| 18+ | Damian looked so different with his shirt off and a crop in his hand. He felt more real: no longer wearing the mask of the good doctor, he was the Exorcist, the master over my wildest fears, the stones on the shore over which my ocean of ma...
The snap of the leather glove sent a chill through my body. It was not so long ago that I had stood in this very room and faced the same command, but things had been so different then. The one thing that remained unwavering was the tingling within me when I looked at Damian. The only semblance of exhaustion that remained in him were the dark circles beneath his eyes, and those made him look all the more deliciously intimidating. My stomach coiled. It was the rumblings of a hunger that had become ravenous.
I reached back, and began to slowly pop the buttons at the nape of my neck. I watched his face as I slipped down the shoulders of the dress, and hesitated there. There was nothing on my skin he had not seen. But I could still so starkly recall his expression the first time he had seen my scars; the scars he still had only a hint of the origins of. Yet there he stood, with most of his chest still bare, and I could see the marks of his own that were so similar to mine. Stories yet untold, etched eternal into our skin.
I slipped down the dress, and did not miss his soft intake of breath, the way his eyes drank me in. Over my breasts, my waist, past my hips. I let the dress drop, and it pooled about my bare feet. I had never, willing, stood naked before a man. The thought sent a rush of feeling through me, potent and hot. It felt powerful. Even though I stood there facing pain and punishment, I felt victorious for it was my own choosing. I had chosen that which I had always been told was perverted and wrong and sick. Yet I had chosen. I, alone, had decided.
I stepped toward him and toward the smooth, dark wood of the desk. He gave no further commands: he didn't need to. I knew what I was to do and I moved slowly nonetheless. Perhaps one would think hesitantly, but no: I was in fact bursting to begin. But I savored the way he looked at me, the way his eyes could not help but linger over parts of me that few had ever had the pleasure of seeing. I pulled my hair over my shoulder as I stood before him, and my mouth twitched into a dangerously catty smirk. I did not let him see the expression too long. I turned and lowered myself over the desk, propping myself up on my forearms.
He clicked his tongue reproachfully. "All the way down, Samara." He hand pressed very lightly between my shoulder blades, and goosebumps shattered across my flesh. I lay myself flat upon the desk, the surface cold, and rested my head on my folded arms.
Uncountable emotions raged within me. I was excited - of course. I was unbearably turned on - already, he had yet to barely touch me! Guilt still hammered me - I could not forget Octavio and Rachel's faces. Fear still clutched me - what was I doing, how did I dare, surely I was far more mad for choosing this than anything-
"Samara." His voice was like a lifeline dragging me to reality. "I do not want you to drift away into thought where I cannot reach you. I want you present and well aware of your position." The leather-bound hand that had pressed between my shoulders trailed very lightly down my spine. I inhaled sharply and held it.
"Breathe," he commanded, and I exhaled slowly. "Tell me: why are you in this position?"
"Please just do it," I growled. I could feel my face reddening. He was really going to drag this out wasn't he, the bastard.
He chuckled, and it was as if in that single sound some dam of tension let go within him. He was tantalizingly close behind me, I could practically feel his heat. But he didn't touch, and it would soon drive me mad. It was a struggle not to push myself back ever so slightly, if only to touch my ass even for a moment against him.
I had a sudden recollection of the words that had spilled from my mouth in the cellar of the chapel, words that I had then only attributed to the demon that possessed me: Ever fucked a demon before, exorcist? I know you'd love to do it. But had it truly only been Krahia? Or...as Damian had warned, was the demon merely dredging up secrets...secrets within myself...and Damian...
"Wandering off in your thoughts again?" Damian mused. "That's very naughty of you."
"Fuck you," I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. It was such a well-rehearsed response, words I had taught myself to say at the slightest provocation. Words I knew were shocking, improper, offensive - but oh, how I'd always loved to say them to my clients, whisper it in their ears when they begged for mercy. I realized, very swiftly, that it was a mistake.
"Samara, stand and face me."
Ooh, but his voice held such a promise of retribution that for a moment I practically clung to the desk. But I was not afraid - was I? - so I rose, cleared my throat, and turned. I was not entirely sure why I sucked my breath in at the sight of him. Perhaps it was the way his eyes roamed over me with such claim to my person that my legs almost turned to jelly, or perhaps it was the fact that I had to crane my neck so far back to meet his eyes. Or, perhaps, it was the positively demonic smile on his face, the kind that told me I had done exactly what he had hoped for, even if that thing I'd done was "naughty" indeed.
He stepped close, so close we touched. I pressed against the desk, and he reached up and grasped my jaw in his hands. Course hands, calloused from work, slender fingers. I loved the strength with which he gripped me, but then -
Panic shot through me. A sudden recollection: my father gripping my face, incomprehensible yelling. Crying. Pain. My mother, berating me. No. No, no, no. I stopped breathing. I stiffened.
It did not go without his notice.
His hand jerked away without hesitation. His expression shifted instantly from lust to concern. "Are you alright?" he said.
I could breathe again. The panic passed. The memory faded. I nodded slowly, and when I saw that his concern was not eased, I said, "I'm fine. I remembered something. That's all."
"This memory frightens you?" I did not want to respond, so I merely shrugged.
"Memories are not real things anymore," I said softly. With demanding fingers I took his hand and raised it to my face, so he gripped me again. And though my stomach turned over and nervousness bubbled, the same panic did not arise. "Working in the Doll House, with my clients, they would sometimes have a request that they were uncertain they would be able to endure. I told them that if something became too much, they should cry pitié, and I would stop." I looked up at him uncertainly. Though I longed to be brave I couldn't deny my fear. "If I say the same, will you stop?"
"Of course," he said, without a moment's hesitation.
"I'm not asking you to go easy on me."
"I wouldn't think of it," his grip tightened again, I was forced to lean slightly further back as he loomed over me. "I also would not think of allowing you to dwell in painful memories when it is the punishment at hand you must attend to." With one hand on my waist and the other on my face, he guided me so that we switched positions: he sat half-way upon the desk and I stood facing him still. "I won't allow you to torment yourself any longer."
He took me under his arm, so that I was still bent over the desk but now hugged against his side, secured by his strength. The position felt far more intimate, and I immediately felt a rush of blood to my face...and my nether regions. I desperately hoped he wouldn't notice, but my worries over it were short-lived.
The slap of his leather-clad hand on my skin made all other concerns seem insignificant.
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A/N: If you're not prepared for this spanking, just click away now :P ♡
