Page 24 of Demonic Delights

I let her go a few paces before I slice the air with the cane, whipping her for the second time. The mark on her skin is a little fainter, and I only earn a whimper from her this time.

She doesn’t waver; she keeps steady and soldiers on. Right hand, left knee, left hand, right knee. Her back curves alluringly, and her hips tempt me to the point of insanity with the way they sway. I’m picturing what it would feel like to have her move exactly this way, but with her warm, firm body pressed against me and with me sunk inside her to the hilt.

I’m so distracted that I allow her to make it all the way to the dining table, so composed and methodical in her efforts.

Well, not for long.

“Faster!” I growl at her, caning her arse again and again; not very hard, but in a quick succession, until half a dozen red lines criss-cross her skin and she is gasping for breath, moaning, and—of course—swearing. Her movements become faster, jerkier, uncoordinated. And as she rounds the corner of the sofa, the glass slides off her back and rolls away through the second puddle of liquid on my floor!

“Fuck! FUCK!” Roxana roars with frustration, hitting the ground with her fist before looking up at me with murder in her eyes.

Damn, if homicidal rage doesn’t look beautiful on her!

“How about now?” I ask, my tone severe and unrecognisable to my own ears. “Ready to give up, dark darling?”

What the hell did I call her?

“No. And also go fuck yourself,” she snaps at me, teeth bared and her tone furious. “And also, also, when I win, how about I fuck you in the ass with my vibrator? Jury’s still out on whether I’ll use any lube.”

She turns around and rushes back to the bar on all fours, her knees hitting the ground so hard they must be getting bruised.

“That won’t be possible,” I reply to her stoically as I pick the glass up, ignoring the whiskey seeping into the hardwood. “Since I threw your vibrator out this morning.”

“You did fucking WHAT?” Reaching the bar, she straightens up on her knees to glare at me.

I shrug as I walk towards her, half hoping she will lunge at me and picturing all the ways we could wrestle with each other before I would inevitably overpower her, pin her underneath me and rut into her so hard I’d have her screaming. But she stays put, and whilst she is likely harbouring a desire to skin me alive—judging by her expression—she makes no move to turn it into reality.

“I told you that you wouldn’t be needing it anymore.” I pour a fresh glass and offer it to her. “Here, drink one before you have another go at it.”

She snatches it out of my hand without a single word and with simpering aggression in the grasp of her fingers. It is a generous pour, but she tosses it back in one go. I take the glass from her, refill it and place it on her back. But not before tracing my fingers around the deep cut of the teddy she’s wearing, her skin warm and soft underneath my touch. She shivers and lets out a moan.

With a chuckle that’s really more of a moan of my own, I run my now-empty hand down her lower back. She whimpers as I brush my knuckles tenderly over the marks I left on her, and she groans when I worm my hand underneath the thin, soaked scrap of fabric that is all that’s concealing her pussy from me.

“Would you fucking get on with it already?” The hostile hiss melts on her tongue as I push two fingers inside her and stroke and tease her, putting circular pressure on her front wall, so hot and elastic, yielding to my touch only to tighten again.

There’s a perilous twinge deep inside my belly, and my balls tighten ominously, and I stop, retracting my fingers fast before I come in my pants just from the feeling of her squeezing me like she never wants to let go.

“My dark darling,” I drone, patting her arse with little regard for its injuries. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Crawling around in circles and being whipped into obedience is turning you on, isn’t it, you depraved little freak?”

“Oh, do fuck off,” she scoffs, but her voice is hoarse and full of lust. “Are we going to be here the whole fucking night?” Her apprehension is not lost on me; it is evident in her body’s tension.

My reaction to it sends me into a freefall, the sensation like missing a step while running down a staircase. I’m flat and hollow; the first signs of her slowly approaching her breaking point are bringing me none of the anticipated thrill.

“Go.”

Roxie starts crawling again, her jaw clenched in determination. Left hand, right knee, right hand, left knee, she moves with the precision of a ballet dancer, graceful despite her animalistic position. I walk with her, just slightly behind her, nearly slipping on the first puddle of whiskey because I’m not watching where I’m going. How could I with her bare thighs rubbing against each other slowly and with the curve of her arse sharpening and then softening rhythmically like that?

As we reach the corner of the sofa, I start touching it with the cane. With just the tip at first, one cheek and then the other, before laying it flat across the width of Roxana’s hips.

She lets out a low noise, full of frustrated anticipation.

I whip her gently, and then hard, and then gently again, before settling into a rhythm of sharp, continuous swats, accompanied by the air’s vibrations and her strangled, ongoing yelp. Blood is blooming underneath the surface of her skin.

“Faster! Faster! Faster!” I keep urging her without mercy.

She learnt from her mistakes because this time she’s not letting me pressure her into hurrying, and keeps her pace steady and balanced, even as I ramp up the intensity of the strikes to the point that makes my present self gasp once again in horror, my students’ essays lying forgotten.

She rounds the sofa and safely crosses the shorter end of the living room. Passing the next corner, she stops, breathing hard.