She liked the bruises. The way they bloomed bright on her pearly skin; bright red at the first thwack of the crop, then purplish-blue, until it was yellow-green as it faded slowly. It was a joy to watch them change.
The bruises are what brought her back. Her endured pain painted on her breasts, thighs, and ass. The way the pain made her head float and her skin buzz and jump, was a need that edged on addiction.
She craved the look in her own eyes when she looked into the mirror when he finished. The lust, the dazed satisfaction, the need for more.
He always fucked her after they played. She’d draw his hands to wherever he’d just beaten and beg him to press those spots until she yelped.
The way he’d groan, filling her cunt with come, was almost a secondary pleasure to the way he’d squeeze her bruised flesh and wring an orgasm from her. It was never about the sex for her. She just liked the bruises.