t stop him as his hand moved—with the approving screams of the audience—to the waistband of my boy shorts. I didn’t say my safe word. I just shivered against him, his other hand still collaring my throat, as he dipped his fingers past the elastic and down to my pussy.
He was trying not to touch me, I could feel that right away; he was trying to keep a nearly invisible distance between his touch and my skin. But my boy shorts were tight and the angle was strange, and his fingertips brushed once over my vulva.
