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And I’m pathetically relieved at the break in my dull daily routine. After the pain, he’ll comfort me. I know he will.
He leads me to the wall, removes my collar, then tells me to take my shirt off. Then he goes to fetch a riding crop with a small black rectangle at the end. “Keep your back against the wall. Raise your hands over your head. If you lower your hands or move off that spot, I start all over again, from one,” he informs me. “And after every strike, you will say, ‘Thank you, Master.’”
I stand perfectly still, arms raised over my head, braced for the first slash. He brings his arm down in a vicious diagonal swipe. After the horrible initial sting, it feels like someone drew a red-hot knife through my flesh. “Thank you, Master!” I scream.
Then he does it again. And again. I jump and cry out in pain each time, then quickly cry out, “Thank you, Master!”
By the fourth one, I can’t stop myself. My hands involuntarily fly out, trying to block him.
He lowers his arm and just looks at me. Waiting. Smiling faintly.
“No, please, Master,” I cry out. “I’m sorry, Master!”
It doesn’t do any good. I wail helplessly as I raise my hands again, and it takes everything I have not to lower my arms this time. Lines of fire crisscross on my breasts.
I am howling by the time he finishes.
“Oh God, oh God,” I sob as he leads me over to the table. He makes me lie down on my back.
We go through the routine with the numbing cream, his strong hands massaging pure relief into my tortured flesh. I don’t want it to end, ever. I’m desperate for this intimate connection.
I no longer try to stifle my moans of pleasure. I let my body do what it wants. I arch my back a little, thrusting my breasts up at him, and I make little noises as he strokes me with those amazing hands. Those hands that can cut and kill and also delight.
My moans, my submission, seem to encourage him, because he massages me for a long time. His thumbs glide over my nipples, and I go “mmm,” and he tweaks them gently, pulling them up until they’re stiff little peaks of desire.
When it comes to inflicting pain, he leaves me no choice at all. But when it comes to pleasure, he gives me complete control of what’s done to my body, taking my verbal cues and my facial expressions as orders.
Finally, he stops, and I want to cry out from the loss of his warm, strong hands on me.
The collar and the ankle cuffs go back on. I am not allowed to wear a shirt or bra for the rest of the day. With every step I take, with every bounce of my breasts, pain ripples through the whip marks and brings me to tears. The whip marks are slashes of shame across my flesh.
The next day, I think “You are not my master” five times, and I lie that evening when he asks me about it, and tell him none. And he buys it.
I don’t feel as excited about my small victory as I thought I would, though. I’m so bored, so lonely, so desperate for any contact at all. All I can think about is how much I hate that collar on my neck and the short, mincing steps I take all day long. I spend most of my time leaning back in a chair or lying flat on my back on a couch in the library.
Each morning, my resistance wanes. I have always craved social interaction, even the simple exchange of buying a cup of coffee in the morning. I used to rush out of my apartment in the morning, eager for everything the day could fling at me. Now my world has become so dull, so gray. I am starving for a break in the monotony.
One morning, he asks me if he can kiss my pussy, and I hear myself say, “Yes, Master.” I didn’t plan it. I thought I’d never do it. It’s like a different Tamara is speaking.
I’m just so desperate for any change, anything new. And if he’s going down on me, that’s that much more time without the collar.
But he doesn’t do it. He smiles at me and massages me gently between my legs until I’m throbbing and aching with need, but he doesn’t kiss my pussy.
The next morning, he asks me again. This time, I beg him. “Yes, Master,pleasekiss my pussy. Please, Master.” And his smile is broader and warmer than yesterday’s as he reaches out to take my hand.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
TAMARA
He’s wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, and I’m still naked. He leads me down the hall and opens a door that’s usually locked. I’m not wearing the collar or the ankle cuffs. We go to the end of another hall and into an enormous bedroom of breathtaking beauty.
It’s all rich mahogany and lush fabrics. The windows are blocked off, which sends a surge of frustration through me. I haven’t seen the sun in so long. The sky, the clouds, trees… What’s out there? It must be so beautiful.
I glance longingly at the windows, then look back him. I did what he wanted. I begged. Can’t I just have this one little thing?
“No,” Joshua says, shaking his head.
I nod in submission.
