Page 33 of The Freeuse Proposal
He continues, finding a rhythm. Each impact stings, then blooms into warmth, then fades just as the next one lands. The pain is sharp but fleeting, and what follows it—the rush of heat, the way my pussy tightens with each strike—surprises me with its intensity.
I really like this.
The knowledge settles into my bones as my hips push back for more. Not just the sting, though that sends heat floodingthrough me. It’s the crack of his palm announcing his control over my flesh. It’s the way each impact says ‘you’re mine’ without words.
“Color?” he asks again, hand pausing on my heated skin.
“Green.” The word comes out desperate. “Don’t stop.”
His laugh is low and dark. “My sweet little slut likes being spanked. I knew you would.”
He rewards me with harder strikes, and something shifts in my head. The pain sharpens my focus when I start drifting, grounds me in my flesh when the pleasure threatens to scatter me. But it also pushes me somewhere floaty and suspended, like the space between awake and dreaming except every nerve is on fire.
When he stops and works his fingers between my legs, I moan at how wet I am. He teases my entrance, circles my clit, and the combination of the residual sting on my ass and the pleasure building in my core is overwhelming.
“Please,” I whimper. “Please let me come.”
“Not yet, pet.” He withdraws his fingers, and I almost scream from the loss. “I haven’t decided if you’re coming today or not.”
Oh, God.
Time stops making sense.
I don’t know how many times he’s brought me to the precipice now. The afternoon light has shifted, casting longer shadows across the bed, but I can’t track minutes or hours. There’s only pleasure—his mouth, his fingers, his cock working into me with devastating slowness before he pulls out and denies me again.
He intersperses everything with spanking, the sharp crack of his palm pulling me back when I drift too far. When I’m too tense with anticipation, the rhythm of impact pushes me deeper into that strange suspended space.
My thoughts start fragmenting.
Please. More. Now. Words tumble out without my permission, desperate pleas that don’t quite form properly. I’m his instrument, and he’s playing me expertly, drawing sounds from me I didn’t know I could make. The sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, and the room feels warmer than it should, the air thick with the scent of sex.
“That’s it, lass.” His voice reaches me from far away. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”
Thinking is impossible now. The room has gone soft around the periphery, reality reduced to the points where his flesh meetsmine. His voice is the only anchor, telling me I’m good, I’m perfect, I’m his.
His. The word sits in my chest where my thoughts used to be. I’m his. Nothing else matters.
Another crest approaches without release. I sob into the pillow, trembling everywhere, and he strokes my back.
“So beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “So completely mine.”
Anything. I would do anything for him right now. Anything at all.
In the floating space behind my closed eyes, my mind drifts.
Leo’s fingers are inside me, curling against that perfect spot. I’m suspended somewhere between agony and ecstasy, so far gone that thoughts don’t form so much as surface—rising like bubbles from deep water.
His hand shifts, and for a disorienting moment I imagine a second set of hands holding me still while Leo takes what he wants. The phantom touch feels so real that I moan, my back arching toward something that isn’t there.
Something he said days ago floats up. His friend Dane is coming for Christmas.
The thought shouldn’t be erotic. But in my hazy state, my mind transforms it without my permission. What would it be like tohave two sets of hands on me? Two voices commanding me? One holding me down while the other takes what he wants?
A moan escapes me, louder than before, and I feel Leo’s attention sharpen.
The fantasy intensifies. I imagine two men using me, passing me between them, both of them telling me I’m good.
My pussy tightens hard around Leo’s fingers. He makes a low sound of surprise.
