Bend Over - Part One

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Week Four Excerpt - Part One

Welcome back to the wonderful world of NaNoWriMo, where I try to write a novel in a month. As promised, here's the continuation from what I posted for Week Three of this literary adventure. As always, please enjoy.

God, Phil would not have thought he was that kind of crazy. A week ago. A day ago. A few measly hours ago. He would have never even entertained the possibility.

And he never would have ever. If it weren’t for her.

He looked at Pip. The hungry look in her dark eyes. The way her teeth sank into her full, plump lips. The way her slim body arched long and fluid in sensual anticipation.

Yes, this was completely insane. He could still feel pain—real pain—sear his skin. He was almost certain he could feel the mark of each individual tine the turner left against his ass like a brand. It throbbed as blood rushed to the spot. He’d likely have a bruise tomorrow. Sitting would definitely be an experience for a while. It was insane. There was no other word for it.

Apparently, he was a little insane too.

Who’d have thought?

But he could feel each hot throb—on his ass, his thighs, his hips—like a pulse to his cock. Even the trail her fingernails had left on his back burned through his shirt with sensation, making the skin all over his body feel electric. Fuck. He hurt, but damned if he didn’t look forward to more.

“You like it,” she said, her low voice a growling purr, as she began to pace the table, forcing him step-by-step in a strange dance around the edge. “I know you do. Just tell me how much,” she said, her tone a sugary plea that made his teeth hurt even as she bared her own in a toothy, taunting smile.

His own back arched in challenge as he grinned. “Make me,” he dared, wondering what she’d do. What more Pip, this unimaginably capable woman, could do.

Laughter bubbled up from her throat, light and infectious, right before she pushed off from the table and chased him, her long legs devouring the space between then. 

Damn. Phil turned to run, but his knees were shaking and his overwhelmed body was sluggish and slow. She caught him by the back of his jeans, her hands hooking around his waistband as she tugged him back. She tossed him  toward the table, her thin, but sturdy frame more than his match at the moment. He tripped over his feet, grabbing at the low-backed chair rocking beneath his weight, as he steadied himself against its back.

He felt her grab his wrists, twining them through the slots of the chair’s open back and wrapping a dish towel around them. He looked at her quizzically as she threaded the terrycloth end through the knitted loop at the top, pulling tight. She tied a quick and dirty knot, cinching his wrists together.

He pulled his wrists a bit. It was tight and firm, but he could pull free, if he really wanted to. Did he want to?

She tutted her tongue at him as she paced around him, striking the turner against her hand, the thwack loud and warning against her flesh. “The Egghead’s got quite the smart mouth, hasn’t he?” she mockingly scolded with a shake of her head. “I’ll give you one last chance; tell me you don’t love this,” she said as she pressed his shoulders down so he bent low, baring his ass to her. “Tell me what you want.”

Phil shook his head, trying to figure out his own muddled thoughts. How could she expect him to answer, when his tongue felt swollen and dumb in his mouth as he panted like an excitable, tail-wagging puppy under her hand? How could she expect him to even know what to say when his head was so lost in this moment that words—one of the few things he could always count on—made no sense? How was this—this moment, this woman—his life?

“Maybe I’ll just find out for myself,” she mused as she reached around his waist for the button of his jeans. 

Yes. 

He hissed as he felt her fingers fumble for his zipper, his cock twitching impatiently beneath the tight confines of his fly. He swallowed hard and wiggled his hips as she tugged down his pants and briefs, eager to be free of the denim and cotton.

He felt her sink to her haunches next to him as she stared at his erection. He squirmed under her gaze, feeling a little ridiculous with his jeans and briefs in a tangle around his ankles. She reached out a finger and ran the tip along his length, barely touching him as she let the sharp threat of her manicured nail run along the sensitive skin. “Looks like I have my answer, huh?” she said as she gave his shaft a brief, soft flick and his body tightened. 

Her finger continued along his hip to his ass. She traced the outline of the turner’s strike. He flinched and clenched as he felt her nail’s scratch on his tender flesh. “You mark well,” she said, making it sound like a praise. “I can see every line perfectly.”

He felt her fingers press and stroke and knead his hot flesh. “So red,” she said as she touched him with rough reverence. “Warm and so sweet.” 

Phil froze when he felt her tongue trail along the top of his ass, right at the bend of his back. God, he’d never had a woman do that before. It wasn’t even something he’d ever wanted a woman to do but, now that one had, he liked it, shivering as his sweat and her saliva cooled against his heated skin.

“Poor baby,” she cooed as she placed a wet, licking kiss at the small of his back, “you’ve been so abused tonight, haven’t you?” She pushed away from the table, moving toward her cupboards for a moment before coming back. “It’s time we took care of you.”

He heard her uncap a bottle before the scent of…something—something familiar and comforting—hit him. He hissed as her hands, now slick and slippery, slid over his skin. He inhaled deeply.

“Is that olive oil?” he asked, the fruity, nutty scent registering now.

She laughed as she massaged his ass, making him moan and press into her hands. “Girl’s got to get creative sometimes,” she said as she shoved up his shirt to work his back, kneading his muscles.

Oh, God, that was good. He arched into her touch as she worked out the knots in his back. He felt the stress of the past few days melt under her thorough touch. 

“Okay,” she said as she slapped his butt cajolingly, “c’mere.” She helped free him from his jeans and briefs, discarding them on the floor, before maneuvering him around the chair until he was straddling it, leaning against the chair’s open back. 

He winced as his ass hit the chair. Yep, sitting was…interesting; the soft pressure of the cushion harsh and unforgiving on his sore ass. He tried to wriggle, to find the perfect balance that would avoid the worst of his bruises.

Pip pushed the hem of his shirt up and over his head, so it rested like a cushion around his shoulders between him and hard wood. “There we are,” she said as she grabbed a chair for herself, sitting behind him—settling him between her parted knees—as she dug her fists and elbows into his tight muscles.

“God, that’s good,” he moaned as he let his weight give over to the chair, his tension easing with every pass of her skilled hands. He felt those hands, balled into fists, press all down his back. His thighs flexed as her oil-coated hands opened to slip smoothly down them. He inhaled sharply as she trailed her painted nails up his inner thighs. He groaned as her right hand brushed his cock and balls, almost accidentally. Just a skid of her knuckles really.

Until she did it again. And again. Over and over. Stroking him lazily from taint to tip. He grunted and tried to shove himself  more firmly into her touch. “Pip,” he said, his voice a graveled beg.

Read Part Two Here