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He stood in front of me, close enough that we almost touched. “Do you remember when I told you not to speak anymore?”
I nodded.
“You can make sounds,” he said. “You can beg or swear or sob once we get started, but we’re not making any more conversation. I’ve told you several times now to be quiet. I can’t gag you during your first session, so you need to control the random comments, because they pull both of us out of the scene.”
He reached out and I flinched, needlessly. The whip was in his other hand. His palm moved up and down my stomach, across tense muscles. He tugged at the nipple clamps, pulling my chest forward and renewing the pinching torment. “Don’t cringe away. You’re mine to hurt. You wanted this.”
“I know, but it’s so painful.”
I didn’t say anything else. I wasn’t supposed to keep chattering, so I bit my lip to keep the words inside. He lifted the chain and smacked the underside of one breast with the whip.
“Oh my God, no.” The screech burst out of me as a hot line of pain seared across my skin. That didn’t deter him. No, he flicked me again, this time right across my tender nipple. It was fleeting contact, but it hurt like hell. I couldn’t turn away because his hand was still against my stomach, but I tried, pressing my forehead into his shoulder.
He flicked my other breast, and the flash of pain stole my breath. Each time he flicked me, I gasped and jerked, yanking on the cuffs above my head. I wanted to ask how long he’d do this, but I knew it wasn’t allowed. He flicked each breast at least a dozen times, tugging the clamps in between. By the end, my chest felt hot and swollen to twice its normal size. My nipples ached in a numb tempo, and the skin around them throbbed with fire.
Through all of this, his expression didn’t change much, except to look mildly pleased.
“Time for these to come off,” he said, tugging the clamps a final time. Somehow, I knew it would hurt for them to come off, just as it hurt for them to go on. He opened each one, removing them and inspecting my nipples while I endured the agony of returning sensation. His fingertips nudged each nipple, testing my response. I gritted my teeth. There was no blood, no injury, although I felt maimed. He finished with a hard pinch to each breast, followed by a series of stinging slaps.
“Ow, ow,oww…” I protested in a whisper.
“Turn around,” he said, ignoring my complaints.
When I didn’t react, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me. I hunched against the post, resting my forehead against the wood, but he made me straighten by pulling back my hips.
“Posture’s important,” he said. “You can flinch and cower all you want once the pain starts, but while you’re waiting, I want your shoulders up and your ass out. You want this, don’t you?”
I sucked air through my teeth. He spanked my ass, then grabbed a handful of my hair. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir,” I hurried to say, because my ass felt like it had a target on it. I watched over my shoulder as he went to the wall and returned with a leather strap, a striated bamboo spoon that was big enough to work as a paddle, and a slim wooden dowel. I prayed he’d start with the dowel; it looked relatively harmless. Instead, he set the dowel and wooden spoon on a nearby table—in my line of vision—and stood behind me with the strap.
I started shaking, really shaking. The strap looked huge, even in his massive hands. It was thick, black, and rectangular, designed with a sturdy handle.
“Posture,” he said, when I started cringing.
I stood as straight as I could, making a soft, pleading noise. He held the strap doubled over in one hand and used his other hand to spank me a few times.
“Ow, ow,” I said, mostly to myself. It was so hard to stand straight and still as he whacked me, his palm and fingers stinging me up and down my ass cheeks.
“This is a warm-up,” he said. “I’m getting you ready to take a little more pain.”
A little more pain?There was already quite a bit of pain. My breasts felt hot and sore, and any lingering arousal had been chased away by the sight of the strap and the “warm-up” spanking that hurt like hell.
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his presence. I wondered what he thought of my submissiveness so far. I wondered if I looked pretty to him, if my ass looked round and spankable. His hand left my hip, and my round, spankable ass had its first taste of the strap.
Ouch.I made a strangled sound. It felt heavy and intense, but not unbearable. The next stroke, though, was harder. I could feel the strap lifting my cheeks, glancing over my tender skin. Still, I could take this.
Well, I tried to take it. By the fifth stroke, my posture was bullshit and my legs could barely hold me up. If not for his firm hand on my shoulder, I would have jerked around and begged to be left alone. Instead, I sniveled into the post in front of me. “Ow! Please, ouch, God!” Seven strokes. Eight.
He put the strap down and I breathed out, sagging in my bonds. The whole strapping had taken what, less than five minutes? I was exhausted.
“I don’t know if I can take anymore,” I said.
He touched my neck and nuzzled his cheek against me. “I’m pretty sure you can. You’re doing great, Juliet. I know it’s hard to be hurt, really hurt, but that’s what these implements are meant for. If I didn’t hurt you, it wouldn’t be much fun.”
Fun?He had the bamboo spoon now. He started tapping my ass, delivering a steady tattoo of sharp, zinging smacks. I’d been scared of the strap, but holy hell, this felt so much worse. I bounced on my toes, then hopped. I pulled at the cuffs, desperate to reach back and stop him.
“Please, please. Stop!”
