She would never make twelve. And she would never not make twelve; she would not fail him.“Who owns your clit? Who decides when you get to touch it...”“You do, Sir. You own my clit.”Crack.He wasn’t hitting hard, but it wasn’t soft, either. After the strap last night, and 30 with the paddle, a feather would’ve hurt. She was already breathing hard, hoping the endorphins would save her.“When do you come, pet?”“When you tell me to, Sir. Only when you tell me to.” She loved that he owned. As the car crawls the last few feet to the top, I surrender to the throbbing lethargy, enjoying the moist tingling in my belly, pulse twitching at my wrists. His left arm is in his lap, the other stretched out holding the side of the car. He turns and we share a long sloe-eyed glance, embarrassing in its intensity, before I touch his arm, slipping under it, snuggling into his warmth an instant before the car topples. ‘Aieeeeeeeee!’ …. Free-fall, wet and dizzy… insides twisting and churning. I. More

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