by Ashe Barker
I nod, feeling the tears pricking at my eyes—uncertain whether they are the result of the pain he just inflicted, or his displeasure. He’s relaxed the pressure, but his fingers are still holding my nipples, rolling the sensitive buds, and pulling slightly. I close my eyes, determined not to flinch, not to move.
“Maintain eye contact, please. With your hands tied I need to be able to see your eyes to know how you’re doing.”
I blink, but do as I’m told. I’m to have no secrets.
He squeezes again, and this time I manage to remain still, my swollen nipples throbbing between his fingers as he pulls on them mercilessly. He maintains the pressure, glancing frequently into my eyes. I’m grinding my teeth against the cash card, but managing. Just. He ramps it up, pulling harder as though he intends to snap my nipples clean off. It hurts, it really fucking hurts, and I know my face is awash with tears. I’m glad he offered to tie my hands, there’s no way I could have borne this without moving. My instinct is to step forward, to relieve the pressure. He sees, he knows it.
“Don’t move. Don’t struggle. Let me do this without protest. We’re almost there. One final, hard pull and the clamps go on. And remember, unless you’re safe wording, you hold onto that card of yours.”
I nod, my lips compress around the card as I struggle to remain on my feet. True to his word, he delivers one last excruciating pull, this time twisting my nipples in his fingers to add extra bite. I gasp, a soundless breathy moan as my knees start to buckle. He catches me, one arm looped around my waist as he lowers me to kneel at his feet. Incredibly, I’m managing to hold onto the cash card, my jaws now locked solid around it. Swiftly he takes the first clamp, presses it open and positions it carefully around my distended, throbbing nipple. He releases the grip, and it snaps shut.
If I could scream, I’d be rattling the rafters. This is agony. Absolute agony. White-hot pain shoots from my tortured nipple in every direction, filling my entire body. He ignores my distress as, crouching beside me, he attaches the second nipple clamp, then turns me in his arms so I find myself lying on the floor, face up, my shoulders across his knees. I’m shaking, sobbing silently, hating him, hating this, hating myself for ever agreeing to participate in this whole masochistic episode. What was I thinking? What am I thinking? Why am I not clicking like a bloody alarm clock? I can make this stop, he told me how.
But I don’t. Instead, I lie there, shaking and trembling, biting down hard on my bank card as wave after wave of pain crashes over me. I don’t dare move for fear of causing even the slightest motion of the chain or clamps. But…I’m coping. I’m managing to bear it. I haven’t safe worded. Yet. Nick says nothing, just watches me. And waits as I adjust, as I manage to restore some sort of calm to my fragile body. As the seconds, then the minutes slide by I manage to find that place in my head that says that this is okay, that I can do this.
And I’m there. No doubt it’s mostly chemical as the endorphins kick in. Whatever, I’ll take what I can get. I lie still, on my back, resting against Nick’s knees, and at last, I manage to get my shivering body under some sort of control. He smiles, just briefly.
“Well done. That’s enough.” The whispered words make all this worthwhile.
I close my eyes, and he doesn’t instruct me to open them. I lie still, wincing only slightly as the pressure on my left nipple increases marginally before releasing. He lifts the now open clamp carefully away then shifts position slightly to release my right nipple. Somehow, incredibly, the pain surges at me again as the blood flow is restored, and I turn into him. He leans around me to loosen the rope around my wrists, and my hands are free. He takes the corner of my bank card between his thumb and index finger. “Let me take that now.”
I relinquish it to him, and he places it on the floor beside us. Then his arms are around me and he pulls me up to sit in his lap as he leans back against the column in the center of the dungeon. I’m sobbing silently, and his fingers are gentle now as they trace large circles on my back, soothing, comforting. Forgiving.
At last, I’m able to sit up and push myself away from him. I can hardly make out his features through the mist of tears but I know I just want to make this right. I want to be done with it, to be forgiven and move on.
My hands are still shaking as I sign my apology. “I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry I disobeyed you. Thank you for taking the trouble, for teaching me, Sir, and I promise you won’t ever need to do this again.”
He cups my chin with his palm, holding my face still as he looks into my eyes. I try to blink away tears as he answers me, “Good, because I hope not to have to repeat this lesson. This time I put the clamps on just for a few minutes. Next time it will be longer, probably fifteen minutes. And then thirty if we need to go through it all again. Imagine how you’d feel if I required you to wear those clamps all night— Don’t let it come to that, Freya. I don’t want to cause you this sort of distress, but I will have your obedience, little sub, and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it. Do we understand each other?”
I nod, privately promising myself never to earn another punishment as severe as this has been. I can easily see how he could increase the pressure, force me to wear the clamps for longer. Except he didn’t force me, not really—I could have used my safe signal, I could still leave here at any time. I won’t, though. I want to stay, despite everything, despite the pain and the fear of the last few minutes, I want to stay. With Nick Hardisty.
He’s still holding my face, cradled in his palm. “Okay, that’s done with. Ready to move on? I think we need to give you something else to occupy your mind now. Something…uplifting to restore your faith in this lifestyle you’ve rushed headlong into.” His tone has softened, some of the old teasing now starting to creep back in.
I flinch, my breasts still tender as he lifts me and carries me across the room to the padded fuck-floor section. He places me carefully upright, my feet sinking into the cushioned surface, supporting me around my waist until he’s sure my legs will hold me again. My hands are free and my instinct is to cup my breasts, to rub my still sore nipples.
“Don’t touch.” The command is growled at me. I drop my hands, knowing better than to disobey a direct instruction in the middle of a scene. His lesson on obedience has indeed sunk in deep. Nick reaches above my head, pulls down a large metal ring hanging on a spring-loaded chain dangling from the ceiling. He quickly reties my wrists to it then releases the spring to pull me upwards. I’m suspended, my feet just on the cushioned floor, my arms stretched high above my head. Nick checks and adjusts the restraints around my wrists until, seemingly satisfied I’m positioned exactly as he wants me, he comes to stand in front of me.
This is unexpected, and scary, and reminds me powerfully of his ‘threat’ the first night we met at the Collar. And I realize, for perhaps the first time, that I’m actually afraid of Nick Hardisty. Despite my determination to stay here, to complete my training, and indeed, despite my dream that we might, somehow, move beyond our current arrangement to some other sort of relationship, the events of the last few minutes, the severity of the pain he inflicted, and the careless ease with which he did it, has unnerved me.
“Look at me Freya.” His low tone is gentle, but shot through with authority. I have no option but to obey. His gaze is compelling, holding mine. The slightest pressure now would push me past my limits. Even a harsh word would probably be enough. I’m close to safe wording—he knows it and I know it.
“Your punishment’s over. I’m going to make this good for you now, little sub. You do believe that, don’t you?” Tuned in as ever, he sees. He knows how I’m feeling.
I’m not sure, just not sure, and he can tell. He smiles, leans in to brush his lips over mine. “Your mouth’s dry, Freya. Let me get you a drink.”
He turns, walks over to the small drinks fridge in the far corner of the room, the fridge he keeps well stocked with bottled water. We both tend to get thirsty during our erotic interludes, and it seems that I become even more dehydrated when
I’m being disciplined. He chooses a bottle then opens the ice-making tray and grabs a handful of ice cubes, which he drops into a glass. He comes back to me, the bottle now opened in his right hand and the glass of ice rattling in his left.
“Take a few sips of this.” He holds the water bottle to my mouth, dribbles a few drops of the cool water onto my tongue.
I swallow as he pours some more of the chilled liquid into my mouth. It’s good. Then, standing back slightly, he places the bottle on the solid floor a couple of feet away, and uses his now free hand to pick an ice cube from the glass. “Suck on this, Freya. It’ll refresh you.”
I take the ice gratefully between my teeth and slide my tongue around its smooth edges. The chill is deliciously invigorating.
“Nice?” He smiles at me. I nod. “Good. And this?”
I jerk violently as he trails another ice cube across the tip of my aching left nipple. Pain shoots through me once more. He repeats with the right nipple, and I start to click. It’s too much.
Nick drops the ice cube back into the glass. He cups my chin, lifting my face so I have to meet his gaze once more.
“Trust me, and hang in there, little sub, just a few seconds more. Let the ice start to cool you, take away the pain. Yes?”
I gaze at him, confused. He’s stopped, because I safe worded, and I know he won’t press me to continue if I really don’t want to. But he’s asking me to trust him, and despite everything I’m feeling I have no reason not to. He’s never lied to me or let me down. If he says this will help, then I believe him. I close my eyes, draw in a deep, ragged breath, and nod my head.
“Open your eyes. Look at me, Freya.”
I obey him, naturally. He holds me there, watching, as he continues to stroke my nipples in turn with the ice. And he sees the moment his trick starts to work, the moment the glaze of pain clears, and I can see him again through it. And I know he’s caring for me now.
“Better?”
I nod. Only slightly, but it is better. I start to relax, truly start to believe again.
His smile now is gentle, and does reach his eyes. “You’ve had a hard time, but it’s over. And you’ve done so well. You really are a perfect submissive. A natural. You’ve pleased me, so now it’s time for your reward.”
He holds up a blindfold, one eyebrow quirked, asking my agreement. I nod and he lays it across my face, leaning around me to fasten it at the back. The perfect blackness is soothing, comforting. I can almost feel my head emptying as I wait for Nick’s next move. I let the pain, fear and tension of the last quarter of an hour or so simply slide from me, as I hang there, stretched tight and ready. Welcoming whatever he decides I’m to have now, whatever he wants me to feel now.
He walks silently, his feet bare. His breath is on my naked shoulders and back. He doesn’t speak, but I know he’s there, looking at me, admiring me. I can feel his eyes on my body as surely as I’d feel his fingers or his whip. And I gasp as the first stroke lands.
Not a whip. A flogger. Suede probably, it feels soft, light. It delivers only just enough bite to bring my blood to the surface, to sensitize my skin, but not nearly enough to be painful. This is a caress, a light, erotic stroking, calculated to arouse and tease and tantalize. Designed to make me beg for more. My silent sighs are the signal he’s looking for, the clues that tell him I’m loving this. I’m counting the strokes—three, five, eight, twelve. I feel the slight shift in the cushions under my feet as he moves to get a better angle and allow more space to swing his flogger. I hiss as he lands it across my back and shoulders again, harder this time. Now it does bite in earnest, and I stiffen, my back arching as he flogs me again. Fourteen. Seventeen. Twenty-two. The flogging continues, gathering strength as I twist and arch under it, loving the sharp sizzle of pain as each stroke lands. I can’t see the flogger, but I know it has many strands, each one delivering its own sensual nibble across my skin, and together the effect is absolute ecstasy. My pussy is wet, coated with my juices. My legs are open, my feet widely spread as I silently beg him to touch me there, to use his flogger on my throbbing, needy clit.
He ignores my invitation, instead moving around to position himself in front of me. He starts on my stomach, my lower abdomen, but careful not to allow any stray contact with my swollen clit as it struggles to peep out at him. Then he works upwards, laying the flogger across my breasts, flicking the strands across my nipples. I thought that they were beyond arousal, at least for now, but he shows me how wrong I was. With steady, unerring precision, he drops the soft strands across the swollen, hard peaks. He increases the pressure, just a little, and again I’m arching into the blows, gasping for more.
He ramps up the intensity. But only slightly, and slows down the rate of delivery. The flogger lands across my back, my shoulders, the backs of my thighs, then he moves around to my stomach and breasts again. I’ve lost count, I have no idea how long I’ve been suspended here, subjected to this seemingly endless onslaught of biting caresses. There’s a humming, somewhere close by. Is it me? Surely not, can’t be. My body then, humming and tingling and floating. I can no longer feel the soft fluffiness beneath my feet as my entire consciousness is riveted on the sweet, shimmering sensations now wrapping around my entire body. It’s like being enveloped in raspy, scratchy silk, supremely soft but shot through with sharpness.
My knees start to buckle, and I’m sinking. A voice, Nick’s voice, close by.
“Open your legs, Freya.”
Yes!
I shuffle my legs apart, and realize I’m kneeling now, my knees sinking into the softness of the fuck-floor. Nick must have lowered me but I never felt him do it. He’s in front of me I think, but I can’t be certain. I’m completely disorientated, confused, my head still spinning. I feel slightly dizzy, and it’s only the fact that I’m still suspended from the ceiling that keeps me upright.
“I want to know how wet you are. Open your legs wider, show me.” The voice is low, sexy, full of promise. Christ, I want him so much, need him. I stretch my knees even farther apart, my thigh muscles straining as my clit quivers greedily, surely now in full, glorious view. I thrust my hips forward as he flicks the sensitive tip sharply with the pad of his finger.
“What a slut you are, Freya. My slut. Is that right, little sub?” His voice is soft, the words whispered against my ear.
I nod, loving that idea now, and desperate for him to touch me. Anywhere, everywhere. Somewhere.
At last, he does. His palm and fingers spread across my bottom, still tingling from the flogger. He holds me still as he slides his other hand between my legs from the front. He rubs across my clit then slips his fingers between the slick, creamy folds, testing my wetness.
“My, my, we are a randy little sub this evening. I’m guessing you might like me to fuck you?”
I nod, frantic now for the feel of him buried deep inside me.
“Greedy girl. I’m not convinced you’re ready yet.” By way of checking, he thrusts three fingers deep into my pussy.
I clench around him, shaking now as my desperation level spikes.
“Mmm, you’re hot and tight and very, very wet. Maybe you are ready for me. What do you think, my little sexy slut?” His fingers slide out, only to plunge deep again.
He finger-fucks me hard as I writhe in front of him, suspended still from the ceiling. I’m reeling fast toward an explosive orgasm as he suddenly stops, his fingers abruptly leaving my body. Bereft, frustrated, I turn my head, searching frantically for him, sightless behind the blindfold. And suddenly I’m in freefall. The restraint above my head is released, and I collapse onto the cushions, my hands till bound in front of me.
“On your back, girl, legs spread wide. I’m going to clamp that greedy clit of yours.”
It never occurs to me to wonder what he might mean, what he might intend to do to me now. All my body knows is that I need to get fucked, long and hard and solid. And soon. So on my back with my legs spread sounds good to me. I obey immediately, lifting my bound hand
s to lay them behind my head. The cushions shift as he moves to kneel between my legs, and I love the sense that he’s looking at me, spread out for him, wet and swollen and cherry red as I wait eagerly to be fucked.
Please. Soon. Now.
Not quite yet. Moments later he’s stroking my clit from base to quivering tip. I feel the bubble of orgasm again, and I’ll happily settle for that to start with. My body clenches in glorious anticipation then tenses as something hard pinches around my clit. It’s not painful, just…odd. Instinctively I start to close my legs, but his sharp command stops that. I lie still, apprehensive and impossibly aroused as even now I hover on the brink of orgasm. His hands under my bottom lift me up. He positions me with my thighs on his legs, my shoulders on the floor, my legs spread wide on either side of him. I can feel his eyes on me, admiring his handiwork again.
“Your clit looks good, little slut. Would you like to see?”
At my nod he continues, telling me to remove the blindfold. I do, blinking under the brightness of the lights. No subdued mood lighting in here, Nick likes to be able to see what he’s doing. Or should that be who? It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus and adjust, then, with a sharp tilt of his chin, Nick indicates that I should look down.
He has a small, makeup style mirror, and he uses that to show me the pretty little clit clip now sitting snugly around my swollen, throbbing bud. I gasp, it does look strangely beautiful, the red tip caught, held proudly erect and exposed. Glancing up at me, Nick slowly and deliberately rubs the exposed part with the pad of his thumb. My eyes widen, and probably cross. It feels indescribably fabulous, intense yet achingly tender. He does it again, and I start to unravel. He stops, lifting his thumb just a fraction to break the contact. His eyes catch mine, though, holding my gaze.
“You need to come.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod, my brow furrowing now in sheer desperation.
“Then ask permission.”
I shake my head briefly, indicating puzzlement. I’d ask him anything at all if my hands were free. I juggle my bound hands to remind him. He smiles.
