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He nods. His eyes are clenched shut while tears, drool, and sweat cover his bare chest. And as gross as it is, I love seeing people like this. It’s like a cleansing ritual or an exorcism. They come to me carrying baggage, guilt, pain, worry, and stress, but within a few hours—whether it be from pain or some time in subspace—they leave feeling refreshed and renewed.
I unclasp the ball gag at the back of his head. He groans again when he’s finally able to close his mouth with an ache in his jaw.
“Say it, Marcus. Promise your Madame that you’ll be a good boy from now on.”
“I promise,” he croaks. “Madame.”
“I don’t believe you,” I reply in a cold, emotionless tone.
He whimpers because he knows what this means. I take another glance at the silk handkerchief again, but he’s still holding it tight.
“I think you need six more to be sure. What do you think, Marcus?”
His chest is heaving with each breath, and he looks like he’s about to cry again. Then he nods. “Yes, Madame.”
I’m not too concerned. He always gets like this at the end, looking like he really wants to stop, but he never does. I trust Marcus to tell me if he’s at his limit.
“Give me a color, then.”
“Green, Madame.”
I lean closer, grabbing him by the hair and craning his neck until he cries out in pain. “You really deserve this, you know.”
“I deserve this, Madame.” His voice is strained and raspy.
“After these last six swings, you’re going to be my good boy again, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Good. No gag this time. I want to hear you count them out. And don’t forget to thank me after each one.”
He whines when I let him go and step away, and his first shout of pain nearly shakes the walls. The sound of it is beautiful. Doing this gives me purpose and control. Even when my arm tires and aches, I love it.
* * *
An hour later, after some much-needed aftercare, I spot Marcus coming out of the changing room, looking refreshed and lighter than he did when he first arrived. His shoulders are no longer hunched by his ears, and he’s wearing a lazy smile. I’m unwinding with sparkling water at the bar as he leaves the club, waving to me as he goes.
Even though he’s a regular and accustomed to the routine, he will still receive the automated email with instructions on caring for his welts, bruises, and feelings. Not everyone who leaves my sessions is hunky-dory happy, and I just like them to be prepared. Getting your ass flogged and spanked—literally and metaphorically—tends to bring up a lot of thoughts and emotions not everyone is ready to deal with.
All that to say, I haven’t had any complaints yet.
As I sip my drink, I make a list on my napkin of the things I need to do at some point tomorrow, or rather, today, considering it’s already two in the morning.
Pick up cupcakes
Order movie tickets
Write the sponsored sex toy review post
Make waxing appointment
Lost in my thoughts as I try to think of what else needs to get done, I look up from my list and see a man walk by in a dark-blue suit. He has longish brown hair swept back and a narrow, athletic build.
For a moment, I pause, waiting for him to turn around.
From the back, it looks likehim.Although I’m not sure why I expect it to behim.Hehasn’t been here in months.
A beautiful woman scurries over to the man, who puts his arm around her, angling his face toward me. I feel a wave of reliefanddisappointment when I realize it’s definitely nothim.
