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Sweat sheened her skin, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. Her voice began to crack on the words, but she continued to ask him for more. By the tenth stroke, her hands had curled into fists above her cuffs. Her breathing was shallow, her body trembling, her eyes squeezed shut.
Damon lowered his cane and moved to stand beside her. “Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me.”
Ellen obeyed, though it took her a moment or two to focus. He brought up his hand to stroke her cheek. Her skin was damp and hot to the touch. “Slow your breathing,” he reminded her. Lightly, he tapped her clenched fists. “Relax your hands.”
She released a shuddering breath and actually managed a small smile.
He smiled back. He couldn’t help but be impressed with her ability to tolerate the pain. She was breathtakingly brave and beautifully submissive.
“There’s no shame in using your safeword now, Ellen. You’ve taken quite a lot already.”
A look of determination came into her eyes. “Another, please, Sir.”
Damon focused on the backs of her thighs, not willing to add more welts to her striped bottom without some aftercare and healing time.
She yelped at the first stroke, no doubt feeling the sting more on her legs than her ass. But almost immediately she said, “Another, please, Sir,” in a breathless voice.
Fascinated and impressed by her submissive courage and ability to tolerate intense erotic pain, he caned the backs of her thighs with another five stinging strokes. But when she continued to ask for more, despite the tears now running down her cheeks, he understood she was not going to use her safeword, no matter the cost.
Taking back the reins, he said, “Enough.” Dropping the cane, he crouched to release her ankles and then reached to free her wrists. “You’ve had enough, Ellen.”
With his arm around her waist, he helped her to the bedroom. He had her lie on her stomach on the bed. After gently wiping her welted flesh with a cool, wet washcloth, he patted her dry. She sighed softly as he smoothed healing salve over her welts.
He leaned down to ask if she’d like something cold to drink. Her eyes were closed, her long, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. Her breathing had slowed in sleep. Her lips curved with the hint of a smile.
This woman—this beautiful, trusting submissive—had given herself to him so freely and with such grace. An almost painful tenderness seized Damon’s heart. At the same time, alarm bells jangled in his brain.
Watch out, Miller. You’re getting emotionally involved. Remember your objectives. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s temporary. Stay focused on the mission at hand.
It was good advice. Even if he had been looking for a love connection, he needed to remember that Ellen deserved someone whole—someone without scars, without demons in their head and snakes twisting through their dreams.
Quietly, he rose from the bed. She slept for over an hour. He used the time to check his work email. He also sent another quick text to Anthony, letting him know how things were going. Anthony had taken to texting daily, and Damon found their communication helpful. Anthony knew Ellen surprisingly well from her time training at The Enclave and had good suggestions and insights that Damon appreciated.
When she woke, they ate lunch. After making sure Ellen would be reasonably comfortable in a pair of his loose-fitting sweatpants, they took a walk outside. There was still an inch or so of snow on the ground, but the day was bright and clear, the air fragrant with pine.
By tacit agreement, they kept their conversation light as they hiked along beside a creek. They talked of their respective lives in Charlotte, and their degree of involvement in the BDSM scene prior to discovering The Enclave.
“How old were you when you had your first BDSM experience?” he asked.
“Sixteen,” she said. She slapped her forehead and made a face. “Oh, my god. It was a disaster.”
He snorted. “Sixteen is kind of young, no? What happened?”
“Sixteen was definitely too young. I got in way over my head. I was hanging out on this BDSM chat site online.”
“Ugh,” Damon interjected. “That was your first mistake. Nobody is who they say they are online.”
Ellen offered a rueful laugh. “I guess you’re right. You were supposed to be over eighteen, but I lied on my profile and no proof was required. I mainly just got emails from guys saying they wanted to hook up—you know, the usual. But one of the emails got my attention. The guy was twenty-two and dominant. It didn’t hurt that his profile pic was totally hot. We started to chat in real time. He came across as super sexy and confident, and somehow intuited my deepest fantasies.”
She gave a small, deprecating laugh. “Not that that was so hard, given that I’d pretty much outlined them in my profile. But he was good with language and very persuasive. He was local too. He kept saying we should meet, and I kept hemming and hawing. I finally told him the truth—I was only sixteen. He assured me that age was just a number, and clearly, I was already a woman when it came to matters of the heart.”
“Wait. You told him you were sixteen and he still wanted to meet? That’s not a Dom—that’s a pedophile. I don’t like where this story is heading.”
“Oh, it gets even better,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “After a couple more weeks of intensive online flirting, I finally agreed to meet him at the food court at the mall. He told me to wear a dress with no panties underneath. He said he’d be wearing a black leather jacket and would have a gear bag over his shoulder.”
Damon put his hands over his ears and made a face. “I’m not sure I can stand to hear this. I hope the story ends with his being arrested.”
“No. But you’re right. Looking back, I still can’t believe I agreed to meet this guy by myself, even if it was a public place.”
