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If an inexperienced Dom received “P”, there was too great a possibility for something to go wrong.
Benson—or maybe it was more appropriate to say she and Benson—could handle this.
Benson wasn’t as strict or formal as some of the Doms and Dommes in the club. In fact, he was a highly sought after partner, because his intensity usually meant equal parts pleasure and pain.
But he opted not to allow her pleasure this weekend. He wouldn’t allow her to come. He wouldn’t give her any sort of vaginal penetration.
He agreed that was a punishment. Just not the punishment.
Meaning the punishment he had planned for her was going to be something even more intense, possibly degrading, and certainly frustrating.
Some part of her noticed that the repetitive tap and flicks of the crop had stopped. But she processed what that meant a moment too late to brace herself.
Snap.
The sound of the crop hitting flesh wasn’t actually any louder than it had been the first few times, but it seemed to echo and reverberate through the room.
The pain was an intense, star-bright flare. He cropped her clit hard and dead on, coming slightly from below to make the most possible contact with the utterly unprotected flesh.
Mal screamed, both hands cupped protectively over her sex, her thighs slapping together as she closed her legs and rolled onto her side.
“Breathe,” Master Benson commanded.
His hand was at the back of her neck, holding her, applying just enough pressure to give her an anchor point.
Mal whimpered and sobbed, but she couldn’t get enough breath to cry properly. Not with the corset on. She could feel her clit pulsing against her palm.
“Breathe.” This time, he barked the order.
“Can’t,” she panted.
Benson hooked his hands under her arms and jerked her up into a sitting position. He raced away from her, his long legs covering the distance in half a dozen steps. A moment later, he was back…
And holding a knife.
If the residual pain hadn’t overwhelmed her. If she hadn’t been focused on breathing. If she hadn’t been deeply into her submission…the sight of Benson with a knife would have been a problem.
As it was, she whimpered, leaned forward away from him when he circled around behind her.
“No.” That one word command stopped her.
He pushed her hair forward over her shoulder. With a quick yank, he had her dress pooled down around her waist. There was a popping sound as he sliced through the corset laces. The instant relief was its own pleasure. Like the feeling of taking off a bra at the end of a long day, but multiplied exponentially.
He cut through the final few laces, and the corset fell open. Her breasts held it in place in the front, but Benson took care of that. He reached around, grabbing her left nipple and lifting her breast, peeling the corset away as he did so.
She yelped, shoulders curling forward protectively at the unexpected rough treatment.
“Shoulders back.”
She tried to obey, but when he grabbed her other breast with the cruel-casual grip on her nipple, she hunched over.
He peeled the corset away, tossing it to the floor.
Then he tossed the pocket knife down on top of it. She wondered if he’d done that on purpose, to show her he wasn’t still holding it.
“Take a few breaths.”
Mal swiveled so her legs dangled over the side of the table, the stone cold against her calves and heels. She braced her hands beside her thighs. The shoulders of her dress were caught around her wrists, almost like restraints. Mal focused and controlled her breathing, counting through the inhale, and then again for a doubled amount of time on the exhale.
