Aftermath (1/1) NC-17
Title: Aftermath
Author: Jamie (jamirblaze)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giaan/Inge F/f
Waning: Explicit sex. Femslash. BDSM. Angst.
Disclaimer: I don’t know them. Or own them. But if I did, the fun we would have.
Notes: Thanks to Pia for holding my hand on this one. You’re wonderful, wife. This has NOT been beta read heavily, and most of the editing, I did on my own. I’m quite unsure about this one and have tried to accomplish a multitude of things in a short amount of space and held off for a long time in posting this, so any and all feedback would be appreciated.
Unofficial sequel to Fade Away which is not necessary to understand this one.
Giaan wasn't surprised when it happened. In fact, she had suspected him to find out long before he did, or at least, revealed that he knew; after all, it really shouldn't have taken him so long. How many times could a relative die or an unexpected business trip come up (combined with the not-so-hidden stamps from entering the Netherlands in her passport along with the credit card bills and foreign debit charges) before he started to question her? How many fading marks on her body did he have to overlook or rationalize away before he realized what was going on? How many nights did he have to climb on top of a woman who loved him but wasn't completely satisfied by him before things fell into place?
No, there was no surprise that one day she had come home to find Michael sitting on the couch with his things in boxes as he waited to tell her good bye.
Hell, she should be happy that she just didn't come home to find him gone.
What did surprise her was that no matter how much she had prepared for that moment was how much it hurt to say good bye to Michael. It was like a blow to the gut. A million emotions squashed into one breath robbing, heart stopping punch to the stomach.
Michael Klim was gone and wasn't coming back.
Fuck.
Reeling from the blow, Giaan was numb. Every morning she woke up, swam, ate and then laid in bed. She was just going through the motions, and everyone could see it. Her coach could see it in the way that she just seemed like she was splashing in the pool instead of swimming. Her parents could hear it in her voice as she assured them for the fiftieth time that she was okay and didn't need them to come down to see her. Her friends could see it in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way she refused to go out to dinner to her favorite bistro or see a movie with her favorite actor.
Giaan was alive, but there was no life in her. The spark that made her what she was wasn't there anymore.
Somehow, Giaan wasn't surprised when Inge showed up on her doorstep. "Oh, it's you," she said emotionlessly when she finally opened the door to stop the incessant banging.
Earlier that week, Ian and Grant had stopped by to see how she was doing (at Michael's urging, she assumed, because that was something that the bald man would do), and they just added to the swirling confusion of emotions inside of her, reminding her of all she had lost, all she had done to hurt someone else. The emotional stew inside of her churned and boiled, coating her insides with a layer of apathy that nothing seemed to be able to touch.
Not bothering to close the door, Giaan walked back into the living room and flopped down on the couch, where she was surrounded by plastic water bottles, the odd beer bottle, takeout boxes, empty cartons of super calorie loaded ice cream and volumes of dark, depressing novels and poetry. A volume of Lewis' "The Monk," an anthology of Poe, copies of Shakespeare's tragedies and an array of dystopian fiction from Orwell to Atwood laid haphazardly on the floor at one end of the couch. Even though the remains of her meals indicated that she had been eating unhealthily, Giaan had lost some needed pounds, her elbows and knees knobby and her clavicles razor sharp.
Apparently, misery burns more calories than contentment.
Taking the open door as an invitation to come in, Inge placed her bags just inside the door, closing it behind her, and followed Giaan into the living room. She was shocked when Klim had called her earlier that week. The Dutch swimmer had known that Giaan was fooling herself, thinking that she would be able to keep coming to her for what she needed without her boyfriend finding out. For a long time, she knew that Klim would find out and that her liaisons with the Aussie swimmer would probably end. However, the last thing she expected was for Klim to call her.
Well, no, that wasn't exactly right. Inge knew that it was possible that Michael would call her but expected an angry phone call, filled with yelling and expletives. Instead, she had a calm, rational conversation with the Aussie, regarding the woman that they both cared for in their own way. She was surprised at Michael's impassioned pleas that she come to Australia to try to help Giaan, revealing what he had learned from Ian and Grant as to his ex's condition, but she had resisted committing herself to anything.
Though she cared for Giaan in her own way, Inge wasn't in love with her. Their relationship wasn't about love. It was about raw, unadulterated need; with one another, they were able to express all of the nasty things that they desired in the depths of their souls. And part of Inge's role as the dominant partner in their relationship was to be in control of everything, including her feelings. If she were in love with Giaan, she would not be able to give Giaan some of the things she needed.
Love would hold her back.
However, in the end, Inge wasn't a completely unfeeling person, wasn't able to completely shut down the part of herself that did desire to express love and receive it in return, so she broke down and agreed to go check on Giaan. Yet, part of her didn't really believe that it was as bad as the Aussie was making it out to be. Her sub was a strong woman who was very determined; she couldn't see her letting herself go.
Deciding to ignore the trash for now, Inge found an empty spot on the oversized chair that was across from the couch. Staring at the Australian, she evaluated the situation while waiting for the prone woman to say something. But if she was going to wait for the other, it was soon evident that she would be waiting forever. Making a snap decision, the only thing that she could think of, she stood up.
"Get up," Inge ordered in her deep and commanding purr, slipping into her role of dominatrix. "Get up, you dirty bitch."
Giaan gave the woman a disparaging look. "Oh, fuck it. Is that what you've come here for? Need a night of tanning someone's bottom? Well, fuck you; I'm not in the mood."
Using the extra leverage that Giaan's weight loss had given her, Inge hauled Giaan to her feet and slapped her. "I said, 'Get up,' you stupid cow."
Automatically, Giaan's hand lifted to her cheek, and the brief spark that Inge saw in the Aussie's eyes spurred her on.
Inge got behind Giaan and began nudging her with harsh jabs to the back. "Take me to your bedroom."
Giaan dug her heels in at that. "Not there. The gue--...."
"No," Inge barked. "Not the guest room; your room."
When Giaan refused to move, in spite of Inge's prods, Inge pushed her to the ground. Somewhere in the back of Inge's mind, she knew that perhaps she was going too far, not just for Giaan but for herself, too, but she rationalized those thoughts away. Giaan had a safe word and had used it during some of the more limit-testing sessions that they had enjoyed. And someone needed to do something, anything, to bring the life back to Giaan.
With a flick of her foot against her sub’s belly, Inge prodded the Australian onto her hands and knees. "Your bedroom! Now!" the Dutch Olympian demanded as she poked the other woman's ass with the toe of her shoe.
Glaring over her shoulder, eye blazing with life for the first time in weeks, Giaan gave her a dirty look but complied with her orders, nonetheless. Unused to crawling, lacking grace, she slowly made her way into the bedroom that she had once shared with Klim. When she reached the door, she stretched up and opened it, before continuing into the room and kneeling on the floor beside the bed, waiting for her next cue.
Following, instead of checking out the view of Giaan's long, lithe form or admiring the obedience of her pet despite the pet's obvious annoyance, Inge was preoccupied with contemplating her next move. This triggered warning bells in her head, but she suppressed them, contributing her lack of complete control to the circumstances surrounding the situation.
Making up her mind to do whatever the moment called for, the Dutch woman purred, "Stand up." Giaan did as she commanded. "Now strip."
Obviously unhappy to be in the room, Giaan took the opportunity to unrobe as a distraction from the small traces of Michael that still lingered in the room. Pulling her shirt over her head, she dropped it onto the floor where it was soon followed by her jeans, bra and panties. When she finished, she stared down at her feet, attempting to block out all of the memories that threatened to wash over her.
Picking up on Giaan's dilemma, Inge did not give her too much time to think. "Take my clothes off."
Falling back to her knees, a sign of the thoroughness of her training as she had not been told to walk, Giaan crawled over to where the other woman stood and quickly and efficiently began taking her clothes off, dropping them into a pile next to where her own clothes laid. She avoided making contact with Inge's skin. She had only been told to take her clothes off, not to touch.
When the last piece of the Dutch woman's clothing settled on the floor, she commanded the Australian, "Get on the bed." When the dark haired woman hesitated, she grabbed her by her arm and slung her towards the king-sized mattress.
With an "oomph," Giaan half landed on the bed. Not wanting to spare the energy to fight Inge as well as the memories, she reluctantly pulled herself onto the mattress, lying back against the pillows, closing her eyes.
Her movements stirred the bed clothes, causing a whiff of Michael's signature cologne, traces of which still lingered on his pillows, to assault Giaan's nose. Suddenly, she was mentally body slammed by all of the things that she desperately had been trying to disassociate herself from, to compartmentalize and lock into an airtight box for weeks. Michael's goofy grin. The way that she felt special, important, protected when he held her in his strong arms, his eyes looking down at her with love. Michael's innate talent for cheering her up, even while the guilt of betraying him ate away at her soul. The color of his favorite shirt, and the way that it highlighted his blue eyes. The faint wine stain that refused to come out of the carpet, no matter how hard they scrubbed, a remnant of an anniversary celebration gone a bit awry.
A thousand memories, things, sensations raced through her consciousness, activating every ounce of emotion in her body to the extreme. Tears spilled unnoticed from behind her closed eyes as her mind spun out of control.
Minutes later, Giaan's mind emerged from its litany of agony to find Inge looking down at her with concerned eyes, stroking her hair gently and murmuring softly in Dutch. The comforting woman was so far removed from what the Australian was used to, so far away from what she wanted. "Punish me," Giaan rasped, her voice rough with emotion. "I deserve to be punished."
At the dark haired woman's soft words, Inge balked. Somewhere between the time that she had received the first phone call from Michael Klim to this moment, her view toward Giaan had changed. Once upon a time, she would have been willing to dole out punishment to the Australian anytime she asked, but now the blonde wasn't so sure. A side of her wanted to go rustle through her luggage for her handcuffs and riding crop and put them to good use. But the other side wondered how the other woman could truly know what she was asking for when she was so distraught.
It was as she feared. Inge had crossed the line, going from distant and dominant to caring and compassionate.
Fuck.
Seeing the emotions flashing in the blonde's eyes, Giaan became frustrated and directed the anger that she felt towards herself onto the other woman. Sitting up, she struck out at the other woman, catching her soundly across the face. "Come on, you stupid bitch!" she spat. "What's wrong? Lost your fucking balls?" She struck her again. "Well, fuck you! Come on, cunt, I know you can fucking do it." Another hit. "Punish me, bitch!"
With an aura of deadly calm, the kind a snake has in that moment between coiling and striking, the blonde raised her hand to her lips. When she drew it back, blood stained her smooth fingers and manicured nails. Her anger became as red as the fluid marring the whiteness of her hand, and the new caring and compassionate side of disappeared in the haze of her temper.
"You stupid little cunt!" she raged, backhanding Giaan across the face, causing the Australian to fall back against the bed. "How dare you!"
Anger spurred Inge on as she rained down blows on every inch of Giaan's body that she could find until the very first blows began to show as bruises on the Aussie's pale skin. Shoving the brunette's legs apart, the Dutch woman's nails gouged her skin, leaving nasty, bloody welts. Her fingers sought out the prone woman's cunt, not surprised the find it dry whereas a normal punishment would have left her dripping and begging.
For them, there was nothing 'normal' about this.
Fumbling in the bedside table, Inge located a tube of lube. Smearing her fingers with some of the cold gel, she roughly plunged her two of her fingers into Giaan's cunt, not caring if she hurt the other woman or not. Ignoring the Aussie's grunts and moans of discomfort, she spread lubricant on a third finger and then a fourth, adding them each in turn to the woman's channel.
Looking down at her fifth digit, her thumb, Inge paused. The sentiment that she didn't want to do any permanent damage to her play thing broke through her anger, and she hesitated.
"No," Giaan rasped, her voiced colored by pain. "Do it! I deserve it!" Her hand came up and gripped Inge's arm tightly.
Rekindled by Giaan's presumption, Inge squeezed what was left of the lubricant on her hand. Putting some weight behind her actions, the blonde forced her thumb to join the rest of her fingers, causing the Aussie to cry out loudly in pain. Reminding herself that Giaan asked for this, the blonde forced her hand into her cunt, until her hand was engulfed up to the wrist. The grotesque sight sparked a cache of lust inside of her, and she began to rub her pussy against Giaan's thigh as she moved her hand in and out.
For Giaan, the pain was worst than anything that she had ever experienced before. The lube that Inge had used was enough to keep her from being torn to shreds, but was hardly enough to make it pleasurable for her. But Giaan didn't want pleasure. She wanted pain. Hot, intense, burning pain to have a physical manifestation of the emotional pain that she felt inside. It hurt, but it also relieved something inside of her.
It washed away some of the guilt.
As Giaan's cunt stretched to accommodate her hand, Inge thrust faster and faster, speeding up her motions against the brunette's thigh as well. Faster and faster, harder and harder. The blonde's moans of pleasure mixed with Giaan's whimpers of pain as their dance of pain, pleasure reached a climax. And then it was there; Inge keened out her pleasure, collapsing against the other woman, hand still inside her.
Later, Inge sat behind Giaan in the bath, steaming hot water lapping at, soothing their bodies. Giaan sighed, relaxing, her head pillowed by Inge's breasts, as the water helped to ease some of the ache that radiated from between her thighs. It was a welcome ache, though; one that felt good, in an odd way. Kind of like the burn that one got in one's muscles after a punishing workout.
The punishing, physical pain was exactly what she needed to start to be able to deal with the pain and anger that she felt inside.
Tilting her head back, eyes swimming with tears of gratitude, longing, hurt, the myriad other emotions that were racing through her, Giaan looked up at Inge. "Thank you," she whispered, trying to convey everything that she needed to in those two words. Looking back down, the tears that were merely a step on the path to getting her life back to where she needed to be rolled silently down her face, healing.
Unbeknownst to the Australian woman, though, were the tears that leaked from the eyes of the woman behind her.
Thanks for reading. Any and all comments will be appreciated.
Author: Jamie (jamirblaze)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giaan/Inge F/f
Waning: Explicit sex. Femslash. BDSM. Angst.
Disclaimer: I don’t know them. Or own them. But if I did, the fun we would have.
Notes: Thanks to Pia for holding my hand on this one. You’re wonderful, wife. This has NOT been beta read heavily, and most of the editing, I did on my own. I’m quite unsure about this one and have tried to accomplish a multitude of things in a short amount of space and held off for a long time in posting this, so any and all feedback would be appreciated.
Unofficial sequel to Fade Away which is not necessary to understand this one.
Giaan wasn't surprised when it happened. In fact, she had suspected him to find out long before he did, or at least, revealed that he knew; after all, it really shouldn't have taken him so long. How many times could a relative die or an unexpected business trip come up (combined with the not-so-hidden stamps from entering the Netherlands in her passport along with the credit card bills and foreign debit charges) before he started to question her? How many fading marks on her body did he have to overlook or rationalize away before he realized what was going on? How many nights did he have to climb on top of a woman who loved him but wasn't completely satisfied by him before things fell into place?
No, there was no surprise that one day she had come home to find Michael sitting on the couch with his things in boxes as he waited to tell her good bye.
Hell, she should be happy that she just didn't come home to find him gone.
What did surprise her was that no matter how much she had prepared for that moment was how much it hurt to say good bye to Michael. It was like a blow to the gut. A million emotions squashed into one breath robbing, heart stopping punch to the stomach.
Michael Klim was gone and wasn't coming back.
Fuck.
Reeling from the blow, Giaan was numb. Every morning she woke up, swam, ate and then laid in bed. She was just going through the motions, and everyone could see it. Her coach could see it in the way that she just seemed like she was splashing in the pool instead of swimming. Her parents could hear it in her voice as she assured them for the fiftieth time that she was okay and didn't need them to come down to see her. Her friends could see it in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way she refused to go out to dinner to her favorite bistro or see a movie with her favorite actor.
Giaan was alive, but there was no life in her. The spark that made her what she was wasn't there anymore.
Somehow, Giaan wasn't surprised when Inge showed up on her doorstep. "Oh, it's you," she said emotionlessly when she finally opened the door to stop the incessant banging.
Earlier that week, Ian and Grant had stopped by to see how she was doing (at Michael's urging, she assumed, because that was something that the bald man would do), and they just added to the swirling confusion of emotions inside of her, reminding her of all she had lost, all she had done to hurt someone else. The emotional stew inside of her churned and boiled, coating her insides with a layer of apathy that nothing seemed to be able to touch.
Not bothering to close the door, Giaan walked back into the living room and flopped down on the couch, where she was surrounded by plastic water bottles, the odd beer bottle, takeout boxes, empty cartons of super calorie loaded ice cream and volumes of dark, depressing novels and poetry. A volume of Lewis' "The Monk," an anthology of Poe, copies of Shakespeare's tragedies and an array of dystopian fiction from Orwell to Atwood laid haphazardly on the floor at one end of the couch. Even though the remains of her meals indicated that she had been eating unhealthily, Giaan had lost some needed pounds, her elbows and knees knobby and her clavicles razor sharp.
Apparently, misery burns more calories than contentment.
Taking the open door as an invitation to come in, Inge placed her bags just inside the door, closing it behind her, and followed Giaan into the living room. She was shocked when Klim had called her earlier that week. The Dutch swimmer had known that Giaan was fooling herself, thinking that she would be able to keep coming to her for what she needed without her boyfriend finding out. For a long time, she knew that Klim would find out and that her liaisons with the Aussie swimmer would probably end. However, the last thing she expected was for Klim to call her.
Well, no, that wasn't exactly right. Inge knew that it was possible that Michael would call her but expected an angry phone call, filled with yelling and expletives. Instead, she had a calm, rational conversation with the Aussie, regarding the woman that they both cared for in their own way. She was surprised at Michael's impassioned pleas that she come to Australia to try to help Giaan, revealing what he had learned from Ian and Grant as to his ex's condition, but she had resisted committing herself to anything.
Though she cared for Giaan in her own way, Inge wasn't in love with her. Their relationship wasn't about love. It was about raw, unadulterated need; with one another, they were able to express all of the nasty things that they desired in the depths of their souls. And part of Inge's role as the dominant partner in their relationship was to be in control of everything, including her feelings. If she were in love with Giaan, she would not be able to give Giaan some of the things she needed.
Love would hold her back.
However, in the end, Inge wasn't a completely unfeeling person, wasn't able to completely shut down the part of herself that did desire to express love and receive it in return, so she broke down and agreed to go check on Giaan. Yet, part of her didn't really believe that it was as bad as the Aussie was making it out to be. Her sub was a strong woman who was very determined; she couldn't see her letting herself go.
Deciding to ignore the trash for now, Inge found an empty spot on the oversized chair that was across from the couch. Staring at the Australian, she evaluated the situation while waiting for the prone woman to say something. But if she was going to wait for the other, it was soon evident that she would be waiting forever. Making a snap decision, the only thing that she could think of, she stood up.
"Get up," Inge ordered in her deep and commanding purr, slipping into her role of dominatrix. "Get up, you dirty bitch."
Giaan gave the woman a disparaging look. "Oh, fuck it. Is that what you've come here for? Need a night of tanning someone's bottom? Well, fuck you; I'm not in the mood."
Using the extra leverage that Giaan's weight loss had given her, Inge hauled Giaan to her feet and slapped her. "I said, 'Get up,' you stupid cow."
Automatically, Giaan's hand lifted to her cheek, and the brief spark that Inge saw in the Aussie's eyes spurred her on.
Inge got behind Giaan and began nudging her with harsh jabs to the back. "Take me to your bedroom."
Giaan dug her heels in at that. "Not there. The gue--...."
"No," Inge barked. "Not the guest room; your room."
When Giaan refused to move, in spite of Inge's prods, Inge pushed her to the ground. Somewhere in the back of Inge's mind, she knew that perhaps she was going too far, not just for Giaan but for herself, too, but she rationalized those thoughts away. Giaan had a safe word and had used it during some of the more limit-testing sessions that they had enjoyed. And someone needed to do something, anything, to bring the life back to Giaan.
With a flick of her foot against her sub’s belly, Inge prodded the Australian onto her hands and knees. "Your bedroom! Now!" the Dutch Olympian demanded as she poked the other woman's ass with the toe of her shoe.
Glaring over her shoulder, eye blazing with life for the first time in weeks, Giaan gave her a dirty look but complied with her orders, nonetheless. Unused to crawling, lacking grace, she slowly made her way into the bedroom that she had once shared with Klim. When she reached the door, she stretched up and opened it, before continuing into the room and kneeling on the floor beside the bed, waiting for her next cue.
Following, instead of checking out the view of Giaan's long, lithe form or admiring the obedience of her pet despite the pet's obvious annoyance, Inge was preoccupied with contemplating her next move. This triggered warning bells in her head, but she suppressed them, contributing her lack of complete control to the circumstances surrounding the situation.
Making up her mind to do whatever the moment called for, the Dutch woman purred, "Stand up." Giaan did as she commanded. "Now strip."
Obviously unhappy to be in the room, Giaan took the opportunity to unrobe as a distraction from the small traces of Michael that still lingered in the room. Pulling her shirt over her head, she dropped it onto the floor where it was soon followed by her jeans, bra and panties. When she finished, she stared down at her feet, attempting to block out all of the memories that threatened to wash over her.
Picking up on Giaan's dilemma, Inge did not give her too much time to think. "Take my clothes off."
Falling back to her knees, a sign of the thoroughness of her training as she had not been told to walk, Giaan crawled over to where the other woman stood and quickly and efficiently began taking her clothes off, dropping them into a pile next to where her own clothes laid. She avoided making contact with Inge's skin. She had only been told to take her clothes off, not to touch.
When the last piece of the Dutch woman's clothing settled on the floor, she commanded the Australian, "Get on the bed." When the dark haired woman hesitated, she grabbed her by her arm and slung her towards the king-sized mattress.
With an "oomph," Giaan half landed on the bed. Not wanting to spare the energy to fight Inge as well as the memories, she reluctantly pulled herself onto the mattress, lying back against the pillows, closing her eyes.
Her movements stirred the bed clothes, causing a whiff of Michael's signature cologne, traces of which still lingered on his pillows, to assault Giaan's nose. Suddenly, she was mentally body slammed by all of the things that she desperately had been trying to disassociate herself from, to compartmentalize and lock into an airtight box for weeks. Michael's goofy grin. The way that she felt special, important, protected when he held her in his strong arms, his eyes looking down at her with love. Michael's innate talent for cheering her up, even while the guilt of betraying him ate away at her soul. The color of his favorite shirt, and the way that it highlighted his blue eyes. The faint wine stain that refused to come out of the carpet, no matter how hard they scrubbed, a remnant of an anniversary celebration gone a bit awry.
A thousand memories, things, sensations raced through her consciousness, activating every ounce of emotion in her body to the extreme. Tears spilled unnoticed from behind her closed eyes as her mind spun out of control.
Minutes later, Giaan's mind emerged from its litany of agony to find Inge looking down at her with concerned eyes, stroking her hair gently and murmuring softly in Dutch. The comforting woman was so far removed from what the Australian was used to, so far away from what she wanted. "Punish me," Giaan rasped, her voice rough with emotion. "I deserve to be punished."
At the dark haired woman's soft words, Inge balked. Somewhere between the time that she had received the first phone call from Michael Klim to this moment, her view toward Giaan had changed. Once upon a time, she would have been willing to dole out punishment to the Australian anytime she asked, but now the blonde wasn't so sure. A side of her wanted to go rustle through her luggage for her handcuffs and riding crop and put them to good use. But the other side wondered how the other woman could truly know what she was asking for when she was so distraught.
It was as she feared. Inge had crossed the line, going from distant and dominant to caring and compassionate.
Fuck.
Seeing the emotions flashing in the blonde's eyes, Giaan became frustrated and directed the anger that she felt towards herself onto the other woman. Sitting up, she struck out at the other woman, catching her soundly across the face. "Come on, you stupid bitch!" she spat. "What's wrong? Lost your fucking balls?" She struck her again. "Well, fuck you! Come on, cunt, I know you can fucking do it." Another hit. "Punish me, bitch!"
With an aura of deadly calm, the kind a snake has in that moment between coiling and striking, the blonde raised her hand to her lips. When she drew it back, blood stained her smooth fingers and manicured nails. Her anger became as red as the fluid marring the whiteness of her hand, and the new caring and compassionate side of disappeared in the haze of her temper.
"You stupid little cunt!" she raged, backhanding Giaan across the face, causing the Australian to fall back against the bed. "How dare you!"
Anger spurred Inge on as she rained down blows on every inch of Giaan's body that she could find until the very first blows began to show as bruises on the Aussie's pale skin. Shoving the brunette's legs apart, the Dutch woman's nails gouged her skin, leaving nasty, bloody welts. Her fingers sought out the prone woman's cunt, not surprised the find it dry whereas a normal punishment would have left her dripping and begging.
For them, there was nothing 'normal' about this.
Fumbling in the bedside table, Inge located a tube of lube. Smearing her fingers with some of the cold gel, she roughly plunged her two of her fingers into Giaan's cunt, not caring if she hurt the other woman or not. Ignoring the Aussie's grunts and moans of discomfort, she spread lubricant on a third finger and then a fourth, adding them each in turn to the woman's channel.
Looking down at her fifth digit, her thumb, Inge paused. The sentiment that she didn't want to do any permanent damage to her play thing broke through her anger, and she hesitated.
"No," Giaan rasped, her voiced colored by pain. "Do it! I deserve it!" Her hand came up and gripped Inge's arm tightly.
Rekindled by Giaan's presumption, Inge squeezed what was left of the lubricant on her hand. Putting some weight behind her actions, the blonde forced her thumb to join the rest of her fingers, causing the Aussie to cry out loudly in pain. Reminding herself that Giaan asked for this, the blonde forced her hand into her cunt, until her hand was engulfed up to the wrist. The grotesque sight sparked a cache of lust inside of her, and she began to rub her pussy against Giaan's thigh as she moved her hand in and out.
For Giaan, the pain was worst than anything that she had ever experienced before. The lube that Inge had used was enough to keep her from being torn to shreds, but was hardly enough to make it pleasurable for her. But Giaan didn't want pleasure. She wanted pain. Hot, intense, burning pain to have a physical manifestation of the emotional pain that she felt inside. It hurt, but it also relieved something inside of her.
It washed away some of the guilt.
As Giaan's cunt stretched to accommodate her hand, Inge thrust faster and faster, speeding up her motions against the brunette's thigh as well. Faster and faster, harder and harder. The blonde's moans of pleasure mixed with Giaan's whimpers of pain as their dance of pain, pleasure reached a climax. And then it was there; Inge keened out her pleasure, collapsing against the other woman, hand still inside her.
Later, Inge sat behind Giaan in the bath, steaming hot water lapping at, soothing their bodies. Giaan sighed, relaxing, her head pillowed by Inge's breasts, as the water helped to ease some of the ache that radiated from between her thighs. It was a welcome ache, though; one that felt good, in an odd way. Kind of like the burn that one got in one's muscles after a punishing workout.
The punishing, physical pain was exactly what she needed to start to be able to deal with the pain and anger that she felt inside.
Tilting her head back, eyes swimming with tears of gratitude, longing, hurt, the myriad other emotions that were racing through her, Giaan looked up at Inge. "Thank you," she whispered, trying to convey everything that she needed to in those two words. Looking back down, the tears that were merely a step on the path to getting her life back to where she needed to be rolled silently down her face, healing.
Unbeknownst to the Australian woman, though, were the tears that leaked from the eyes of the woman behind her.
Thanks for reading. Any and all comments will be appreciated.