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She shivers against me, and I dig my teeth into the flesh of her arm, savoring her throaty moan. I swirl the pad of my finger around her slick lips, then rub her wetness over her clit.
“This is how I should feel,” she says, and I wonder what dark thought torments her—what past cruelties she’s suffered that she would ever question how her body should respond.
“You know the safe words,” I remind her, my tone assuring.
“Yes.” She moves her hips, persuading my fingers to rub harder.
Not yet. Removing my hand, I return to threading her harness. This construct is testing my patience just as much, my need for her causing my hands to shake as I tie off the final knot. When it’s complete, I palm her waist and turn her to face the wall.
“Tell me what you want. I can pick, or you can—”
“The cane,” she says, shocking me silent.
“Goddess…”
“Take his place,” she says. “Take away his power over me. He used the cane to feed off of my suffering—there was no love or trust. Only pain. In your hands, the pain will be delivered with both. I don’t want to fear what he’s created inside me anymore…and the only way to do that is to break me of his memory.”
I turn toward her, take her in my arms and kiss her desperately. I never could’ve brought her to this point on my own—she understands herself, her own needs, so deeply she humbles me. “I love you,” I say against her lips.
“I know. Now claim me as yours.”
And as I guide her ankles upward, securing the rope to the ring, contorting her body in a beautiful, graceful pose, I help coax her into her subspace. She spins as I tighten the harness, then I position her knees beneath her, close to her abdomen, as I maneuver her to face the floor.
“Tighter,” she says, and I comply.
She needs the safety of the ropes cradling her in order to find her subspace, in order to take the cane. My fingers twist each band along her back, tightening the harness until she releases a moan of pleasure.
I’m so amazed at her trust in me, after what I’ve just confided in her, that my selection of the cane weighs heavily on me. She’s been dealt blows before…but I want this experience to override that—to demolish that painful memory entirely.
I choose the red cane she was eyeing when I first brought her here. I saw the fear in her eyes in that moment, and I never want to see it again.
Laying my hand between her shoulder blades, I delicately knead the muscles around her spine, further relaxing her into her bottom space. “Sadie, breathe.” Her body quakes just from my touch, the anticipation for what’s to come drawing her out of her comfort zone, and her breathing is short and choppy. “I want you to take deep, long breaths. We’re going to go slow, and your breathing will be my guide.”
“Okay.” She regulates her breathing, doing exactly as I instruct.
I keep my hand resting on her back, continuing to massage and comfort, as I lay the middle of the cane along the bottommost part of her back. Gliding the cane across her skin, I allow her to get used to the feel, the thickness and grain of the wood. Then I drum it once, softly, against her.
Her quick intake of air isn’t from pain; it’s in her mind. The fear of the blow. I resume drumming the middle of the cane along the soft flesh of her back in rhythmic percussion, and her breathing evens out. This massage technique will calm her and lead her into the strokes with what I hope is little, jarring impact.
As she grows accustomed to the feel of the cane, I move over her back, stopping beneath her harness, and work her muscles into a relaxed state. Then, with careful finesse, I ease to her bottom and drum her tender skin.
“Green,” she says, and I can’t help but smile, in complete awe of her.
Placing my hand against her lower back, I increase the impact of the short drums, heightening the intensity. Her muscles tense a bit, and I caress her lovingly. Roaming my hand lower, I delicately palm her ass and then massage, priming her to take her first blow.
“The first stroke will be harder than what I’ve given you so far,” I say, making sure to maintain the honest trust between us, letting her know what to expect while also giving her my voice to latch on to.
I slide the
cane along her bottom until the tip presses against her ass, then I pull it back, just slightly, and deliver a quick tap. The slap is louder than the amount of pain produced, and she flinches at the noise, but soon eases back into her comfort zone.
We continue this dance, creating an orchestra of taps and percussions, slowly increasing the level of sting. I listen to her breathing, allowing her body to direct my taps. And when she arches her back, releasing a sensual moan that has me clutching the cane, I forcibly restrain my own desire to take her further.
I place my hand against her stomach, testing her tension level, and feel the tremble of her abdominal muscles. Slipping my hand to her mound, I apply slight pressure, encouraging her to push against my fingers to get some pleasurable release to endure the pain.
Then I run my palm over her ass, feeling the thin, raised welts. I push lower, roaming between her thighs, and close my eyes, my jaw clenched, as I take in her wetness. She soaks my fingers. It’s becoming a measure of discipline for me, too—restraining myself from taking her too early.
But she’s there now—she’s ready to accept the strokes she’s seeking—and thank God, because I have little endurance left.
