Read Online Craving Flight by Tamsen Parker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tamsen Parker
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Tzipporah?”
I shake my head, his beard rasping against the soft skin behind my ear and then his hand is at my throat, trapping me against him. “Answer me.”
“No, master.”
That’s one of the things I like best about these times of ours together: how he’s able to mute the thoughts that nag at me day and night. When we’re with each other this way, all ideas are gone as if he’s chased them away. If anyone could, it’s Elan when he’s being fierce as he is in here.
“I’m going to silence all that noise. The only thing you’re going to be thinking of is me. Your only concern is pleasing me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Keep your eyes on the bed,” he instructs, and I don’t dare disobey. Then he strips me, removing layer upon layer until my tichels are the only things left. He unwinds them, disentangling the fine silk that’s been wrapped intricately around my hair. When it’s set free, he finger-combs it from root to tips, separating the strands and lifting some of them over my shoulders to drape over my breasts, the dark auburn curls drifting over my pale skin.
“So pretty,” he says. “My beautiful wife.”
His simple words make me feel beautiful. Desired.
“Bend over.”
Yes.
I step forward and lean down until I can place my palms on the edge of the bed. The posture sends feelings of lust and vulnerability through me, and that’s before his hand connects with my behind.
The impact forces a small noise from me. Not so much pain as of surprise, but yes, there’s a sensual sting as well. Why I find the bite of pain so intensely erotic, I couldn’t say. But I do. I so do. He continues to spank me as my eyes drift between the implements on the bed, fanning the coals of my smoldering desire for him into low flames that match the heated ache on my behind.
That’s when he picks up the hairbrush.
The first impact makes me gasp, the broad head making contact with already sensitized flesh. He works me up steadily, hitting harder and harder until my cheeks are on fire and tears are pooling in my eyes. But I haven’t stood up, haven’t tried to cover myself. I’ve breathed through the pain and relished it, given myself over to him.
The blows stop and he leans over me, threading the fingers of one of his hands through mine.
“Good. My good girl.”
He takes my wrists in his hands, gathering them behind my back and urges me to upright. When he’s made sure I’m able to stand on my own, he guides me to the foot of the bed and reaches for a pillow that he drops on the floor.
“On your knees.”
I kneel up, not sitting back on my heels, and tense for another hiding. Instead, he brushes my hair. Not like a man who doesn’t understand these things, but starting at the bottom with small strokes and working out the tangles until he can drag the bristles from scalp to the ends without snagging on anything. So thoughtful, my Elan.
When my hair’s been tamed to his satisfaction, he leaves me on my knees and reaches for a large hank of rope. I watch as he stands on the bed to unscrew what I thought was a cap on an unused light fixture and threads the rope through some kind of attachment point in the ceiling, leaving the thick cord dangling to the ground.
Then he takes up the large ring and affixes it to the ropes perhaps a foot above my head. He slides me, along with the pillow, to just under the contraption he’s rigged and when I’m in place, unfurls one of the smaller bundles of rope and gathers my hair at the crown of my head.
It feels as though he threads the whole mass of it through the ring and then there’s a tug and a fall of hair down my back, as if he’s using the ring as a pulley. Keeping tension in my scalp, he winds the narrower rope around the folded hair. He doesn’t stop there though. There’s more gentle tugging and then my hair’s off my back again. More winding of rope and the sensation of a decisive tie off.
I can barely look up at him when he
I shake my head, his beard rasping against the soft skin behind my ear and then his hand is at my throat, trapping me against him. “Answer me.”
“No, master.”
That’s one of the things I like best about these times of ours together: how he’s able to mute the thoughts that nag at me day and night. When we’re with each other this way, all ideas are gone as if he’s chased them away. If anyone could, it’s Elan when he’s being fierce as he is in here.
“I’m going to silence all that noise. The only thing you’re going to be thinking of is me. Your only concern is pleasing me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Keep your eyes on the bed,” he instructs, and I don’t dare disobey. Then he strips me, removing layer upon layer until my tichels are the only things left. He unwinds them, disentangling the fine silk that’s been wrapped intricately around my hair. When it’s set free, he finger-combs it from root to tips, separating the strands and lifting some of them over my shoulders to drape over my breasts, the dark auburn curls drifting over my pale skin.
“So pretty,” he says. “My beautiful wife.”
His simple words make me feel beautiful. Desired.
“Bend over.”
Yes.
I step forward and lean down until I can place my palms on the edge of the bed. The posture sends feelings of lust and vulnerability through me, and that’s before his hand connects with my behind.
The impact forces a small noise from me. Not so much pain as of surprise, but yes, there’s a sensual sting as well. Why I find the bite of pain so intensely erotic, I couldn’t say. But I do. I so do. He continues to spank me as my eyes drift between the implements on the bed, fanning the coals of my smoldering desire for him into low flames that match the heated ache on my behind.
That’s when he picks up the hairbrush.
The first impact makes me gasp, the broad head making contact with already sensitized flesh. He works me up steadily, hitting harder and harder until my cheeks are on fire and tears are pooling in my eyes. But I haven’t stood up, haven’t tried to cover myself. I’ve breathed through the pain and relished it, given myself over to him.
The blows stop and he leans over me, threading the fingers of one of his hands through mine.
“Good. My good girl.”
He takes my wrists in his hands, gathering them behind my back and urges me to upright. When he’s made sure I’m able to stand on my own, he guides me to the foot of the bed and reaches for a pillow that he drops on the floor.
“On your knees.”
I kneel up, not sitting back on my heels, and tense for another hiding. Instead, he brushes my hair. Not like a man who doesn’t understand these things, but starting at the bottom with small strokes and working out the tangles until he can drag the bristles from scalp to the ends without snagging on anything. So thoughtful, my Elan.
When my hair’s been tamed to his satisfaction, he leaves me on my knees and reaches for a large hank of rope. I watch as he stands on the bed to unscrew what I thought was a cap on an unused light fixture and threads the rope through some kind of attachment point in the ceiling, leaving the thick cord dangling to the ground.
Then he takes up the large ring and affixes it to the ropes perhaps a foot above my head. He slides me, along with the pillow, to just under the contraption he’s rigged and when I’m in place, unfurls one of the smaller bundles of rope and gathers my hair at the crown of my head.
It feels as though he threads the whole mass of it through the ring and then there’s a tug and a fall of hair down my back, as if he’s using the ring as a pulley. Keeping tension in my scalp, he winds the narrower rope around the folded hair. He doesn’t stop there though. There’s more gentle tugging and then my hair’s off my back again. More winding of rope and the sensation of a decisive tie off.
I can barely look up at him when he
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