Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.


When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter12 (v.1) - The Black Room

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 25, 2015

Reads: 1539

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 25, 2015



The first time Imogen had seen this room, she'd studied it as an outsider, a patron standing in front of a museum exhibit. Granted, she’d been a patron who expected Van Gogh and got…porn…but the metaphor worked well enough.

This time, she realized how every little detail came together, how the coarse rope would irritate her skin and the whips would bite into her back. How the slight chill in the air would trigger all manner of involuntary responses from her body. Her toes curled reflexively on the cold slate floor, and she forced herself not to shiver when Andre lifted her dress away.

She couldn’t do this. Not for ten thousand or ten million dollars, not with Andre. She’d spent the last month forgetting about this room. She’d even gotten to the point where she considered Amanda a friend and, more importantly, a normal girl despite the always present padlocked choker around her neck. If Imogen did this, if she let Andre do to her what he did in this room, she’d never look at either of them the same. This was a line she shouldn’t be crossing.

But it was so much money, and it was just her body. Sal had so much medical debt, and there was no way for her to take care of it on her own. Ten thousand dollars could mean one less daily call from the bill collectors. One less call was one less stressor, which was one more chance at a normal life for Sal.

And all it cost was an hour of Imogen' life. It was a bargain, really. She couldn't help attempting to casually cover her belly by faking an itch there, but Andre immediately intercepted that by pushing her hand away and stepping deliberately into her comfort zone.

"Can I keep my bra on, too?" she asked. That might help, although his looming presence was making her thoughts fog, just as they had in the kitchen. There was no way she'd be able to do this, bra or not, but his warmth made her forget why. She could almost forget who she was.

Andre placed his large, supple hands beneath her breasts, feeling their weight through the fabric. The rage that had pulsed through him before seemed to fade, but Imogen wasn't sure if he had gotten over whatever had riled him so much or if it was simply getting channeled into...this. His thumb circled across her areolas, and Imogen was unable to hold back her gasp.

"Absolutely not," His tongue rolled across his top row of teeth as he watched her nipples swell against the soft cotton cups. He reached behind her and flicked open the clasp, then rumbled appreciatively as her breasts spilled free. "You know what's nice about real tits?" he asked.

Imogen blushed and shook her head.

"Bend over and look at them," he commanded, his voice leaving her no room to disobey.

She stared at them, dangling down in bulbous, unflattering globes. She knew humiliation was part of what happened here, but it was needlessly cruel to shame her over the effects of gravity.

She jerked slightly at the sudden pull of the rope—soft silk, thankfully—that Andre wrapped around her rib cage. In a quick, skilled flurry, he coiled it around her breasts, forcing them to round out further. He tugged the cord back, pulling them apart, and tied a knot between them. When she straightened back up, her breasts swelled out from her chest unnaturally.

The look in Andre's eyes as he examined his work told Imogen he liked this far more than she did. He skimmed the top of the swell with his fingertips and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, they were far too serious. Lust, yes, but also this darkness. This beast that was paying her far too much money for her pound of flesh.

"The rope is cutting off some of the circulation—only slightly, no permanent damage," he explained when she winced at the sensation. It wasn't unpleasant, not exactly, but it was an awareness of her breasts she wasn't used to. They existed and they were trussed up, and blood flowed into them—although not as much as normal. It was a peculiar thing to be conscious of.

"I'm going to tie your arms up to the ceiling there, off that hook, and then I'm going to tie the ends of this rope to that one. It's going to lift your breasts higher. I've put this knot here so the ropes won't tighten further, but even with this, they're going to start to ache eventually. You're going to take that pain, but if it becomes unbearable, you need to tell me."

Imogen nodded, noticing a slight flush to her chest already. Was this the ache? If she could already feel it, how bad would it get?

One hour. That was all the time he got before Imogen walked away and concocted a fantasy tale of what happened this night.

He guided her arms forward, anchoring her hands one on top of the other on his exposed chest. She closed her eyes as she felt his slow, steady heartbeat. Only Imogen had a hummingbird flapping against her rib cage.

Then he pulled another length of braided silk from the pocket of his jeans and wound it around her wrists. As he lifted her arms up to snag the rope on one of the ceiling hooks, he said, "You need to pick a safe word."

She tested her position, finding the hook to be low enough that she could stay flat footed and still maintain a relaxed bend in her elbows. This wasn't so bad. "What's a safe word?"

He walked behind her and grabbed her hips to drag her back a step. This made more sense; she could still keep her feet grounded, but she had to angle herself at her ankles to do it. If something caused her knees to buckle, she'd lose her balance and end up dangling awkwardly.

Then he connected the ends of the breast binding to her wrists. The extra lift was not pleasant. She shifted onto her toes to relieve the extra pressure. It helped, but her Achilles tendon burned from it. This was the devil's detail.

"You're about to say a lot of things you don't mean," Andre told her, "so—"

"Like what, I love you?"

He swatted the cotton covering her ass playfully but firmly enough to tell her this wasn't the time for joking. "Like no, and stop. If you say no, I consider it a compliment. If you say stop, I will go harder. So you need a word that will tell me that I really have to stop. And I will."

He walked back around to face her. She couldn't read his expression, not accurately at least. Because it seemed soft now, concerned. Not the face of the man who had just stripped her down and tied her up. But that wasn’t the man who risked his life to appease his 14-year-old’s demand to drive, either.

Imogen had no idea who Andre really was. He didn't have the slightest clue who she was, so they were equal. They were strangers, and that was okay. If they meant nothing to each other, even better.

"I will stop," he repeated in earnest. "No matter what, okay? And don't be afraid to say it. No repercussions. I'm sorry I'm doing this to you, but you have no idea how badly I need this. I'm going to hit you very hard, and you will not be able to take all that I want to give you. So pick your safe word, and I will go until you say it."

She wanted to place a reassuring hand on his chest to tell him she would be okay, that there was nothing he could do that would hurt worse than what had already been done to her, but her hands were bound. "Effulgence," she whispered.

He blinked in confusion, then snorted. "That's your safety word?"

"Well, it's not a word I say very often."

"Very well, then." He strode across the room, his gait fluid as he considered the rack of tools. From it, he selected a wide paddled crop. He tested its flexibility on his return to her, halting a foot away and allowing her time to study it.

"It's big," she murmured, then rolled her eyes at his smirk. "You know what I mean."

"The force will spread more, so it won't sting so badly or leave so bad a welt."

"How badly will it sting?"

He smacked her belly with it. She knew it was hardly anything, a quick, light poke, but she still sucked air through her teeth.

"It will sting. I told you I wanted to make you scream. But first..."

With an evil smirk, he smacked her breast soundly. The sensation reverberated through her, a shock of pain...

...and then a clenched longing. The small moan that pushed out from her chest was heavily laced with lust. Imogen bit her lip to hold back any more obvious signs of embarrassment.

Andre smacked her other breast, and her head rolled back. His hand slipped around her neck and pulled her closer. "If you change your mind about your panties, let me know."

Imogen glared at him, although she wasn't sure if it was convincing. She wouldn't change her mind, the panties were absolute, but they felt cumbersome.

He slid his hand back over her shoulder, dragging it across her aching nipples as he walked behind her. "You're going to count out every time I hit you," he instructed her.

"How many am I counting to?"

"I told you you're not going to make it that far."

She tried to look back at him, but he grabbed her pony tail and forced her head down toward her chest. "Your head stays forward. Understand?"

"Yes. How many?"

"Let's say fifteen. I'm going to count to four the first time so you'll know when it's going to happen. Ready?"

Imogen nodded and closed her eyes, bracing herself mentally. She took a deep breath as he started the count. The room was cold enough she could imagine herself on a frigid mountaintop, silent and bereft of any life in the violet dusk. Peace washed through her body like frozen air on her—

"One," she hissed at the crack of leather on skin, only afterward realizing it was her own skin. The muscles ridging her left shoulder blade crawled stiffly as pain radiated down her spine.

But the mountaintop still awaited.

"Very good," Andre murmured. "Too good. No more counting."

The dryness in Imogen's throat felt more like desert than mountain, and the second snap of the crop made her wince. The two came out on a rasp.

"You're more muscular up here than my other girls. It absorbs the impact better."

So the next hit was on her ass cheek. It was so much louder on the more giving flesh, and the sound alone was enough to send her on her toes.

The pain was electric, jolting through her core and all the way up to her fingernails. She tipped forward, and only Andre's strong arm around her waist prevented her from losing her balance. She leaned against him, the cool fabric of his unbuttoned shirt wicking the burn in her shoulders while the stretch of exposed chest warmed her spine. She wanted his denim jeans to relieve the sting on her cheek, but the bulge there was distracting.

No sex. He'd promised. But that was undeniably his body's expectation if not his brain's.

"What's your word?" he asked. She wondered idly if that was the point of counting—to make her choose whether to continue with a number or stop with the safe word. If she said nothing until he asked, could she take small breaks in between? That seemed better.

"Three. Twelve to go."

Andre took their proximity as an opportunity to tease her breasts, pinching her nipples and tugging them forward. She pushed herself into his chest, unable to escape, and whimpered pathetically.

"That is a beautiful sound," he said before stepping back and hitting her other cheek even harder.

"Four!" she squeaked, forgetting her plan as her brain struggled to balance the intense throbbing that lingered in her chest and the sharp, brutal sting of the crop.

The next two went to her waist, and she saw stars. Both times he had to catch her and remind her to speak, and she started to lose herself to the rhythm. The lightning bolt of the crop, the wrench in her shoulders as her knees collapsed, his strong arm coiling around her waist protectively, the grind of their bodies crashing together, and the tingle of his breath against her ear.

The fourth time he caught her, he jerked her off the ground. She tipped forward over his arm. Her shoulders snapped back behind her head as she dangled from the hook.

"You're topping from the bottom," Andre growled.

"I don't--ahh!" She tried to ask him what he meant, but it was harder to hold back the scream boiling inside her. Every word ended on a yelp or a sob.

"You're trying to control me. Drop your knees again and I'll punish you."

What is this if not punishment! she desperately wanted to argue, but nothing intelligible slipped through her lips.

"There's only one way you are allowed to control me: what word will you choose right now?"

She couldn't think to say anything at all, so she puckered her lips, blew air through them until she felt dizzy from it, and counted. Two on the shoulders, two on the ass, two on the waist. That one, was that the first or second on her thigh? Punishment scared the life from her without even knowing what it was. She didn't know the rules, but if turning her head and bending her knees were both offenses, surely too must be a miscount. She had to get it right.

Thankfully, Andre didn't argue when she used what little strength remained in her abdomen to tip herself back and lean her weight onto his chest. She closed her eyes and took a heaving, steadying breath. She wondered if she should thank him for letting her rest her neck on his shoulder while she found herself, but that was crazy.

Andre's touch on her exposed throat was light, a butterfly's tickle. "You've done better than I expected," he assured her. "And it's only going to get worse from here. Don't be afraid to say what you have to say."

She knew what she had to say—her left thigh didn't burn.

And that other word, the one he urged from her, she couldn't possibly say that. She couldn't fail him. Fifteen, one hour. So easy.


Andre kissed her throat as lightly as he'd touched it. "Okay. Stand up."

She did so, and he immediately hit the back of her knee hard enough it bent reflexively. She stumbled forward and had to be caught again.

Andre tsked her. "Couldn't get through one more, could you?"

Imogen spun her head, too angry to remember the rule. How the fuck did he go from urging her to gracefully step away, from tenderly caressing her throat, to deliberately hitting her so hard she would fall over?

"You did that on purpose!" she spat out.

His face was far too calm right now. She wanted to see her fight echoed in him. She wanted a man burning at so hot a fire he couldn't hold back from hitting a woman despite the taboo. But that's not what this was about. This was a transfer of emotions, and the angrier Imogen was, the stronger the serenity was within Andre. He basked in her rage like an iguana at high noon.

"I did," he agreed. "And you're looking at me. That's two punishments."

"That's not fair!"

"I'm beating you with a riding crop. I don't think fair really enters the equation. Now stand for your punishment."

She expected him to select a more brutal whip, but he didn't even let go of the crop. Instead, the next thing she felt was the palm of his hand on her ass, rubbing it gently.

"Don't count this," he told her, confusing her. Why on earth would she think a massage was her punishment?

And then he spanked her so fucking hard she felt it in her teeth. Her entire body clenched up, tears springing from her eyes as the wind was knocked from her lungs. For some reason, she felt the pain most acutely in her breasts, now glowing a deep scarlet.

He massaged the burn from her cheek before repeating the process on the other side. Her knees collapsed yet again, but she was prepared enough to pull up with her aching shoulders so he wouldn't have to catch her.

"You're learning," he praised as he massaged her. "How is the pain?"

She desperately wanted to wipe the tears away, but she couldn't without turning her head against her extended arm. That would probably be punishable, so she reminded herself that he wanted her to cry. There shouldn't be any shame in tears. "I'm okay," she said, her voice thick.

"And the pleasure?"

That was shameful. They weren't in a real relationship, and she couldn't imagine why anyone would agree to this if not for their love of the person hitting them. But every sob, every quiver, every roll of her neck had that peculiar extra element to it—the worse it hurt, the better it burned—and that was embarrassing.

"I know you're aroused," he said when she bit her lip. "I can smell it." His hand jutted between her legs and dragged across the crotch of her panties. "It's soaking straight through, right down your thigh."

Her eyes flared wide at the touch. She clenched more tightly as she squirmed away. "Stop!" she screamed desperately, finally giving him what he wanted.

"I warned you about that word," he said just before he pushed her drenched panty roughly against her swollen clit.

Imogen's knees curled up. She wasn't falling this time, she was forcing Andre to hold her so she could let her brain release something, anything. He needed to stop right now, but fucking hell did the imminent climax seize her roughly...but he needed to stop. If she let him touch her there, he'd go further. He'd try to—no. He couldn't do that, and he didn't know enough to understand the panty rule.

"If I," she managed before a pathetic mewl pushed its way out. "If I, oh shit, ooh shit, if I say that word..."

He stopped then and there, his dexterous finger still pressing against her but no longer tapping its assault in vicious Morse code.

She pushed her forehead against his cheek, not sure if this counted as a violation and not caring. She needed to burrow into him however she could until the pulsing inside her waned. "If I say that word, does it stop everything or just what you're doing?"

Andre sighed and finally pulled his hand away so he could wipe her tears from her cheek. A dark corner of Imogen's mind acknowledged the fact that she could smell herself on his hand and that hand was now touching her face, but the revulsion was quelled by the bliss of his caress.

"This unprecedented event for me. Normally there's a contract dictating what exactly I can and can't do, so the safe word is only meant to stop everything if things still get too intense within the boundaries. I get it though. No more touching you there."

"Thank you."

Her heart pounded as she dragged her forehead down his cheek and he nuzzled against it. The tears welling in her eyes now weren't from pain but something much more forbidden, but she would never admit that.

"Got a couple more left in you?"

"Seven," she murmured.

"Going for fourteen out of fifteen? Weird."

She popped her lips. "That last one was eight."

"You failed the last one. Doesn't count."

She very deliberately turned her head on his shoulder to shoot him a proper glare. "The last one was cruel. If I knew you pulled stunts like that, I would have braced better."

"Fine. Seven left. Stand up."

Nine and ten were gentler, a much appreciated reprieve. He walked around her then to deliver eleven and twelve to her breasts. On eleven, she shrieked loudly. The crop she could handle, the binds were another matter entirely. She knew Andre would hit the other one next and prayed he would move on after that.

She hazarded a glance up at him, scared that if he saw on her face how much more this hurt he'd focus his assault there but desperately needing to know his thoughts. She was screaming for him now, sobbing and writhing and, most humiliatingly, swimming in her panties from the gush that had been released with the last hit. She was on the edge of breaking, one way or the other, and she needed to know he was, too.

A man in the rain after a week in the desert. He wasn't falling apart, no. He was in a glowing rapture, entranced by the undulous shifting in her core as her body completely detached itself from her brain. His shoulders relaxed back as his eyelids dipped. It was completely fucked up, but it mitigated her pain slightly to see the ecstasy it gave him.

On the twelfth, she came.

Her legs quivered under her as spasms wreaked havoc on her core, but she couldn't fall. Could not fall. The final three swats seemed impossible as it was, a spanking on top of them was ludicrous.

The high pitched keen issuing from her throat came out in an uneven staccato. She tried to lift herself with her shoulders as she had before, but nothing was left there. She managed to balance on one leg as her hip jutted forward in search of a second, more traditional release. She knew she was going to fall before she caught herself, told herself she could—

And then Andre's lips crushed into hers. He took her lifted leg and wrapped it around his waist. She stood on tip toe to get the right angle so that while he kissed her roughly, she could grind herself into that coarse denim. She found a second, shattering release there, but he refused to give up her mouth. She cried out against the assault of his tongue, pleading to be let go with muted nos and knowing what that word meant to him.

He kept one hand against the small of her back as he reached up to release her from the ceiling hook. She collapsed immediately, her bound wrists dropping around his neck as her head slumped down to his shoulder. Only his supportive hand kept her from sinking to the floor and dragging him down with her.

She cried earnestly as his nimble fingers worked through the knots at her chest. He shushed her with a long, fluid rush of air between his lips, but she could no longer contain any of the emotions coursing through her.

Only when he scooped her up by her legs did she realize what was happening. "Wait!" she gasped. "I didn't say it."

His arms tightened around her. "You're done."

"No! Just give me a second and—!"

"And I'm done. Fifteen is a nice number, but twelve's just as good."

© Copyright 2018 chloecomplains. All rights reserved.


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