New York City was under quite the deluge when we arrived. The rain fell in heavy sheets, blown almost horizontal by the wind whipping down the steel and concrete canyons. At the airport, Faith had closed her eyes and pointed at a large display of hotel advertisements, and somehow, I wasn't surprised at all that her 'random' choice landed on a
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"Yes, every time I'm inside you, I know it."
"Oh, fuck..."
He was grinding himself against me and I needed him so bad, it hurt. Everything with Wes seemed to fucking hurt. He pulled away from me, though, and I tried to catch my breath. What the fuck was going on?
"No."
Shit. Me, of course. "Wes, please... I need it..."
"No. No scarring. I've left my mark on you already."
No you didn't. I left mine on you, don't you see that? Don't you fucking see? There was a flash of lightning outside just as Wes grabbed me and spun me around, though, and my hopes went up a bit. I'd just let him do it, get it over with, and it would be fine. We'd be fine.
It hurt and I didn't fight back. Nah, I welcomed it as he shoved me over the couch and yanked my jeans and panties down... but no knife. No, I didn't want him to fuck me, not now, not right now, I wanted...
His mark.
I felt a sharp sting that made me gasp, and it took me a sec to realize he'd taken his belt off and was using it like a whip or something, pausing after one hard smack.
"Now, we've only done one of the five basic torture groups..."
Four more stings followed, each one harder than the last, until I was fucking crying again.
I needed more, but it would have to do.
Still pinned by Wes, who was panting as much as me, I sobbed quietly, "Thank you."
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That wild was Faith and myself. Pain and pleasure dealt with both hands, hurt and comfort in the same breath. And between the two of us, a yard's worth of physical scars... and miles and miles of the psychic.
"Oh, fuck... Wes, please... I need it..."
And I believed her. Not only because I was slowly, grudgingly both earning and claiming the ability to read Faith's frighteningly complex self. And more than that... she'd said 'please', and God, did I understand what it cost her to say it.
That was why I did it. Because she needed it.
And that was why I struck her with my belt until her arse was red-purple with welted lines. Because I needed to do it.
I needed to be the one who brought her back, who healed her soul's wounds, even if I had to inflict ones on her body and mine.
Finally, as if in the aftermath of passion, we were both bent over the back of the couch, breath ragged and heaving. I could hear quiet sobs from Faith, whose face was turned away from mine. But I did hear the quiet, almost choked-out words.
"Thank you."
I reached out a hand and ran it over her bruised flesh as gently as a breath, but Faith still flinched and gasped. At last, I stood, and gave her arse cheeks-- which would ache for a day, and surely be lined for a week-- a soft kiss, before helping Faith to the bathroom.
Divesting first her of her clothes, and then myself, I got us both into the shower where the hot needles of water washed grime and tears and at least some of the ache off of us.
I blinked, and at last understood the extent of my insanity when I asked, "So, Faith... after all that-- will you still go out with me tonight?"
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