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Eighteen days. Alina holds out for eighteen days before her restraint snaps, crawling under her peony-patterned sheets in the middle of a lazy afternoon where she doesn’t have any lectures. Once she’s settled, she kicks off her sweatpants, gets comfortable, and slips her fingers between her legs.
She’s found a rhythm she likes, with light, soft strokes, when her mobile buzzes with a text from “Sasha ❤️”: Stop.
He must be watching. She’s not sure where the cameras are, has never dared to ask. It can’t be much of a view, as most of her is under the blanket— she considers kicking it off so he can watch, but, no. The selfishness is the point. It makes her giddy, the high of it better than the one she gets off of the pot brownies that Genya sometimes gives her before they go dancing.
She could still stop, of course. Put her clothes back on, return to the kitchen to her book. If she had any sense, she would. But it’s been eighteen days and she’s too horny to think; just last night, she had begged him while he was inside her, teetering right on the edge, and he had been so mean about it—
The memory is like a match to a puddle of kerosine. She remembers how he pinned her down, kissing her tears, crooning that he would help her keep her promise, that she had to be good and wait a while longer still. Focus on his pleasure, not hers, like a good girl should. On just being a warm and wet place for him to come. Not her. Just him.
Buzzing again: Alina, stop. Now.
He wants to be stern. Tries so hard to be an imposing presence when he’s correcting her. But she knows him, and no matter how he works to smother it, he can never hide how eager he is for what follows when she breaks his rules. How much he delights in her disobedience. Almost as much as she does.
She bites down on her lip as she comes.
As her pulse slows, she pants into the silence of her bedroom and hears her phone buzz again.
Oh, sweet girl, her screen reads, when she turns to look. You’re in trouble now.
Being in bed is comfortable, she decides, and retrieves her book to read while snuggled under the covers. She’s still there when she hears her front door slam exactly forty-two minutes later.
Her pulse kicks up a notch.
“Hello?” she calls out into the quiet. “Aleksander, is that— oh,” she smiles as he darkens the doorway of her bedroom. “It is you. Why aren’t you at work?”
“You’ve been ignoring my texts”, he says, ignoring her question. The soles of the fancy oxfords he wears to the office click as he approaches her bed. Everything about the sleek lines of the dark suit say I am the boss, which he is. Which, in turn, is why he comes and goes as he pleases. To his office. To his apartment, an expensive penthouse of stainless steel and hardwood. To her apartment, very much not an expensive penthouse, of peeling wallpaper and laminate floors.
“I didn’t realise you’d texted me.” She gives him her prettiest, widest smile. “Was it important?“
“That depends.”
“On?”
“If you were breaking the rules or not.”
Again, again, her pulse ticks up. “What rules?”
“I think you know which one.” He sits by the side of her bed, takes her hand, brings it to his lips. She waits for him to kiss the back of her hand, or maybe her palm. Instead he tightens his grip to the very edge of pain around her wrist, and inhales deeply at her fingers.
He can smell her, she realises. Her arousal on her fingers. Shame and mortification flip somersaults in her belly and her breath catches on her throat.
“I think,” he says, “that if I were to reach down now, I’d find you wet and messy. I think you took something that belongs to me, and I think you did it knowing that you shouldn’t.”
“Didn’t,” she mumbles, heat rushing to her cheeks. “I didn’t—“
But then he rips the covers back and grabs her legs, still bare, pulling her down until she’s lying flat on her back. And when he parts her thighs and traces the gusset of her underwear, she can feel it: the sticky proof of her arousal.
In the face of all reason, she scrambles to try and maintain the facade of behaving. “I get wet as soon as you touch me,” she whines. “You know that. I can’t help it.”
She earns a smile for that. But it’s mean, so mean, just the kind of mean that keeps her up at night, imagining with her hands fisted in her pillow. “I know you do. You can’t help but try and get ready to take me here, isn’t that right.” He presses, hard, through the fabric, and she bucks her hips at the inadequate penetration, the texture of cotton where she wants to feel skin. “But I don’t think that’s what this is.”
“No, that’s all it is, I promise.”
“You’ve lied to me three times now.” His tone is conversational, but that doesn’t fool her. That’s when he’s the most dangerous. “Each time, you add one more thing that you need to be punished for. Is that what you want?”
She tries to fold her legs to her chest, but he won’t let her. “… No.”
“I didn’t think so. I know you need a firm hand, baby. That’s why I keep such a close eye on you. So let’s start again: were you breaking your rules?“
It makes her feel so small, being spoken to like this. Chastised. The flip side of being cared for, having someone who cares enough to be stern. She balls her hands over her eyes, tries to breathe through her nose. Her voice is a little higher, a little breathier, when she answers this time. “Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The no-coming rule.”
“Tell me more about that rule, Alina.”
The anticipation of building up to the punishment is almost worse than the punishment itself. He knows that, of course, is the master of suspended anticipation and dread. Has more patience than she can fathom. “No orgasms for forty days. For me.”
“That’s right— for lent, we agreed.”
It’s a ludicrous suggestion. Neither of them are practicing Christians, for all that his Mother’s house has about 14 painted icons hanging in every room, including the bathroom. Nothing could put you off the idea of church like a flat-eyed Jesus watching you pee. But she’d seen an article about Lenten resolutions and abandoning unhealthy habits and made the mistake of teasing him, maybe I should give you up for Lent, Sasha. And he hadn’t liked that.
He hadn’t liked that at all.
“Forty days”, Aleksander continues. “For forty days, you weren’t allowed to come. Has it been forty days?”
“No.”
“But what did you do?”
She doesn’t regret it, not really. But she still has to fight rising tears. “I’m sorry, Sasha, I was just so pent up, I couldn’t wait—“
He cuts her off by gripping her jaw so tightly that she gasps, forcing her to look at him. “What. Did you do?”
“I came,” she warbles.
“How?”
“I— I used my fingers.”
“You did. You used your cute little fingers and rubbed your cunt until you came. And you kept the blanket over you”, he says, gesturing to her covers. “So I couldn’t see it as it happened. You took that from me, Alina.”
She could argue with him that this is a nonsensical idea. That her pleasure and body belong, of course, to her. Instead, she gazes up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not convinced.” The suit jacket comes off one shoulder at a time, neatly folded and placed on her dresser. He doesn’t look away, even for a moment, as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls the sleeves up his arms.
“What can I do to prove it?”
“You can get on your front, to start with.”
Tucking her pillow under her chin and wrapping her arms around it, she obligingly rolls. She can hear the snik-snik of his belt being pulled from his trouser loops as she does it.
Aleksander normally likes to let her wait without being able to see what’s coming. Give her time to stew. So she shrieks in surprise when the folded belt snaps across her ass in a loud crack with no preamble whatsoever; she gasps in air as the pain radiates through her, digging her fingers into the pillow to fight the urge to cover her behind.
“I think,” he says, “that you thought you could stick your slutty hands in your panties and I’d leave everything and come running.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
Crack, this time to the tender flesh of her thighs. “You really are keen to pile up those punishments today.”
“No, no, I’m not.”
“Then the only thing coming out of that cute mouth of yours had better be I’m sorry from now on.”
“‘M sor—“ The next strike is back over the first, and it burns like hell. He’s efficient with his strokes, and a master of keeping her just toeing that line where the pain stops being pleasurable. The belt is good for that, because even though the sting isn’t too bad— especially when the belt is wide, diffusing the impact— the ache under the skin that follows is enough to leave her whole body trembling.
“That,” he says, “is for lying”, and then he layers another one, just below the last. “And so is that. And,” another— flat across her tailbone, making her wail— “so is that. When will you learn, Alina?”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she mumbles. Drool and tears are smearing across the pillow. She tries to regulate her breathing, to no avail. “Sorry, Sasha. I’m so sorry.”
“Spread your legs.”
Wincing, she shuffles to part her knees, splayed awkwardly on her sheets.
Every nerve in her body feels like it’s sparking when he hooks his finger against the gusset of her underwear, drawing it aside, cool air against her skin. When he presses two deft fingers into her, splitting her open, hooking against her belly, she moans aloud.
“Drippy,” he murmurs. Alina doesn’t know if her face can get any redder.
She finds out that it can when a whoosh of air warns her that another strike is coming; it lands against her ass and she clenches around his fingers, shuddering, the jolt of pleasure and shock of pain twining together to make something heady, dark, dangerous.
Even if she still can’t see anything, she can hear as he exhales slowly, feel as his fingers start to pump in and out of her, drawing out shivery cries. “And that was for the sass.”
“I’m sorry, Sasha”
“No, you’re not. I can feel how not-sorry you are. It’s not much of a punishment when I know you’re on the edge of begging for more of it— you’re just lucky that I’m a soft touch.”
Strange words when Alina is absolutely sure that her skin will be a least a little bit bruised by tomorrow morning. Marks that she’ll wear and feel every time she sits down in the coming week.
She lets out a pathetic whimper when his fingers pull out of her, leaving her empty; rolling her neck, she tries to push up onto her arms, look over her shoulder, see what he’s doing.
His broad hand cups the back of her head and keeps her pinned in place. Face down, she can hear him rummaging for something on her bedside table. Then gentle hands are in her hair, parting it, shaping it; braiding it, she realises, into a single plait down her back. She sniffles. “Sasha?”
“Want something to hold onto,” he murmurs, and blotchy heat climbs her chest at that, the idea of her hair used functionally as a set of reins.
When it’s tied off, he instructs her onto her hands and knees. Wobbly, she obeys. She’s still in her T-shirt and panties, but he doesn’t undress her further; instead, he kneels between her spread legs, and she listens to the zip of his trousers opening. Stock-still, ass still stinging, she winces when his hand wraps in her braid, drawing her back into an arch until the hairs at the base of her neck delicately sting.
The band of her underwear draws tight against her skin when he tugs the fabric aside and presses his cock into her. Her arms shake, the pleasure of it building until his hips snap against the raw, spanked skin, a stinging aftershock.
Alina chances a glance at him, craning her neck to look out of the very corner of her eye. He’s loosened his tie and unbuttoned a few buttons at the collar of his shirt, but otherwise, he looks much the same as when he came in; hair slicked back with not a strand out of place, expression calm and focused. It’s unfair that he’s so proficient at appearing serene when it takes just a few gentle touches to unravel her so completely.
A sharp yank at her hair forces her to face the bed frame.
With a satisfied grunt, Aleksander draws his cock out of her and then snaps his hips back in, a stabbing movement that makes her jolt and moan. His right hand grips her hip, giving him yet more leverage. “Let’s review, shall we. What did you do?”
This would be easier if she could let her head hang. Or collapse into a puddle, and just have him fuck her relaxed and limp body. The tenseness is making her clench, which makes him feel even bigger than usual. “I came.”
“How?”
“On my fingers.”
“And were you supposed to?”
She tries to shake her head, but the hand holding her braid taut makes it impossible. “No,” she chokes out instead.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m supposed to— to not for forty days, because you told me to—“ she’s in the middle of the sentence when he starts to move, making it that much harder to speak. She’s trying to focus over the tremor in her arms and neck, the sting across her ass, the gentle rocking motion that is making him fuck into her over and over again. Worst of all, she can feel another orgasm building, blooming across her middle, eager to burst forth.
“You do want to be good for me, don’t you, Alina?”
“Uh huh, uh huh uh huh,” she babbles, in time with his strokes, gaining force.
“Then you’ll keep your hands away from your cunt for the rest of Lent, won’t you?” Any satisfaction at the fact that his words, too, are starting to become ragged, is ripped away when he releases her hip to slap her reddened skin. She wails, tears pricking her eyes, pinned in place and writhing. It doesn’t even hurt any more, it just feels raw and good.
“Please please please—“
“I like you when you’re needy, baby. You get so nice and tight for me, so wet. And that’s what you want, right? What I want?”
He loosens his hold enough to let her nod pathetically, which means she can crane around to look at him again. Let him see the tears painting her cheeks, her reddened lips from where she keeps chewing on them.
Colour spreads across his cheeks, high on his sharp cheekbones. The bolt of triumph she feels is heady, especially when he starts to fuck into her faster, building pace.
But the building speed also lurches her closer to that orgasm, panic skittering up her throat. “Sasha,” she pants, high and reedy. “Sasha, ‘m gonna come if you don’t stop—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I can’t help it!” Her shoulders are shaking with the effort of ignoring it, trying to wriggle away. “Please, I’m sorry, please.”
His teeth are gritted. “Beg me.”
There’s something infinitely perverse about it, begging for him to stop the thing she wants the most. “Please, don’t let me come, I don’t want to come, please, Sasha please don’t let me—”
He releases her braid. She slumps forward, folding her arms, sobbing with relief. The change in angle makes the orgasm slip away like morning fog on a summer’s day, but rather than an agonising ache, it leaves burning pleasure behind as he fucks her with a single-minded focus. She’s inching up the bed in increments but it’s a cocooning thing, being under him, feeling the heat of his body against her back, the drape of his silk tie brushing her cheek as he bends over her.
She mumbles “I’m sorry” and “thank you” over and over in a confused way, a bit mindless, hiccuping with tears, but his long groan of pleasure makes her sure he doesn’t mind. And she does yelp when his teeth sink into her shoulder as he comes, a sharp ache to accompany the brands across her behind.
He’s a little bleary eyed, she notes with a smile, as he climbs off her, standing, fumbling to replace his belt. He notices her staring. “Good?”
Alina swipes at her tears, shakes her head to clear it. “So good,” she mumbles, head still full of happy pink fog. She reaches towards him, flaps her hands. “Cuddles?”
“One moment. Let’s clean you up.”
Humming, she stretches her sore arms and legs out like a cat, giggling when he walks to her side of the bed to pull her messy panties away, tossing them in the laundry hamper. His footsteps click to the bathroom and back, and then she feels a warm cloth wiping her tear tracks, her thighs, her cunt. Aleksander presses a kiss to her hipbone. “Do you need lotion, baby?”
“Please.” She flips on her front again, but this time with a happy sigh as he smooths her favourite cream across her reddened skin, enjoying its soothing effects.
When that’s done, he climbs in beside her and wraps her in his arms, heedless of the sticky cream smearing on his trousers. He strokes her hair and she breathes in the scent of him, soap and aftershave, all of the sensations in her body slowly settling like the little flakes in a shaken snow globe.
“I really do have to go back to the office,” Aleksander eventually says regretfully. “Ivan was in the middle of trying to explain something over a phone call when I spotted you on the security camera. He’s probably stomping around my office now, terrorising Genya.”
“Ridiculous. Genya can’t be terrorised.”
“True enough.”
Alina sits up on her knees, smoothing his hair back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Go, then. I’ll be at yours for dinner.”
He hums, satisfied, before pulling her in for a deep kiss. As he stands and puts his suit jacket on, he calls over his shoulder, “and if I catch you again…”
“My ass wouldn’t survive that!”
He grins from the doorway, her favourite, rare, heart-stopping smile, the one that dropped her in all this mess in the first place. “Then you’d better behave yourself, hadn’t you?”