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“If you’re that sensitive, this will hurt.”
She stiffened as she processed not just his words, but his tone. Had that been a warning or a statement of fact?
A warning implied that the person issuing the warning wanted to change what was about to happen. Possibly dissuade someone from doing something. Here he was the one taking the action, so maybe he was trying to warn her that this was too much for her and that she needed to back out either by saying yellow to slow down the scene, or using her safe word.
No, that hadn’t been a warning. He’d simply been stating the obvious.
He was about to crop her clit. And when he did, it would be painful.
The willingness of sadist Doms to inflict pain was a huge part of her own enjoyment of BDSM. And yet…
Once more, she forced herself to compartmentalize. This time instead of mentally separating her submissive self from who she was outside of the club, she carefully boxed up the emotional baggage that was threatening to undermine her current experience.
“Yes, Sir. I know it will hurt.”
“Spread yourself wider. I want your pussy pulled open so hard that your clit sticks out.”
A soft whimper of delighted, anticipatory fear escaped her even as she adjusted her hands. Rather than just using two fingers, she slid her thumbs along the outside of the lips and pinched.
With a firm hold on her labia, she spread them uncomfortably wide, letting out a groan of pain as she did.
“Well done. Very well done, Mal. That’s a pretty picture, and a beautiful pussy.”
“Thank you, Sir.” It was ridiculous how much the praise mattered.
He touched the tip of the crop to her clit. She jumped, hips bucking off the table. Benson lifted his hand, and then lowered it, barely tapping her with the crop. Again, she jerked in reaction to the grazing touch.
He was practicing his swing, making sure it lined up so that when he added some force to the motion, it would strike her poor little clit dead on.
The precision sadism, the promise of the pain, was enough to make her vagina clench. She felt fresh moisture slide out of her.
Distracted by the feeling of fresh wetness, she wasn’t watching him.
Didn’t see him raise his hand, didn’t notice that his expression set into the stern lines of concentration that meant he was wholly and totally focused.
The crop whipped down, the tip slapping her clit. The small pop of sound was quickly drowned out by her shriek.
Mal’s thighs squeezed together, her hands trapped between them. Instinct demanded that she close her legs, protect her vulnerable parts. Hide the exposed bundle of nerves that was the exterior portion of her clit.
“Spread,” he barked, a hard command.
Her submissive training—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say her need to be submissive—was nearly as strong as her ingrained self-protection instinct. The battle between those two opposing forces was brief and silent. It didn’t take place using conscious thought or words. There was no mental pro-con list, or analysis of ongoing implications, depending on what action she took right now.
Mal’s thigh muscles trembled, her head rolled from side to side, and then her need to submit won. Her legs opened. Pinching her own labia, she pulled them apart, stretching the skin in a way that made her grimace.
Her reward was another quick strike to her clit. The pain was immediate and sharp. Shocking in its intensity, but it faded quickly.
She didn’t scream, instead letting out a piteous cry. But her legs stayed spread, her blood hot and slow with arousal and submission. Her thoughts quieted. The mental chatter tightened down, narrowing her focus to pleasure, pain, and submission.
Another crop-strike to her clit, pain radiating up through her abdomen, and down to her toes, which curled.
“Do you hurt?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her voice was thick.
“Good. You’re taking this beautifully.” He rubbed the inside of her thigh, added a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
