I don't know when the next snap from the riding crop will land on my ass. I just know it will.

Shallow breathing behind me gives away his excitement, but there's no indication when he'll next snatch up the crop, balanced obediently across the instep of my upturned foot.

He's good at making me stew. Anticipate. Crave.

I could blurt the safe word. I don't.

Clearly I'm faulty.

My fingertips whiten on the back of his rattan chair. I've been standing in his living room for what seems hours, naked on one leg like a fucking flamingo. Swear my ass is as pink.

Echoes of the previous volley swirl, flushing my skin anew, feeding the almost-gasm threatening to consume me. I need to go. Cum. Whatever.

In the neighbouring street, my oblivious husband is preparing spaghetti Bolognese. Looking forward to my return from ‘working late’, so I can field Daisy’s barrage of questions on every conceivable school topic. Nobody in their right mind trades domestic bliss and the unconditional love of their daughter for an evening of punishm—

Swish-Crack.

I scream, rock on the ball of my foot and suck in air through my teeth to stifle a sob. The leather strip brands my bottom. Heat seeps deep. My cunt drips, a wayward trickle betraying me.

He waits for my knee to crook again, sole facing the ceiling, before resting the crop across it. I blow hair strands clear.

Who'd have thought, one after-work drink, one invite back to his place for data sharing, would lead to months of submission that I don't want to end.

Except I do. It has to. My guilty conscience knows I must walk away. Knows this double life will lead to the destruction of my marriage. Upset. Tears. Custody ba—

Swish-CRACK.

“Fffuuccckk.”

I slap both feet to the floor and sway, the cool air of his apartment futile against the searing stroke.

He trails the leather flap down my thigh. Inward. Up, collecting juices. I know their destination and dutifully open my mouth. Watch him watching me hungrily devour the treacherous elixir.

When it's clean, the crop tracks down my chin, over the only item I'm wearing; a collar bearing one word: His. I shiver as he drags lower, over a breast, flicks a nipple.

Biting my lip, I inhale when the crop lifts clear. Squeal when it strikes my tit.

Swaying my head copes with the amplified pain that collides with the throb from my ass. The orgasm gets the memo, eddying on the brink. I need relief. But I can't cum. Not until he says. Otherwise I'll get the belt.

Jason cups my chest. Gently squeezes and I sigh as he fondles me, dusting fingertips down and round to stroke my glowing butt.

“Enough?”

I ought to say yes, but my head carries on shaking.

He slithers the business end of the crop across my ass. I swallow. “Please let me cum. God, pleeease.”

“The longer you wait, the better it’ll be.”

My mind swirls. I flex muscles that ache. Skin that stings. Grit my teeth. “I can take more.”

He’s unable to hide the glee. “Good girl.” The crop roams. “But you know what that makes you?”

“Mmmm. A s… slut.”

SWISH-THWACK.

“Ohh jesusfuck… Fuck!” My breath bursts and refills fast, teeth grinding. “Your slut.”

SWISH-CRACK.

“Owww, fuuuck. Sirrr.”

His hand soothes my rear. “Better. Do you want to cum?”

I groan. “Yess, fuck. So close. So fucking close.”

“Pity.”

My stomach freefalls like the first rollercoaster drop. “No…”

He taps the crop to my thigh. “Tell you what.” I lift my foot again for him to balance the crop on it. “Keep it there for a minute and you can cum.”

Turning alongside me, he trails his hand over my burning bottom, round to the front and tucks it between my thighs. Crooking a fingertip, he slides inside me and I gasp. I'm soaked. His thumb anchors my clit and he fingers me, rocking gently. Insistently.

I quake amid throaty moans. The crop wobbles. Rolls as he digs deeper and the orgasm crests. “Fffuckk. So fucking clo... no…”

My hips twist. The crop slithers and I curl my toes to catch it, just preventing its fall. When he slips a second finger inside and fucks me faster, I convulse, barely maintaining sanity. The crop rolls free and clatters to the wooden floor.

He pauses. Withdraws. Licks his fingers. “Oh dear.”

My heart sinks.

Crouching to retrieve the fallen toy, he pauses by my rear, surely sensing its heat on his cheek. I wince when he grabs the globes, parts them and spits on my asshole, holding them open while he works the handle of the crop inside.

“Oh God. Fuck, that's… ohhh.”

He wiggles more inside, spits again and slithers it back and forth, the rubber grip catching on exit to interrupt my desperate build-up. “Feet apart.”

Wetness tumbles freely, strings swaying between my thighs. My heart pounds. He stands. Tucks the crop flap in the thigh gap and rubs my pussy, smearing arousal. Pulling away, he swats my cunt with it. I scream, the tip catching my clit. Writhe, gripping the chair back as he does it again. And again.

My pussy’s aflame and I beg. Beg for him to douse it.

The swats stop. Two fingers invade my drenched slit, thumb in my ass, his breath in my ear. “Cum now. Show me the slut your husband never sees.”

I drop my hand to my clit. Gasp. Two rough circles is all it takes to rhythmically clench around him, groaning, spasming, losing myself in climax. In his power.

Orgasm stretches for an eternity. My only awareness is his arm slipping around my waist and supporting me through it. Guiding. Comforting. Then stroking my hair and cheek as I drift. Glow. Slump.

I melt into his embrace and feebly gush thanks. Find myself whispering, “I love you.”

I freeze. Panic.

That can't be true.

Can it?