It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.
He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.
Rope made her strong. Her muscles stayed tense, always fighting against her bonds, never resting, never giving up, even when she knew how good his knots were and how well he knew her wiggling ways. She would show him.
They sat on the blond parquet floor, both cross-legged, her back against the cool eggshell wall. He sat in front of her, just as straight-backed as she was, facing her, their knees touching.
Next to them was a thick metal radiator and above it the window, with a splash of blue sky visible from their vantage point. A little late summer breeze tickled her sweaty naked skin.
She wore nothing, except for the little blackboard. It was about the size of a composition notebook, smooth wood framing a rectangle of dark gray slate. On the surface were two short, stark white lines.
Her feet were tingling from the position she was in. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied together. The little blackboard hung from a coarse piece of twine that she felt cut into her nape’s tender skin.
She was confused and wanton. Her head spinning, her body nothing but the begging need to get fucked, her brain nothing but the compulsion to get his questions and rules and instructions right.
“And so why did you think it was okay to come this morning before work?” he asked, one hand on her throat and the other holding a piece of chalk.
She blushed, on top of the blush that was already there. There were so many rules in place, rules she had requested, about when and where it was okay to come. She tried to remember the email he had sent about what to do the mornings before seeing him.
“I don’t, I-” she started to answer, but he cut her off, taking his hand off her throat just long enough to smack her hard across the face again.
He marked the chalkboard with one more short white line.
She didn’t know what the lines represented. He’d just tied her down when she got to his apartment and started asking her questions and slapping her, and it was all so much. So many feelings. She felt like she was going to burst, but she couldn’t because he wouldn’t let her. She could even wipe away the tears because her hands were tied.
The chalk marks could mean hits with the cane or orgasms or something horrible she couldn’t imagine. He might open that closet of his and take out anything.
He took his hand off her neck and stood up in front of her. His knowing fingers on his thick black leather belt. His zipper meant his cock would be in her mouth soon. She swallowed quickly, trying to wet her dry lips.
There was a rush when she was going to suck his pretty cock. It was like nothing she had felt for a cock before. When he finally pulled it out, she smiled because it was hard. That meant, even if she didn’t know what she had done right, she was making him hard, and that was a little victory.
He held her by the hair, cock millimeters from her lips. She whined and tried to connect. She pulled against the fist, holding her hair and her scalp burned, but she just wanted it. She wanted it more than his rules at that moment. She pulled and cursed under her breath.
“Just-please-fuck-just let me-” she pleaded.
Then the lightning and thunder again. Two quick slaps. Vague recognition of two more marks on the chalkboard.
“For language,” he remarked coolly.
But more than the fear of what the marks meant was the sadness that his cock was gone, never touching her lips.
“Let’s start again,” he said, sitting.
She didn’t even know what game they were playing anymore. The questions were all nonsense. Her whole body was on fire with need and shame. She rocked back and forth on the floor and let out a long wail of frustration.
Which led to another slap and another mark on the board.