What She Needs - Lacey Alexander [32]
“Tell me you’re a bad girl, Jenna,” he instructed her from above.
She let out a breath and said the words. “I’m . . . a bad girl.” But it sounded so odd coming from her throat, in a voice too meek, disbelieving.
He brought his palm down to deliver another slap. “Again,” he commanded.
“I’m a bad girl.” Better this time. Stronger. Not that she was sure why that mattered to her. But at the moment, she found herself compelled to appease him.
Another hard, spanking blow—and again, she yelped slightly. He wasn’t being gentle and it hurt. “Tell me you like showing me your ass.”
“I like showing you my ass.” As she said it, though, her eyes fell shut. She just didn’t usually think of her rear as her ass. And to tell him such a truth, because it was true . . . felt strangely difficult.
He spanked her again, and this time, his voice deepened slightly—she could hear the stark lust in it. “Tell me you want to show me your tits.”
Another word she never used. And another truth she felt at her core but found it painful to admit. Yet as a writer, she knew words were only words—she wasn’t offended by them, just not accustomed to using certain ones. She knew guys liked that particular word, so if he wanted to hear it, if it would keep him from being angry, fine. “I want to show you my tits.”
An additional slap of his hand made her wonder if her . . . ass was turning red, and if that turned him on. “Tell me you want me to play with your wet pussy,” he instructed—and for some reason, she felt that one in her gut.
“I—I never talk that way, so . . .”
“You do now. What I command, you do. Now say it!”
She let out a breath. She’d realized he was a know-it-all, but she hadn’t foreseen him being so . . . mean. Words so foreign-feeling had never left her mouth, but she focused on getting them out in a calm, obedient manner. “I . . . want you to play with my pussy.”
Behind her, he went quiet and she wondered if her acquiescence excited him. She wondered what the hell all this was supposed to accomplish in terms of her sexual education. And she didn’t want to be aroused anymore—she wanted to be angry. But despite her wishes, her crotch still throbbed against the desk as she waited . . . for something, and sort of wished this were over. Her heart beat too hard.
This wasn’t what she’d hoped for when she’d put on the bra and panties—at all. She even considered using the safeword—just to end it.
Yet she didn’t. Maybe because her crotch throbbed. And her breasts felt full, needy, pressed against the desk. Part of her was appalled by this, by what he thought qualified as a fantasy for her . . . and yet, wasn’t she aching for more? Wasn’t she excited?
So she lay there, nervous, pulsing, anxious, torn.
That’s when he eased one finger inside the narrow band of lace stretching downward over the center of her bottom. She bit her lip at the touch—and sharply pulled in her breath as his fingertips moved slowly over her anus. They felt damp, as if maybe he’d moistened them first. She tensed, waiting for the pleasure of his fingers stroking lower, through her wetness—so it shocked the hell out of her when his touch didn’t stray from the small fissure and he instead slid one finger smoothly, firmly inside it.
A startled cry lurched from her throat at the strange, uncomfortable sensation. “Wh-what are you . . . ?”
“Punishing you, naughty girl.”
“B-but . . .”
“Quiet,” he told her, and began to move his finger in and out.
Jenna had never felt anything like it. She wanted to think it hurt—the initial entry had been distressing—but . . . it didn’t. In fact, she began to squirm, almost involuntarily, and she heard her own breath growing ragged. With pleasure? She couldn’t figure that part out, but something was definitely making her hotter inside. She suffered the sense of being invaded, never having expected anything to enter her there, yet