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“Not scared of you.” She had to stop and swallow spit. Part of her hoped he would relent and remove the clip from her lip, if only to make it easier for them to communicate.
He was too strict, wonderfully so, for that.
“Not scared of you,” she said again.
He stroked her cheekbone, traced the line of her jaw. Those soft touches both highlighted the pinching pain and made it easier to bear.
“Can you take more pain?”
“I…I don’t know, ’aster ’enson.”
“You can. And you will. Because I want you to.”
Everything inside her settled, went quiet.
“You’re going to take three more clips for me,” he told her.
Three? Oh god. She whimpered, but nodded.
“You cry and scream if you feel like it. Don’t hide your reactions from me. Tell me if it’s too much, and don’t be afraid to jump to red.”
Mal surrendered to the complex darkness of her own needs. “Yes, ’aster ’enson.”
He shifted to the side, and in the next breath, he applied the clamp to the underside of her other arm, viciously abusing tender flesh.
She let out a sobbing cry.
“You’re such a good girl taking the pain for me.”
His words were dark, and cruel, and perfect.
“You’re going to take more. You’re going to hurt just because I want you to.”
“Yes, ’aster.”
Some distant part of her noted that she’d slipped up once again, and was using the term “Master.”
“Kneel.”
He helped her down. Even with his careful assistance, the movement, particularly the jolt when her knees hit the thick cushion, shifted the clips and made her scream.
The final two clips went on little folds of skin at the backs of her knees. Not the center back of each knee, but off to the side. Bits of skin pinchable only because she was on her knees.
The pain was immediate and shooting. Her toes curled so tight that one foot cramped.
Mal screamed and cried, but when Benson wrapped his hand around her throat and ordered her to breathe, she obeyed.
When he praised her willingness to accept pain, told her how wonderfully submissive she was, she floated, quiet and at peace, at least within the world of her mind. Physically, she was a crying, trembling mess.
And when Benson removed to the clamps, allowing blood to flow back to that flesh, she screamed.
* * *
“Goodnight, Mal.”
“Goodnight, Benson.” She glanced at the sky, which was lightening from the indigo of night to a deep blue gray. “I guess it’s good morning?”
“Goodnight feels more natural.”
