Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  She would stay here. She would build her career in medicine. She intended to remain in Morocco. Her family was here. She was happy in Marrakesh, though she could move to one of the other major cities at some stage, if she chose to. Casablanca perhaps, or Tangier. They were important tourist hubs too. She could do well catering to the thousands of visitors who came to enjoy the North African sun and a bit of Arabian mystique, but more often than not ruined the ambience with too much beer or by carelessly swigging unbottled water. Oh yes, tourists always needed a doctor, and one who spoke several European languages was particularly in demand. She would be just fine.

  On that optimistic note, she swung her legs from the bed and made for the en suite bathroom. She used the loo, brushed her teeth quickly, pleased that she had had the presence of mind to leave her toothbrush to hand. She did what she could to straighten her hair though Ethan’s comb was woefully inadequate for the task. She had her own hairbrush somewhere but it was probably downstairs with the rest of her things, including her clothes.

  She had slept in the nude, of course, and as she wandered back into the bedroom, she realized that the only clothes there were Ethan’s jeans from yesterday. She had been wearing only her cloak when he’d arrived and that had been discarded somewhere downstairs. She tugged the duvet from the bed and wrapped it loosely around her body as she left the room, heading for Ethan, for her clothes, and for food. In that order.

  “Morning, pretty lady. Did you sleep well?” He glanced at her from across the living area, pausing in the act of folding his clothes and laying them in his holdall. He was neat, she noted, meticulous, probably a frequent traveler and he had the preparations down to a fine art. His possessions were arranged around him on the two low sofas. He only needed to place everything in the bag and he would be good to go.

  “I did, thank you.” Fleur surveyed his progress from across the room, unaccountably desolate that he would be leaving without her. Where did that come from? She had never expected him to ask her to go with him, would have said no in any case. Her life was here, with her family, her career.

  “Good. I didn’t want to wake you. I had breakfast sent across. Just croissants and a selection of cold meats, cheese, that sort of thing. Some yogurt too, I think. And fruit juice. Help yourself. Would you like coffee or shall I phone room service for some tea?” He gestured in the approximate direction of the still-crowded breakfast tray and resumed his packing.

  “Just coffee will be fine for me.” Fleur felt distinctly not hungry, despite her growling stomach of a few minutes earlier. That had been then, before she’d remembered.

  “I’d prefer you to eat, if you would, please. Just a glass of juice and a croissant if that’s all you fancy. You do need to eat, though. I can’t leave stripes across your bum on an empty stomach.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Fleur stared at him, her stomach clenching now and her pussy dampening disgracefully.

  “You heard. Food. Now.” His tone suggested that this was as close as he would be getting to ‘please’. Fleur clutched the duvet to her chest and headed for the tray.

  She was conscious that Ethan watched her select a couple of slices of meat, a piece of cheese and pour herself a glass of orange juice. With a brief smile in his direction and offering no further comment on the proposed stripes, she took her plate and drink out into the courtyard, and sat on the stone bench encircling the fountain. Her bottom was still slightly tender as she placed her weight on the hard stone seat. More of his attention there would leave her uncomfortable for days. She supposed that was his intention, his legacy to her, so to speak.

  Ethan continued to stow his luggage neatly while she nibbled on her breakfast, forcing herself to eat for no better reason than that he had instructed it. She smiled at him as he approached her, a cup of fresh, steaming coffee in his hand.

  “For you.” He handed her the cup. She nodded her thanks and placed it beside her on the bench.

  “Would you like to join me? Do you have time?” She watched him hopefully.

  He did not take a seat, apparently preferring to lean casually against the wall surrounding the fountain. “I have plenty of time. I won’t be checking out for a couple of hours at least. I just wanted to get stuff done before you woke up. You have my undivided attention now, Doctor Mansouri.”

  “I see. Thank you, Sir.” Fleur knew by his tone, his demeanor, by some indescribable quality that he could inject into the exchange that he was talking to her as her Dom. It was important that she respond accordingly.

  “You will go upstairs and find a ruler in my bag. The rucksack I use for site visits.” He paused.

  Fleur nodded to signal her understanding. She knew which bag he meant.

  Ethan continued, “Then you will come back down here and bend over for me. Here, I think. You can lean on that seat you seem so fond of. Lose the quilt, obviously. I’m thinking ten strokes on each side, including the backs of your thighs. It’ll hurt. You won’t be able to sit for a long while afterwards. The marks will be visible for days. Something to remember me by…”

  “I see. Thank you, Sir.” She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, conscious of her now seriously wet pussy. She was truly a slut. She must be, she reflected, to become so aroused at just the description of a serious beating. Still, she intended to make the best of this while he was still here.

  “Now, Sir?” She placed her still half-full plate beside the coffee cup on the bench.

  “Finish your breakfast first, Fleur. And your coffee. Once I have your bottom the way I like it, I’ll allow you to suck my cock before I fuck you again. So, those are my plans for you this morning. Do you have any questions? Or comments?”

  “No, Sir, it all sounds perfectly straightforward.” Fleur picked up her plate again and continued to nibble at the remaining slice of meat. She finished it then drank her coffee. She carried her plate and empty cup back inside as she went to obey his instructions.

  The rucksack contained three rulers of varying lengths, two made of plastic and one from metal. Fleur selected the metal one, a foot in length, and returned with it to the courtyard. With just a sideways glance at Ethan, she placed the ruler on the bench before she dropped the duvet into a heap on the tiled floor. She turned her back on Ethan, leaning forward to place her hands firmly on the stone surface.

  “Is this all right, Sir?”

  “I’d prefer your bum to be raised up a little more. I want to see your buttocks and thighs, please. I like a nice clear shot, and I intend to lay these stripes very accurately for you. Nice and symmetrical. Maybe if you rest on your elbows…?”

  “Like this, Sir?” Fleur adjusted her position as suggested, her bottom now prominently displayed for Ethan’s attention.

  “Perfect. I see you chose the metal. Why not the plastic? That might have been less—severe.”

  “I was hoping for a lasting impression, Sir. I thought metal might be more suited to that purpose.”

  He chuckled, the sound low and sexy. “I see. I expect you’re right. Do I need to remind you of your safe words?”

  “No, Sir, I have not forgotten them.” And she had absolutely no intention of making use of them.

  He leaned across her to pick up the ruler, the front of his cotton shirt brushing her hip. Fleur relished the brief contact as he straightened and took up his position behind her and slightly to her left.

  “Hard and fast, this time. I’ll keep count. Please try not to make any undue fuss, and if you need time out, just say so.”

  “Of course, Sir. Thank you.” Fleur shifted her feet, parting her legs slightly to increase her stability. “I’m ready.”

  Despite her confident statement, the first stroke still took her breath away when it landed square across her right buttock. Fleur hissed in pain but did not move. She braced for the next, expecting the pain to blaze across her left buttock this time. It did not. Ethan continued to lay the strokes across her right side, each one immediately below its predecessor. By the time he reached
five, Fleur was struggling to contain her cries. On six, she whimpered. On seven, she let out a low squeal.

  “Quiet, girl. Do you need something to bite on?”

  Fleur shook her head quickly, determined to manage this.

  “The last three will be on the backs of your thighs. This is the really painful bit.”

  Fleur groaned inwardly, wishing she had not been so hasty in rejecting his offer of help. She did not have long in which to reflect on her mistake, though. The next stroke seared her upper thigh and Fleur could no longer hold back her tears. The next two strokes followed in rapid succession as she wept silently, her entire body jerking with each stroke.

  “I’m liking the effect so far. Your skin is quite delicate. The stripes are really vivid. Are you okay to continue or would you like a break?”

  “N-no, Sir. Please continue.” Fleur wanted this to be done with now, but it was with some effort that she remained in position, offering him her other buttock for the same treatment.

  Ethan shifted slightly to the left, positioning himself. The first stroke on her left buttock landed across the widest, fleshiest part. It was less painful than the final two or three on her right side had been, so Fleur was able to relax slightly. Ethan continued to lay the stripes just as he had on her right side, dropping each into place with unerring accuracy. Despite her mounting discomfort, Fleur could not fault his skill. This second batch seemed easier, less excruciating. Perhaps she was becoming more accustomed to the assault on her senses. Perhaps the release of endorphins was coming to her aid. Or maybe he had reduced the intensity of his strokes, though she could think of no reason why he would. She found herself able to relax into the sensation, finding a perverse pleasure in the pain. Somehow, her body, or perhaps her brain, converted the agony to create something different, something…other. It was not pleasure, not quite, but very nearly. As near as made no difference.

  The individual strokes blurred, became one continuous sensation. Fleur felt somehow detached from what was happening, as though she was watching this from somewhere close by. She could hear the whistle of the ruler as he swung it, and the sharp crack as it made contact with her bottom, but the pain became muted, dispersed. Fleur was vividly aware of her pussy, which was wet and throbbing, aching to be touched. She widened her legs in invitation, not even caring if he caught her sensitive clit or pussy lips with the ruler. But, of course, he would not. He was far too accurate in his task.

  She lost track of everything—her surroundings, the continuing onslaught—even her desperate need to be touched took on an ethereal quality. She heard a low, insistent buzzing now, as she seemed to float on some buoyant cushion of air, oblivious to the pain as each blow fell. When she looked back on this later, she would say that events seemed to go into slow motion, the edges of everything blurring, sounds muted, muffled. She felt to be floating, though she was conscious of the cool tiles under her bare feet.

  Long, timeless moments passed. A voice, low and seductive, commanding her.

  “…now, Fleur.”

  What? Who?

  “I have you, love. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  No, not yet… Soon.

  “Now, Fleur. Look at me. Can you hear me?” His voice was low, soothing, not shouting but insistent. He must be obeyed. She had to…what?

  With his hand on her face, he stroked her hair back. The other lay on her stomach, his arm around her, supporting her. Fleur turned her head toward his voice, forcing her eyelids open. Ethan. Ethan was there, his face close to hers, his wonderful deep blue eyes soft, warm. She might drown in them. Perhaps she already had. He smiled, the expression etching sweet lines at the edges of his eyes. His face softened, gentled.

  “Back with me, love?”

  Fleur frowned, confused. She had a sense that something had happened, something she should know about but couldn’t quite recall. There was an uncharacteristic fogginess wrapping itself around her brain. She was confused, disorientated, her memories not quite her own. She felt somewhat good, though. Yes, on reflection, definitely good. And safe. Warm but not uncomfortably so. She reached for Ethan, the one solid feature in an otherwise shifting world. She caressed his cheek with her palm, noting the slight scratch of stubble. He had yet to shave this morning.

  Yes, morning. It was morning. She was with Ethan in his riad. In the courtyard of his riad, to be exact. She tried to stand, straightening her arms to push herself up and immediately winced. Her bottom was on fire, there could be no other explanation for the searing pain now spreading across her skin.

  “Oh, oh, that hurts…”

  “My work here is done then. Well, nearly done. Can you stand, do you think?”

  Of course, why would she not? Fleur tried to do just that, only to stagger violently as a wave of dizziness hit her. Ethan tightened his arm around her and pulled her upright, slipping his other arm behind her knees to lift her off her feet. He turned and carried her inside, across the living area and up the stairs. In the bedroom, he laid her on the bed, face down. He left her briefly to return with his ubiquitous bottle of water. He snapped the top open and held it to her lips. Fleur did not even start to protest, just took it in her mouth and sucked greedily.

  Her recollection of the events in the courtyard began to reassemble, the pieces slotting together quickly. He had been striping her bottom with a ruler. A metal ruler, which she had helpfully brought from his site kit because that was what he’d instructed her to do and she was in the habit now of obeying Ethan. Twenty strokes, ten on each side. He had almost finished, but something had shifted, changed. He hadn’t finished but had done something else instead. Something that had made her feel odd, disconnected from herself and from the pain. It had hurt, was still hurting. She could hardly move, but for a while back there, she had felt nothing. Or nearly nothing—a sort of tingling, as though the vibrations were reaching her through cotton wool. It was odd and she did not understand.

  “You hit subspace, love. Was it good?”

  Subspace? Fleur turned her face toward Ethan as he now crouched beside the bed. He smiled but did not seem at all perturbed by whatever had just taken place.

  “What? What happened? What did you do?”

  “I saw that you were dropping so I slowed down, gave you plenty of time to sink. You were out of it for maybe five minutes or so.”

  “Out of it? I do not understand.”

  “Subspace, Fleur. A sort of trance brought on by your response to the pain stimulation and the rush of endorphins. Not all submissives manage it but you just did. I’m told it’s good.”

  Good? Fleur frowned, considering. Yes, good would not be too far wide of the mark. The experience had been strange, but not unpleasant. She’d felt relaxed, as though nothing mattered. Vaguely euphoric. As she examined the sensation, and with the not inconsiderable benefit of hindsight, she came to the conclusion that she would have no objection to repeating it. It had been good.

  “Yes, Sir, it was. It is, I mean. Very good. It was—interesting. I had not expected that to happen. Is this thing, this subspace a regular occurrence?”

  “It can be, with a receptive sub and a Dom who knows which of her buttons to press.”

  And that, she supposed, would be her problem. Ethan clearly could manage to hit the correct buttons, but he would not be here to do so. She might have to wait a long time for another Dom with similar skills to cross her path. Fleur pulled herself up short. What was she thinking? She had known from the outset that this would be an isolated incident, a brief and never-to-be-repeated experience. Subspace was simply a bonus she had not anticipated, a good experience to file away and savor later. After Ethan had gone.

  Fleur turned to her side and propped herself up on one elbow. She smiled at Ethan, suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of grateful affection for him. He had shown her what she had wanted to see and so much more besides. He had been, quite simply, superb.

  “Now it is my turn.”

  “Your turn, little sub?”

 
; “To pleasure you. Is that what you would call it?”

  “I expect I would. You have so far. Do please feel free to continue.”

  Fleur reached for his zipper and pulled it down. She took her time, her gaze fixed on his, and was pleased to see his pupils dilate. “You said that I was to suck your cock, Sir. Is that still your wish?”

  “I see no reason to vary my instructions at this stage.”

  Fleur nodded as she released his straining erection from his jeans to wrap both her hands around it. She shuffled to a kneeling position, taking care not to settle her weight on her still incredibly sore thighs. Leaning forward, she tilted her bottom upwards, the tender skin throbbing in the warmth of the room. Ethan wore a knowing expression. He fully appreciated her discomfort. He was equally conscious of her delight in it, her exultation that she had accepted the beating without protest, her body’s involuntary descent into subspace her additional reward. Fleur winced with every movement, but relished the burning sting across her tender buttocks, the proof that she was alive. The irrefutable evidence that she could feel, and that it was possible to steal such wicked pleasure from pain.

  She lowered her lips to nuzzle the head of Ethan’s cock, opening her mouth around it as she pumped both her hands up and down the length of his shaft. She closed her eyes to concentrate on her task, lapping his salty juices with the flat of her tongue. The taste was familiar now and uniquely Ethan. He had not said she was to swallow his semen, but she would. She wanted to, every drop of it.

  She continued to pump his shaft with one hand and used the other to reach for his balls. She caressed them, soft at first but firmer as she heard his muffled groan. Ethan shifted on the bed. He now lay beside her as she knelt at his left hip, bending to her task. She snuck a glance at him. His eyes were closed, his right arm flung across his forehead. His left hand reached for her to caress her sore bum. He had to be doing that deliberately. Fleur was convinced of it. Not that she had any objection. Her stripes were his handiwork. He was entitled to fondle them, surely.