Tuesday, November 26, 2013

You First, Then Me - Part Two

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Week Three(ish) Excerpt - Part Two
Read Part One Here
Welcome back to the wonderful world of NaNoWriMo, where I try to write a novel in a month. Just like last year, here's an excerpt from what I've done for Week Three (sorry it's being posted a bit late) of this literary adventure. As always, please enjoy.

“You think you can do this?” Pip asked, handing over the scraper.

“Yeah,” Phil said, taking the plastic stick. Yeah, he could handle this. He set the errant baking tool aside, even as Pip gave him a quizzical look. He examined the domestic array laid out on the table. The metal was cool in his hands as he touched the toothbrush holder. He picked it up and gripped it, feeling the hatching metal bite into his fingers and palm. It kind of hurt just to hold it; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to strike someone with it. Or be struck with it. 

It was maybe a little advanced for him right now.

He put it back down before touching the slotted, metal turner with its smooth wood handle. Then a long, thin curtain rod that cut through the air with a vicious whoosh as he swung it. Finally, he settled on the large, pink bath brush. 

It was pretty. Almost cute. Something a woman would keep hanging off her showerhead or lying innocently by her soap dish. The curved shape of it was sensual and inviting; the pastel color sweet and non-threatening. He held it in his hand, swinging the light-weight item in the air like a tennis racket or a Ping-Pong paddle. Yeah, he liked this one.

He turned to her, with it in his hand. He twirled his finger, aping her earlier move. “Assume the position,” he said with a smirk.

She chuckled low, the throaty sound rumbling through him and making him heat more as he watched her bend. Pip was thin. Almost skinny. If he didn’t spend a good amount of his time watching her eat, he would have been sure she was one of those women who starved herself thin.

Her ass, like her chest, was subtly curved, almost flat really. But, bent over, it was as if she became all ass and long, firm legs. His eyes narrowed on the vee that formed and disappeared beneath the quirky plaid of her dress. It was magnetic, that line, drawing his eyes and attention. As if that became her center. The focus and heart of her. 

He watched as her every move made the short skirt of her dress ride higher, revealing dark, smooth thighs. He held his breath, wondering—hoping—it would show the lower curve of that ass, that elusive meet between her thighs. But her skirt was just long enough to cover it, keeping it barely and tantalizingly concealed. 

His hand gripped the plastic brush handle harder, feeling the round rigidness dig into his palm. He swung back his hand and tapped the back of the brush against her ass.

“You can hit harder with me,” she told him, her forearms flat against the table as she looked over her shoulder. “I can take it.”

He wished he were certain he could. It was a surreal and dissonant experience, striking her like this. Like any decent human being, Phil had been taught from a very young age to never—not under any circumstances—hit a woman. They were sweet and soft and, before now, he’d never touched a female with anything other than tenderness or, at harshest, stern protectiveness.

His palms were sweating as his mind—in his mother’s voice shrill, shocked  voice—scolded him, hurling every insult and admonishment he’d ever thought at him as he imagined himself. In the middle of her kitchen. Bending her over. And hitting her with a hard, plastic brush.

What was he doing?

“Phil?” Pip asked as she looked back at him. “You okay?” she asked.

He shook his head, her voice, worried and concerned—for him—piercing through his thoughts. “Yeah,” he mouthed. He coughed and tried again. “Yeah, I’m good.”

She wanted this. He wanted this. That was what made everything different. Didn’t it?

He looked down at her as she wiggled her ass at him impatiently. His lips quirked up as he watched her flesh sweetly shift.

Harder, huh? He took a deep breath and choked up on the brush. Okay, he could do harder. He swung again. Hitting her other side harder. 

Her ass jumped as she sighed, the sound practically orgasmic. His body tensed as it hit his ears. God. He struck her again, his eyes widening as he listened for that small moan. A man could get used to that sound. Phil wanted to make it louder. Longer. Wanted to feel it along his skin as it slipped soft and sweet from her throat. He paddled her again and again, just as she had with him, but harder. Like she liked.

Her body swiveled, sometimes arching into and sometimes away from his swings, jerking as he played her. It was an insane rush, knowing that she was writhing like this because of him. Practically, coming because of what he was doing to her.

In that moment, he understood. He keenly knew exactly why people did this. Why they defied social norms and logical conventions. To see this. To do this. Yeah, Phil understood.

He bit his lips and twirled the brush in his hand. What would happen if he flipped the brush? He remembered the feel of the bristles against his skin in the store, the strange novelty of the seemingly ordinary act.

He tested it against his palm, scraping it against the pad of his hand. It was sharp, like hundreds of pins scratching but never piercing his skin. Hmm. Interesting.

He grinned widely. Phil trailed the brush over the skirt, the bristles getting caught on the cloth. He frowned. Trying again, he let it slide lower and ran it along the smooth skin of her sleek thighs instead. Better. He grinned when she spread her legs a bit, the brush scratching along the tender flesh of her inner thighs as she shivered and groaned. “Do you like that?” he asked, his voice gritty even to his own ears as he traced the hem of her dress.

“Uh-huh,” she breathed, her head bobbing wildly. “Higher,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow but did as she asked, sliding the brush upward. He swallowed hard as he watched the brush disappear under her skirt, pushing the cloth up a bit with it, revealing that sweet, round curve. He gritted his teeth, wanting to put down the brush and touch that impossibly smooth skin with his hand. But also just wanting to keep touching her like this, just to watch her squirm. He heard her whimper as she pushed insistently into the bristles’ rough caress.

Without warning, he pulled the brush back, flipped it, and struck her again—hard—right across the middle of her smooth, tight ass.


Pip bucked at the blow, her back bowing deeply as the sting flared and spread from her ass and through her entire body. She blinked furiously, her mouth gaping open as heavy breaths puffed through her parted lips.

Damn, he was a fast learner.

She licked dry lips as she turned around, flipping her body so her back pressed against the table’s edge and her hands gripped that edge on either side of her hips. She looked up at him and bit her bottom lip.

That arrogant egghead was laughing at her, so very pleased and amused with himself!

She tsked as her right hand reached back. “Think that’s funny?” she asked, her tone rumbling low as her hand gripped the handle in her hand.

“Well,” he chuckled as he twirled the brush in his hands, staring at the toy with the same pride a warrior gave a favored weapon, “it was certainly fun.”

Pip let out a rumbling laugh. That it was. That is was. “Let’s have more,” she said right before she pounced, pushing hard from the table to grab Phil’s shoulder. She flipped their positions, her hand on his shoulder firm and restraining. With a devilish grin, she thrust her hips up hard against his. Her smile widened to show teeth. “Still having fun?” she asked, pressing her face close to his.

Phil swallowed, coughed, and hesitated as he stared warily at the slotted, metal turner gleaming menacingly in her hands, shifting his hips a bit nervously—his semi-hard dick rubbing against her. “I’m not entirely sure how to answer that.” 

She smiled; boy, did she understand that feeling. She felt his length press into her thigh as she traced the turner’s edge against the side of her thigh and leaned in close to murmur into his ear, “Turn around.” She bit his ear, her smile widening as his breath choked and his hips thrust at her teeth’s sharp close.

She grabbed his shoulder and turned him easily, her hand with the turner gripping his hip so she could keep him locked close, his ass against her middle. She ran her fingernails down his back, making him shiver. “Can you feel it?” she asked him as she let the turner’s edge slide down his hips and up the back of his thigh. “Everything’s heightened. You can feel every touch and brush,” she said as she gently trailed her fingertips up his spine before grabbing the back of his neck and slapping the side of his thighs with the turner.

He jumped, thumping against her even as she pressed into him, keeping him against the table. “Jesus,” he hissed.

She leaned in close to press her lips against his spine. “Your heart is racing,” she whispered, hearing it—feeling it—pound hard in his chest. She felt the deep rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She closed her eyes and breathed, the warm, almost spicy scent of heated male filling her senses, drinking in all of him. God, he felt good, sounded good, smelled good. She wondered what he tasted like. She tensed her jaw to keep from stretching tall over him and licking—biting—the back of his neck. 

There was something terribly exciting about having this man—always a little reserved, intellectual, a little above it all—aware and aroused beneath her. Maybe this was why people liked playing with kink virgins. Awakening something hidden inside them. Watching the realization wash over them. Pip nuzzled his back, between his shoulder blades. Yeah, there was something illicitly thrilling about knowing that she was pushing his boundaries, expanding his horizons. 

“You’re so hot right now,” she purred as she stroked his back, feeling heat radiate from his body. “Tell me how hot this makes you,” she said. “Tell me how hard you are.” She let the turner’s handle brush against his hard-on.

“Fuck,” he breathed through gritted teeth as his knees buckled a bit.

“Tell me,” she urged as she smacked him again in the thigh. “Say it.”

“Jesus, Pip,” he said, laughing nervously, “really?”

Yeah, really. She wanted the words. She didn’t know why it felt so important, but it did. She wanted to hear him say it. 

She smacked him again, fiercely this time. He jumped as she thrust against him, pressing him further into the table’s edge. “Yes,” she told him forcefully. “Say it.”

“God,” he groaned as he shook his head, his voice still trembling with almost involuntary chuckles. “This is insane.”

She thwacked him again. “Last chance,” she warned, “say it.”

“Or what?” he asked daringly, his head popping up as he scoffed.

Pip tsked and shook her head. He wanted to test her, huh? 

She grinned. 


She leaned back and swung her arm, spanking him hard and fast across his flank. 

He yowled and bucked her off him, his bigger body thrusting her off him. 

Startled, Pip stumbled back a couple of steps, literally thrown. 


For a moment, she wondered if she’d gone too far. Hit him too hard. She had hit him hard—harder than she’d planned to when they’d begun—but she’d thought he could take it. She’d been sure, with the way he writhed and panted beneath her, that he was ready for it. She bit her lip, less sure now.

She looked up when she heard his breathy laughter. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him—his eyes wide as a bewildered, heaving smile split his face. He scrambled around the table, placing it goadingly between them. “You are one crazy lady,” he said, his voice playful. Daring.

She ought to have been offended. Probably would have been, if she couldn’t plainly see the signs of his arousal—the excited light in his eyes, the heated flush on his skin, the now rigid press of his erection against his pants. 

Instead, she stalked to the table, gripping the table to mirror his stance, responding to the challenge sparking in his gray eyes. “Tell me you’re not the exact same kind of crazy,” she dared him back.

Read The Next Part Here

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