[He's good at this, in part because he knows how to hurt people. Having been through very similar training, she's aware how knowing how to break people also means you know how not to. He's aware of exactly where the edges are, what will make the pain more than just that pleasant sting, leave bruises that linger. And maybe more than that, he knows her. He'd been her teacher once, he knew what she was capable of, knew her lines, how far he could push to keep her here. That way that it builds, drives heat through her body, trembling with every stroke of his hand.
After twenty, every impact is punctuated by a rough noise from her throat, sometimes it's his name, sometimes it's just rough sound, that ache and the desire that he draws in her. Her skin burns, over-sensitive and raw to the touch, but he knows how to modulate the force and keeps her where it aches but never hurts, not really. For all that she'd said she could take it, he doesn't make her, doesn't count on her pain tolerance. Sometimes she likes being pushed a little too far, but with the newness of the collar around her throat, there's a reassurance in how perfectly he keeps from pushing that line.
Then his left hand comes down and she cries out with his name on her tongue, loud and sharp at the sudden shift. The way his hand is all hard metal, cool and with how hot her skin burns at the touch the contrast shakes her to her core. His fingers stroke gently over the skin, and she whimpers softly, her body trembling where she's laid out for him. When his hand slides down between her thighs, her back arches, body pressing against his touch, and her breath catches in her throat, a low moan at the feeling of it.
She's hot and aching for him, her thighs slick and she can't help how her hips jerk against the touch like a soft plea. He always knows how to take her apart, have her shaking and burning for him like a candle in the dark.] I need you.
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After twenty, every impact is punctuated by a rough noise from her throat, sometimes it's his name, sometimes it's just rough sound, that ache and the desire that he draws in her. Her skin burns, over-sensitive and raw to the touch, but he knows how to modulate the force and keeps her where it aches but never hurts, not really. For all that she'd said she could take it, he doesn't make her, doesn't count on her pain tolerance. Sometimes she likes being pushed a little too far, but with the newness of the collar around her throat, there's a reassurance in how perfectly he keeps from pushing that line.
Then his left hand comes down and she cries out with his name on her tongue, loud and sharp at the sudden shift. The way his hand is all hard metal, cool and with how hot her skin burns at the touch the contrast shakes her to her core. His fingers stroke gently over the skin, and she whimpers softly, her body trembling where she's laid out for him. When his hand slides down between her thighs, her back arches, body pressing against his touch, and her breath catches in her throat, a low moan at the feeling of it.
She's hot and aching for him, her thighs slick and she can't help how her hips jerk against the touch like a soft plea. He always knows how to take her apart, have her shaking and burning for him like a candle in the dark.] I need you.