Carly On Her Knees

Chapter One

Chapter One

The garret is in Paris, where inside against the yellow paint the shadows of leaves dance, creating an imprint in her mind that will never fade—of this particular moment, and these four walls, and the hungry eroticism that drove them to this tryst.

James, her lover, smokes as he circles her bound nakedness. He’s stripped to the waist, his firm muscles flexing proudly; a cigarette between the fingers of one hand, in his other a finely made whip. Using the tail-end of the rope that bound her wrists, he’d tied her arms to a beam above her head—how convenient it was to find a garret with an accommodation for his s****l fetish. Though her pheromones have been on the rise for nearly a half hour, her lithe body is only now covered with a thin layer of perspiration.

Her body is slender, her skin pale, her breasts small mounds that set up proudly in the humid air. Her long flaxen hair trails down her back, while her shaved mons is slick with erotic juices leaking from her s*x.

The discomfort of the awkward pose is allayed by a fantasy of capture, torture and s****l release that has been playing inside her mind since he called her earlier that day. Although she currently has doubts about their future together, she was quick to accept his invitation—the physical rhythms in her body had been waiting for an invite to come her way. On days she feels the need for kinky s*x, she waits, psychically begging her lover to feel the passion that throbs so hotly in her horny body. Some women would ‘take matters into their own hands’ and contact him. But not Carly. Never has she wanted to be the instigator of such a scene since the role she plays is unequivocally submissive.

Most days she goes without her raunchy needs satisfied. Today she got lucky.

Thwack!

Her lover lunges with the whip so suddenly that she lets out a scream beyond the panty gag he stuffed inside her mouth. She grimaces, wrenching painfully, maybe more than normal; this one struck on her tender side where the skin is fragile and easily wounded.

“Getting soft on me?” he ridicules her plight.

Her eyes shoot open, then soften into a miserable expression that will only make him chide her more.

“You’d think if you didn’t like our afternoons together that you’d quit coming, Carly.”

If she had the ability to answer, she might tell him something like: ‘It’s not about liking or disliking the activity of being tortured; it’s about knowing what I need.’ And this she needs. She’s not the kind of girl who moons over ‘the why’ behind her kinky obsessions. They satisfy her, what more does she need to know?

They satisfy James Battles too. He’s the sadist she’s been visiting for well over a year of torturous s*x games.

For a moment, he teasingly rakes her flesh with his nails, while the smoke from his burning cigarette winds its way inside her nostrils. She breathes deep, wishing she could take a drag, then she spirals down through layers of uncertainty to the core of her fantasy: capture, torture, s****l release.

Each snap of the whip landing on her skin generates another sharp pain and another lurching and garbled cry. She lunges forward, only to be pulled back by her tethered wrists. He’s flailing on her harder now, in quick bursts of blows, cuts that erratically batter her with a pain so angry that she wishes she could let out the full intensity of her anguish in one long shrieking scream. Though that means of emotional release has been denied her, she’ll suffer through this torture because she knows what ecstasy lies on the other end of her torment. She goes inside, settles her mind on the fierce sensation, and locates the throbbing responses in her hungry crotch. Just that one focused thought and the entirety of her body seems to explode in a physical orgasm that is not so much located in her s*x as her entire body. She spasms hard, cruelly, her groin jutting into the room with the hope that her lover will notice the blatant come-hither.

Of course he notices her every move, all the body language, all the silent clues she imparts to him in her gagged state.

True to form, he takes his time, drawing her out on a knife blade of uncertainty, through the wondering, wishing, begging stages of hopefulness. He increases the force of the beating then waits until she adjusts before taking her even deeper into the pain. As he’s done a dozen times, in a dozen trysts past, he takes her to the hard edges of her endurance, and by some skillful knowledge, or just bum luck, he knows exactly when to stop.

He draws in close, and again with careful fingers titillates her body with his touch, making a teasing journey with his hand until he reaches her pulsating crotch.

He fingers her slit lightly. “Is this what you want?”

She nods vigorously. “Uh huh.”

His fingers move deeper and she seizes up.

Too soft?” he asks, already knowing that what she desires is his hard erection in her steamy hole.

“Uh huh,” now weeping with frustration as her desire soars.

He continues to smile and strut and smoke his cigarette, gloating over his mastery of her body and this incredible moment. He’s her Dom, her master, her lord and savior, and still he’s content to mock her with her own suffering.

“It’s not my style to make this easy on you, slave,” he says. “But of course you know that…” he chuckles darkly, “and still you sign on for another afternoon of pain.” As he so delicately toys with the wet folds of her s*x, her face twists into a horrible grimace. “Is this really so bad?” he mocks. “I mean, you’re practically coming.”

Of course, I’m practically coming—and not just practically! She’d scream if she could. A spontaneous series of spasms continues through her lower body, but coming on air and delicate fingers is not what she desires most.

“Maybe you’d rather have this,” he says. He steps back and drops his pants, unveiling a hard erection jutting from his hairy crotch.

Her eyes light longingly on the hefty organ, while her gagged mouth salivates on the sopping gag.

“Feast on that, Carly,” he sneers, while he struts and smokes before her lust-filled eyes. Finally, he moves in once more and teases her p***y with his fingers until she’s beside herself with want, jerking like a battered sail writhing on the wind. His rigid c**k brushes against her thigh and she lurches forward. His hand moves deeper into her crotch and the inner spasms become stronger.

“You know, I should make you wait,” he delivers another taunt to make her whine. “Or maybe better than that, I should deny you the pleasure you are such a slave to. How would that be? Send you home without the end you seek? Maybe break you of this nasty obsession?” He thinks again. “Of course, should I do that, and break this terrible obsession of yours, I’d have to find another slavey female like you. They’re hardly a dime a dozen, especially a well-seasoned one like you.” He sighs plaintively, then with a sneer of satisfaction, he pulls in tight against her groin with his raging hard-on sliding between her wet labia. With one sharp thrust forward he sinks himself into her grasping portal. “Ah yes!” He lays his hand against the side of her face. “For such a well-f****d female, you have one tight cunt.”

They have a shared goal; though from this point, any intimacy is left to drift while they go in search of the physical satiation that brought them to this moment.

Carly comes down from her subspace high, lying against the mattress, sharing drags from James’ fresh cigarette. It is the only time she smokes.

“I wish you didn’t gag me,” she flippantly retorts as she hands him back his smoke.

“Well then, you’d be controlling the scene, wouldn’t you? Sort of defeats the purpose of submission when the sub makes up the rules.”

“Yeah, wise guy.” She jumps from the bed, having had enough of James Battles for one day. Not that it wasn’t good—the s*x is always great. But awkward moments like the ones that follow their explosive scenes have become almost as painful as the beating, and not in a good way. Dressing doesn’t take but a few seconds. She came prepared wearing a simple shift dress and a pair of suede boots. That’s it. Underwear has become passé for most occasions, and certainly pointless when meeting a lover for s*x.

Meanwhile James Battles is fixing the cuffs on his starched shirt, adjusting his tie into a perfect knot and, while slumping in order to see himself in the mirror, carefully brushing back his dark hair.

“You’re sure in a hurry to leave,” he says in passing.

“And you’re not?”

“I have an event,” he tells her. His dreary tone suggests the event will be a terminal bore.

“Yeah, well so do I.”

As she’s running her fingers through her long blonde hair, he grabs his jacket and briefcase, then he stops, staring at her for a moment. “I feel like I should give you something—I mean for such a good time.”

“Oh, Christ, don’t waste the effort,” she moans. “I mean that would make me a w***e now, wouldn’t it? And if there is anything that I’m not, it’s a whore.”

He doesn’t know how to take the flippant remark—he doesn’t even know what it means. So ignoring it, he gives her a peck on the cheek, because maybe that’s the easiest way to end the afternoon, then he moves to the door.

“I did pay for the room,” he throws back the comment. “Sorry about last time.”

She shrugs. “No big deal. It’s not like I’m broke.” She stares at the handsome put-together-like-a-manikin James Battles as he’s about to leave and feels a flutter of arousal deep in her belly. Can this be true? she wonders, that I’m already salivating for next time? Her heart nearly leaps at the loss, but she catches herself before she spits out something stupid she’ll regret. In an hour or two, she’ll be regretting this afternoon. It didn’t used to be that way when s*x with James meant bodies intertwined, hands groping and huge open-mouthed kisses that took them from one side of the bed to the other. That was before the S M became the prime reason for their trysts, when compelling desires once dormant came to life and became their mutual obsession.

Now endings just seem empty. Partings brutal but necessary. The s*x acts themselves have lost their luster. Any hopes and dreams and secret fantasies that could have carried their affair into bold new directions died sometime in the last six months, leaving them with the remains, the S M to carry them through to this day. But how much longer can it last?

Carly thinks it will end soon, though she’s willing to wait a while to see what shows up next before burning her bridges.