“Why don’t you like this dress?” she pouted.

It actually wasn’t that he didn’t like it; rather, her neediness in this (and many other) departments was becoming a drag on their limited time together. Between her obligations and his scheduling was a challenge — worthwhile, certainly — and he didn’t like to waste what time they had, even if it was just minutes in a day-long debauch.

The thing was, he very much did like the dress. But he had to wipe that pout off her face first, replace it with something else. Or give her an actual reason to pout.

“And you haven’t written me into a story for a while,” she continued, seeming to pout the words right out. “What do I have to do to get one? And another?”

“There’s already nothing you won’t do. So that is a pickle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I suppose it is.”

He kissed her, hard, pulling the pout between his teeth and biting — not enough to draw blood, but not so gently that she wouldn’t feel the bruising when she applied her lip gloss. She moaned into his mouth, and he repeated the operation with her upper lip — concentrating, for good measure, on just the left side. She would, he was sure, find the asymmetry at least slightly annoying and not a little arousing, an erotic reminder that would last almost until their next meeting.

Without warning he spun her around, so that she faced the wall, positioning her hands flat against it and telling her not to move unless and until instructed. He removed her clothing — not carefully, the way he always had, but roughly, punishingly. He tore her dress off and cast it aside, then tore off her brassiere and pulled down her panties.

“Step out of them.”

“Master, I —“ This was a side of him she hadn’t seen, though she’d known it was always just beneath the surface. He had told her as much.

He had barely torn her underwear free when his hand came down hard on her buttocks. And again, and again, and again. He reached behind him and produced a makeshift paddle from somewhere. With this he attacked the same spot, already reddened and almost revealing his handprint. She flinched when she heard the thing’s approach, flinched when it struck her, flinched when he dropped it on the floor and began instead to run his fingers along her labia, suddenly thrusting one and then two — rather more roughly than usual — into her, probing her G-spot. He could hear her, feel her, trying not to move, trying not to say anything or utter any sound at all.

He spun her again, impaled her again on his two fingers, and with his free hand grabbed her wrists and held them high above her head, against the wall, pushing her back so that her shoulders touched the wall. His thrusting continued; she tried not to look at him, to keep her eyes closed.

“Open your eyes, pet. Keep them open. Keep them here.” He didn’t have to explain where “here” was.

He kissed her again, momentarily breaking eye contact while he bit her lower lip again, more gently this time. A third finger joined in, and he used that to lubricate her so that she was, suddenly, twice-impaled on his hand.

He pulled his head back and looked at her, into her face, into her eyes. She had shut them again. His free hand came down and slapped her across the right cheek — not hard, not enough to mark, but enough to focus her attention.

“Eyes open,” was all he said. He didn’t have to explain that, either. Close them again, pout again, and she’d be finishing alone today.

The thought of it was enough to bring her to the edge. His fingers took her the rest of the way.