Love Making After

22 Aug 2022

If you have not read part 1 click the LINK

His hand strokes my hair, then trails down my arm. His touch is tentative again, but now it’s a question of comfort, of reconnection. I shift in his arms, turning my face up to look at him. His eyes are soft, full of that familiar love, but also a new, deep respect. I see my submission reflected in them, and it’s not a weakness; it’s a strength we share.

I lean up and kiss him. It’s a slow, tender kiss, tasting of salt and forgiveness. My hands come up to his shoulders, clinging to him.

The kiss deepens. The hunger, buried under the pain and the guilt, rises. It’s a different hunger now—not for playful release, but for reaffirmation. For proof that this ordeal has brought us closer, not driven us apart.

He responds, his mouth opening to mine, his hands moving from comforting to possessive. One hand cups my face. The other slides down my side, over my hip, and settles on the blazing, tender skin of my bottom. He doesn’t squeeze. He just holds it, his palm a warm weight against the fire.

I moan into his kiss. The touch on my sore flesh is a shock, but it’s a good shock. It’s a reminder, and now, it’s a bridge to pleasure.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he breathes against my lips. “So honest. So open.”

He stands, lifting me with him. He doesn’t carry me to the bedroom. He lays me down on the same thick living room rug. My punished bottom settles on the soft weave, the contact sending a fresh wave of aching heat through me. I gasp.

He kneels beside me, looking down at my body. I am naked, tear-streaked, my skin glowing with the vivid aftermath of his discipline. He undresses himself, his movements slow and deliberate. I love watching him undress when he hungers after me. When he’s naked, he joins me on the rug, his body covering mine.

His arousal is hard, urgent against my thigh. He kisses me again, deeply, then his mouth moves down my body. He kisses my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then more firmly. The sensation is a bright, clean pleasure that contrasts exquisitely with the deep, throbbing ache in my rear.

His hands roam my skin, exploring, reclaiming. One hand stays on my bottom, stroking, rubbing, owning the heat he created. The other hand slides between my thighs, finding the wetness that has gathered there despite the pain, despite the tears.

“You’re ready,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding through my slickness. “Even after all that. You’re still ready for me.”

I am. The need is a deep, empty ache inside me, a void that only he can fill. His fingers press inside me, two of them, stretching me, filling me. The movement is slow, deliberate. It’s not about driving me to climax; it’s about reconnection. Each thrust sends echoes through my sore flesh, a feedback loop of pain and pleasure that is dizzying, overwhelming.

He watches my face as his fingers move inside me. “This is us,” he says, his voice low and intense. “After the storm. The calm. The connection.”

I can only nod, my breath coming in short gasps. His fingers curl, finding a rhythm that makes me arch my back, my punished bottom pressing harder into the rug. The dual sensations are maddening, wonderful.

He removes his fingers and positions himself above me. He doesn’t enter me quickly. He guides himself to my entrance, then pauses, looking into my eyes.

“I love you,” he says again, the words a vow.

Then he pushes inside.

The fullness is immediate, profound. He fills me completely, a deep, stretching penetration that makes me cry out. He moves slowly, each stroke a conscious, deliberate act of reunion. My body accepts him, welcomes him, my inner muscles clutching around him. The pain in my bottom is a constant, sweet counterpoint to the pleasure of his movement inside me. It grounds me, reminds me, enhances me.

He leans down, kissing me as he moves. Our bodies are joined, our mouths are joined. It’s a total, consuming connection. His thrusts deepen, becoming more urgent. The pace builds. My hips rise to meet him, my sore skin grinding against the rug, sending sparks through my nerves. The pleasure mounts, a towering wave that gathers all the sensations—the deep ache, the stretching fullness, the emotional catharsis—into one focused point.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “Come with me.”

The command unlocks me. The climax isn’t a silent detonation like before. It’s a loud, vocal release. I cry out, my body tightening around him, my back arching sharply. The orgasm shakes through me, long and deep, leaving me trembling and gasping beneath him. He follows, his own release a groan of satisfaction as he pushes deep, holding himself inside me as he finds his peak.

We collapse together on the rug, spent. He holds me close, my blazing bottom nestled against his hip. The heat is a lingering brand, a tender reminder.

“The attitude is corrected,” he murmurs into my hair. “The slate is clean.”