She had no idea what was in the duffel or the tube he’d carried. Likely canes in the tube, but beyond that — a tawse? A sap? A loopy? Would he take his belt off or use a strap from his bag? She had no way to know, and no way to prepare, and the not-knowing settled over her like a second blindfold.
Her heartbeat picked up, and she let it.
She’d told him what she wanted, and now she waited to find out how he’d work within that.
He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
He started with either a heavy strap or belt and took her at her word about not wasting a whole lot of time warming her up. The first dozen strokes were solid, building heat fast across her upper back and ass. In a mere two dozen strikes he went from medium tooh fuck, and then he took her to that edge she’d been craving.
He read her body like a book — when her breathing changed, when her muscles started to shake, when she wasrightat the edge of too much. He took her there again and again, to the edge of what she could handle, holding her there forever, and then switching to another implement and starting over on the same inflamed, battered flesh.
By the time he switched to the cane, she was so far in subspace she craved the double-pain, the sensations she could feel all the way to her bones. Each strike landed with the initial impact, then a secondary of fire bloomed loud. Strike and strike, blow after blow, until her whole back and thighs felt like one continuous burn.
She’d stopped thinking while he was using the strap. Just experienced the sensations. Floated through them andbecame the pain and the pleasure. No stress, no cities with too many people, no airplane tubes with stale air, no hotel rooms that smelled of things she wished she couldn’t define, no men on motorcycles who’d saidI love youin a parking lot and then let her walk away.
This Dom sent her out of her body until she floated somewhere outside herself, lost in the rhythm of leather, wood, and the sharp sting of the tawse. The cane. No thoughts. Just sensation and the quiet, competent attention of a stranger who knew exactly what he was doing.
She floated for a long time.
Her only requirements forafterhad been to get her to the quiet area so she could come back to herself, but he did more. He brought her water, covered her with a blanket, and then just sat with her.
She came back to herself in pieces — her body first, cataloging the heat and every yummy ache, and then her brain slowly came back online, like a system rebooting after a controlled shutdown.
She sat with the blanket and the water until she felt fully human again, and then thanked her sadist for the evening. He thanked her for being a dream to torture and hurt, and she made her way back to the locker room to change into her street clothes and arrange for a ride back to her hotel.
The dungeon master waylaid her between the locker room and the exit.
“You seem fine, but that was an intense scene, so I’d like to check in with you. Also, do you need us to call you a car?You shouldn’t walk back to your hotel alone, even if it’s close.”
“It isn’t close, and a car should be here in about two minutes.” She lifted her phone so he could see her screen, and he nodded.
“Excellent. You seem lucid enough, but if you need more time, you should take it.”
She assured him she was fine, but he walked outside with her anyway, and she respected him for it.
It wasn’t actually that unusual for the employees in BDSM clubs to care beyond what a normal establishment does, and she’d found that people who join real-life clubs are generally all-around good humans. Kinksters finding ethical ways to scratch their itch. In contrast, sadists without a moral compass enjoy their hobby in places where consent doesn’t matter.
Miami moved past the windows in its nighttime version — neon, full of people, with the smell of the ocean getting more and more pervasive as she neared her oceanfront hotel.
She felt wrung out in the best way. Loose, sore, and completely present in her body.
The only thing missing from the scene had been rough, intense sex after — but that wasn’t how most elite clubs worked. They’re about the scene, not the sex.
And the scene had given heralmosteverything she needed. The relentless, unending impact, the restraint, the distance the blindfold afforded, and the focused attention of a skilled sadist.
It’d scratched every itch she’d had.
Exceptthatone.
She stared out the window and missed Knife more than she had since she’d sat in P.F. Chang’s and pretended a spicy meal could actually give her enough endorphins to survive losing him.
The Dom tonight had been nothing like Knife — different style, different energy, different everything. And that’d worked to keep Knife out of her head during the scene, because he’d kept her fully present in every fucking moment with his skill and intensity.
It was only now, in the quiet of the car, that the motherfucker showed up anyway.
But she only let herself wallow in sadness for a few minutes before she dragged herself out of it. She’d just had an amazing scene, and she still hurt beautifully from it. She was in fucking Miami on the damned beach, and she actually looked forward to going to work the next day with ideas for how to make a dish even better.
Life was good.
