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When a man started to whip me—or, it seemed clear now, to spank me—my body’s initial reaction came in the form of aHell, nodelivered by all my muscles. Weak as they were, they struggled against Ivan’s restraining left hand, and then—for he immediately clamped his right leg across my kicking knees—the effortless strength of his thigh. I gasped in pain and then, as Ivan just kept spanking me, three swats at a time in the middle, on my right cheek, on my left cheek, my upper right thigh, my upper left thigh, I started to scream.
My trainer had only used the birch on me. I realized somewhere, vaguely, through the haze of agony emanating from my backside, that this awful area represented another element of the mission that the Guard had decided not to tell me about. I had supposed—so very naively, I understood now—that by whipping me with the birch my trainer had prepared me for the worst of what my owner would do.
According to some objective measurement of pain, if such a thing existed, the spanking didn’t hurt more than the birch. I did have enough of my wits about me to grasp that. But the experience of being upended over my master’s knee, of my body utterly dominated by his, of my limbs trying desperately to get away and unable to move my bottom more than a millimeter though I flailed my arms and kicked my feet… it seemed to make the actual pain so much worse that I could think of nothing but… but…
“Hold still,” Ivan said. “And stop screaming. You disobeyed me, girl, and now you must learn your lesson.”
I felt the influence of the wand take over. I had gotten familiar with this effect, too: a direct command, either before a whipping or during it, would override my body’s automatic fight-or-flight response. It had something to do with communication, my trainer had said, and then told me that I didn’t need to know anything more than that—and I wouldn’t understand it anyway.
My body obeyed my master’s voice. A sob of anguish burst from my chest as I felt the inner conflict rage higher than it ever had before: my own limbs, at the command of another, and the inescapable feeling that something in melikedit… craved it…neededit the way my lungs needed to draw breath.
In that moment, always came the start of the other need, the dark, wanton lust, so closely bound to the craving to obey a rough, dominant man. In the tiny pause Ivan had given me in my punishment, simply to give me that brusque order—that I remain well positioned for his convenience in spanking me, and quiet down so that he could enjoy himself fully as he turned my backside into blazing agony—my wayward pussy had come to blazing, pulsing life over the warm solidity of my master’s bare thigh.
He started to spank me again, just as hard but at a slightly slower pace. Through the searing pain and my racking sobs, my flowing tears and the humiliating, tiny, involuntary motions of my hips over Ivan’s knee with each burning smack of his huge hand on my ass, I thought about communication. Ivan’s words, his instructions, as dismissive and degrading as they had seemed on the strict level of their meaning, had communicated something even more important to me.
That was what had brought the wand’s effect into operation—the silent part of his command: the way it had informed me that my mastercaredhow I acted while he spanked my bare bottom over his knee. As much as I needed some release… some friction… some slight pressure, even, on the part of me that craved his dominant touch so strongly, the tiny, cringing bud that I couldn’t seem to rub against anything as my new owner’s hand came down so hard, over and over… as much as I craved that, I also needed to know this man found me worth spanking, worth degrading, worth…
Ivan stopped. His hand descended again, but not with force. He held me just as tightly with his left arm but he eased the pressure of his right leg and he shaped his fingers to the curve of my blazing bottom-cheeks. The two middle fingertips pressed there, gently at first and then more firmly.
I knew, somewhere off where my logical mind still existed, that he expected me to part my thighs. In any ordinary situation, with me or with any other girl who shared my needs, my—or her—knees would have spread in a humiliating heartbeat, the clearest possible demonstration of how wanton my master’s chastising hand had left me, or any other hypothetical submissive girl.
But Ivan had told me to hold still. I couldn’t spread my legs.
I heard him grunt softly, as if in surprise, then chuckle in obvious understanding. The sound came from what seemed like miles above me, though his chest lay close enough that the rumbling laughter vibrated deliciously through my thoroughly dominated body.
“You may spread your knees, girl,” he said.
He hadn’t commanded it. He had merely given permission. This man, my new owner, wanted to see if, when given a choice in the matter, I would show my wanton nature and demonstrate how deep my shameful need for his mastery went. My anonymous Guard trainer had only ever given me flat instructions: clipped, precise orders.
For an instant I resisted. It was the sheer force of the intelligence I heard in Ivan’s voice, the note of intellectual curiosity that finally seemed to bring out the fullness of my dark, irrational lust for a man’s authority—for his aggression, and even for his cruelty. The masked man who had awakened that humiliating need hadn’t had any such mental capacity as far as I could tell.
Ivan Antonov, though: his plans to enjoy me—all of me, body and mind and heart—didn’t simply involve whipping me and fucking me. My new master wanted tolearnabout me… about my mortifying sexual needs and about the effect the horrible compliance wand had on me.
I let out a sobbing moan and I spread my knees, somehow keeping back the words of abject gratitude that threatened to come to my lips. The impulse to whimper, “Thank you, Master,” seemed almost impossible to deny, but I managed it, and I took a degraded pride in having kept Ivan from learning the full extent of my humiliation.
His next words, and their physical accompaniment, ripped away every shred of that brief triumph. He took hold of my whole pussy, his thumb on my anus, and he squeezed so hard I cried out. At the same time, he said, “You’re going to beg to suck my cock, slut.”
My body bucked over his thigh, straining against his left arm with the massive, involuntary electrical force of pleasure and pain shooting through my nervous system. The wand couldn’t control that, and that made it an even worse insult to the independent, rational girl who still—always—lurked inside my mind. Those purely physical reflexes seemed to prove that my dark, wanton lust existed at a level so deep that words couldn’t even get there.
And again he hadn’t given an order. Ivan wanted to explore the terrifying gray area where the wand’s influence left off and my own bodily—and, to my distress, psychological—need for submission took over.
I resisted again, this time for a little longer. Ivan’s fingers relaxed a little between my legs. I whimpered in wordless, degraded gratitude. The fingers, already sopping with my helpless arousal, began to stroke gently. I moaned, but I kept resisting; I bit my lip hard to keep any possible word back, to hide it deep in my chest.
Then I felt my cheeks blaze with heat as I realizedwhyI wasn’t complying. I knew I would have absolutely no choice in the end. I had thought, in the first moment after Ivan had made his shameful prediction—for it was actually only a prediction, “You’re going to beg,” and so I could in some possible universe fail to fulfill it, couldn’t I?…
I had thought…
Ivan’s fingers went gently up and down. Their tips pressed at the top, at the place the throbbing bud of my clit lay hidden.
Sobbing whimpers emerged from my closed mouth, as I had to bite harder on my lower lip to keep from speaking…
I had thought that I would resist in order to win a tiny victory over my master. I would make him use the wand to get me to do the degrading thing… to render up to him the virginity of my mouth.
As the waves of aching pleasure, amplified unbearably by the terribly ambiguous soreness in my bottom-cheeks and thighs, coursed through me, I understood. I was resisting out of greed for that pleasure, for my master’s skillful coaxing.
Ivan took his hand away.
I cried out with need, the impulse to squirm over his thigh and get some tiny stimulation that way thwarted by the wand’s effect: Ivan’s order to hold still remained in control. He didn’t have to say anything at all; I knew I would receive no further pleasure until I had served my master’s rigid, massive hardness as his new fuck toy must.
