filthy erotic story

Ripple, Paddle, Repeat – Part 2: Beads, Bruises & Begging

It started the moment I walked through the front door. No “hello,” no pleasantries — just the sound of him snapping on a leather glove.

“Upstairs. Strip. Face down, arse up.”

I didn’t need telling twice.

The sting from last weekend hadn’t fully faded, and I could still feel the ghost of those anal beads every time I shifted in my chair. But he wasn’t interested in recovery. Not tonight.

Tonight was about ruin.

The lube bottle was already open on the nightstand. That meant one thing: the Triple Ripple Anal Beads were going in deep. Again. But not before the warm-up. And by warm-up, I mean bruises.

The first crack of the Leather Paddle hit harder than expected. I yelped. He smirked. “Counting or crying — pick one.”

“One,” I hissed. Another crack. “Two.” Then three. Then six. Then twelve.

The leather left perfect little patches of fire across my arse. My cheeks clenched, but not from fear. It was that delicious mix — the sting of impact paired with the anticipation of something thicker, fuller, and far more invasive.

“On your knees. Face the mirror.”

He wanted me to watch.

He lubed the first bump of the ripple beads and slid it in slowly, letting me stretch around each swell. I gasped. It didn’t stop him. The second bump slipped in faster. Then the third. I was already panting by the time the final bulb was snug inside me.

“Good toy,” he whispered.

And then he was inside me — not with his cock, not yet — but with the beads in one hand and the Delay Gel smeared thick along his shaft. He wanted this to last. Long.

Too long.

He gripped the beads and pulled, not out — just enough to make me flinch and arch. My body jolted forward as he thrust deeper, slow and punishing, the gel keeping him hard while I unravelled. The pressure was maddening. Too full. Too deep. Too slow.

But I begged for more.

He flipped me onto my back, one leg in the air, the other pressed flat against his chest. The position forced the beads deeper. I whimpered. He growled. The pace picked up.

“You wanna come?”

I nodded, mouth slack, drool on my chin.

“Beg.”

“I need it. Please. Use me.”

Crack. The paddle landed once more across my thigh — not to hurt, but to remind me who owned this body. He twisted the final bump of the beads, teasing me with the idea of removing them mid-thrust. I moaned so loud the windows could’ve shattered.

And then — release.

Not mine. His.

He pulled the beads halfway out, came with a roar, and smeared every drop of his finish along the curve of my arse.

Me?

Still full. Still aching. Still needy.

“Don’t even think about touching yourself. You’ll come when I say. And next time…” He grinned. “We add the cage.”

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