Kinky

by Justine Elyot

  Her master. That does it. The hoodie and jeans melt away from my consciousness and I feel naked, small and ashamed. And very turned on.

  ‘What do you think, Rosie?’ he asks, twisting his neck to look over at me. ‘What do you deserve?’

  ‘Isn’t that your decision?’

  ‘Not today.’

  What do I deserve? And what does he mean by this question? Is it just a BDSM-flavoured way of asking me what I want? Or does he actually want me to quantify the seriousness of my transgression? How bad is it – is it cane-bad or just flogger-bad? I know the answer before I finish the question.

  ‘The cane,’ I murmur. Today I want to feel it. I want the pain. I want the afterburn. I want to feel completely punished and completely owned and completely loved. I can’t say why, but I know that only the cane will do this for me today.

  ‘The cane? You are sure?’

  He selects one from the cabinet – a long slender stick of rattan, curving at the end. He straightens up and whips it through the air. The sound makes me shiver and swoon together.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he says. ‘Well, yes, be scared if you want, but don’t be scared because I have no experience. I practise with this. I use a cushion. I am quite an expert now.’

  He moves towards me like a musketeer with a duelling sword, pointing the cane at me until the tip of it reaches underneath my chin. He taps it gently, forcing my neck to tilt back and my eyes to reach up to his.

  When I see how solemn, how serious he looks, I try to swallow. It takes a while.

  ‘Don’t never do this to me again, Rosie,’ he says in a low, soft voice. ‘You think you have a problem with me, you tell me. Always. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’ He moves the cane, outlining my jaw with it, passing its cold smooth wood over my cheeks, down to my neck, around my shoulder, then he taps it firmly against a hip. ‘OK. You want for me to punish you. I am ready. Turn around and bend over.’

  ‘But I’m still wearing –’

  ‘I don’t want no argument. Do it.’

  I spin around and consider how best to arrange myself. It’s hard to maintain this posture with nothing to hold on to and he has offered no chair, no spanking bench, none of the usual accoutrements. If I grab my ankles, will that support me? I try it. It feels sustainable. I am aware of how tightly the denim is stretched across my bum now. Suddenly it doesn’t feel as thick or protective any more.

  ‘My God, your ass looks nice this way,’ says Dimitri.

  I flinch and almost fall forwards when he puts a hand on one cheek, running it over the taut material, squeezing and patting. The seam that runs between my thighs presses tight into my knickers, lodging itself between my pussy lips. They feel hot and itchy. I want to rub.

  ‘I give you two strokes on your jeans,’ decrees Dimitri. ‘Just so you get a feel.’

  He removes his hand and steps back and to the side a little. He taps the cane against my bottom in a steady, almost soothing rhythm, then there is a swoosh as he draws it back.

  I need to savour my last milliseconds as an uncaned person. I need to hold this non-pain in my heart and memory, because it will be over so soon, so soon …

  With a swish and a snap, my uncaned life is over. The moment of impact makes me cry out, more from shock than pain, though pain is certainly involved. It’s a sweet, sharp pain that seeps right through the fabric and draws a line beneath it, setting my skin alight.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Too much?’

  I consider this while my hair swings in my face and my toes curl. ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ And there’s the second, straight away, a little lower than the first, throbbing against the denim so I imagine it as a stripe of flashing neon. ‘You are thinking about how sorry you are?’

  ‘I’m thinking about how much it hurts!’

  ‘Of course. But also?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. It really hurts! Over jeans. God knows what it’s like –’

  ‘Take them down.’

  I exhale shudderingly, then release my ankles and stand straight. My arse still feels like it’s on fire, and the act of lowering the rough denim over the two burning lines only exacerbates the effect. I sneak a sideways peek at Dimitri. He looks grim. I bite my lip and let the jeans crumple down below my knees.

  The cane prods at my cotton knickers.

  ‘Back down now. Two more.’

  I dare to look at him again, hoping to convey sincere regret and have my sentence commuted. But if it was, would I be happy with that? I don’t think I would. There’s perversity in perversion.

  Anyway, there’s nothing in his face to suggest he’s about to drop the cane and review the tariff. My hands and ankles meet again, my bum thrust out, infinitely more vulnerable without its tough casing. The knickers are of serviceable cotton, rather washed out and thinner than they should be. They won’t protect much.

  The swish and snap fill my ears for a third time. This time I can’t maintain my position. I leap up and put a hand on my arse, rubbing it while I catch my breath.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘You want to stop?’

  I consider it, then shake my head. ‘No.’ My voice is a bit wobbly, coming from somewhere deep in my head, but it seems to know what it means. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why you are on your feet then? Get back down or I give you extra.’

  It hurts so much that I don’t even realise how tightly clenched all my muscles are until he taps my thigh with the cane and orders me to relax.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ I whinge, though I guess he’s gathered as much. ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And it’s what you deserve, yes?’

  His implacability in the face of my pathetic whimperings impresses me, reminds me of the heat between my legs, which rages just as intensely as the hardening welts on my bum. A presentiment of how extraordinary the sex is going to be after this steels me and I await the fourth stroke with meek acceptance.

  It wrings a sob from me, and I fall forwards onto my knees and lay my head on my forearms, lamenting my fate so hard that surely his heart will soften. ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow, it’s horrible, I hate it, ohhhhh.’

  But still no plea to stop.

  ‘So much drama! I thought it is me who is the actor. But you will get up, please, or there is more strokes for you.’

  I can’t disobey him. Even though I know what’s coming next, and every pore of my skin – especially those on my rear – dreads it, I haul myself to my feet again, keeping my hands over my face.

  ‘You take down your panties now.’

  I give myself a moment to build up to it.

  ‘You take them down now or I do it. If I do it, there is more punishment.’

  ‘You’re so fierce,’ I moan. ‘You’re harsh.’

  I lower the knickers gingerly. Part of them sticks to the sore patches and I have to suck in a breath while I peel the cotton off. They float down my legs to join the bunched jeans around my feet. Now I have nothing at all between my poor painful bottom and his evil cane.

  ‘Oh, this is a good job.’ He sounds absolutely delighted with himself. His fingers alight on the fizzing welts, drifting along them admiringly. ‘Good spaces, you know. Very straight. Very clear. This must hurt a lot.’

  ‘Didn’t you realise?’

  ‘You are giving me backchat? Do you really want to do that?’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Back down.’ He holds the hand against my bottom, keeping me steady. ‘And this is the last two, right? But you tell me you are sorry after each one. And you say my name. You say, “Sorry, Dimitri.” You can do this?’

  ‘I think so.’

  For the flicker of a moment I wonder why he doesn’t want ‘Sorry, sir,’ or the more classic ‘Thank you, sir.’ And then I realise why – it’s because this isn’t really a BDSM ‘scene’. This is something more personal, something more inti
mate. It’s a bonding experience, the establishment of a new order in our relationship. My heart swells with emotion.

  And then my bum swells with awful, gigantic, white-hot hideous pain.

  I almost think I’m going to throw up, but the worst of it passes, leaving the fierce after-effects to do their stuff. I can’t take this, I can’t take this, I can’t take this.

  But I will take this.

  I will take it for him.

  My head clears and I remember to think again.

  ‘Sorry, Dimitri.’ My tongue slurs it and it comes out very, very quietly.

  ‘I don’t hear you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say with more of an effort. ‘Dimitri.’

  ‘Yes, I think you are. One more. Be brave. You are brave, Rosichka.’

  He puts a hand on my spine and strokes it up and down. My breathing calms. His fingers press into my shoulder blades and neck, unknotting the gathering tension.

  ‘Just one,’ he whispers.

  He steps away again, big boots on flagstones, and I make a gargantuan effort not to knot myself back up immediately.

  I can’t, I can, I can’t, I can, I can’t, I will.

  I do.

  Oh God, it’s the worst one yet and I scream it out, jumping up and clutching my bum as if it’s on fire, which it well might be.

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘No, no. Dimitri. Say it.’

  He takes hold of me by the shoulders, pulling me into his chest, letting me sob into it for a moment or two. Everything is shaking, every single bit of me, even my eyes. He is still and strong and the shaking ends before long, though my legs still aren’t quite up to par by the time I find my voice.

  ‘Sorry, Dimitri.’

  His lips are on the top of my head, kissing my hair. ‘That’s hard for you.’

  ‘Very. Really very painful indeed. But I wanted to take it, for you.’

  ‘Hard for me also. I almost stop.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t though.’

  ‘I got afraid you will hate me. But if I start, I must finish.’

  ‘I could never hate you.’

  ‘I keep say to myself, wait for her to say stop. But it is very hard, you know. To hurt somebody you love. Even if you know they want it.’

  I remove my face from his chest and regard him with interest. ‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘Well, yes. I like it from visual point of view, you know. It looks good. It feels good. But scary.’

  ‘Scary, yeah. Do you think it would be scary if you were doing it to a client?’

  ‘No, not at all. Only because it’s you, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I know. You didn’t find it sexy then?’

  ‘I don’t say that.’

  He winks at me and puts a hand over the hottest part of my bottom, patting it. Now that I know there are no more strokes coming, I am growing to love the pain, embrace its radiating throb as it courses through me. He gave it to me; it is precious.

  Our lips meet and we kiss a heartfelt apology to one another. All is equal again. It’s a fresh start, sealed with lips. And tongues.

  Somewhere in the middle of it, he starts pushing me into a backwards shuffle, my feet moving in tiny steps, restricted by the jeans and knickers around my ankles.

  I meet an obstacle, reaching to the backs of my knees, and I tumble backwards, landing with a gasp and an ouch on my bottom on a kind of leather divan fitted with wrist and ankle straps. It’s the bondage bed.

  Dimitri rolls on top of me, still kissing, his fingers pushing into my hair from the sides of my face, his pelvis grinding into mine. The cold leather soothes my cane marks for a heavenly second, then they start to hurt as Dimitri jolts my body up and down. I want this pain, though. I want to feel it, along with the passion and the pleasure. The way they mix and spill into each other drives me to a level of need I never used to reach.

  He releases my head and my mouth and props himself on his elbows, breathing down fast as he stares into my face. ‘I need to fuck you,’ he announces.

  ‘Can I go on top?’ I ask, fearing the moment I have to remove my welts from the sticky leather after a bout of sweaty intense sex.

  ‘No,’ he says, treating me to a swift nip of the lower lip. ‘I want you to feel it. All the time I am fucking you, I want you to know that you were caned by me. Right?’

  ‘Oh. Right. OK then.’ I submit. It makes it even better that he refused my request. I am actively submitting and it feels amazing.

  He rears up and removes the jeans and knickers, which allows him to open my legs with his knees and crouch back down over me, unzipping his own trousers. He is hard. His cock slips and slides inside my pussy lips, coating itself with my juices while the whole of my lower body pulses with heat from my caned bottom.

  ‘You tell me when you are close,’ he says, sitting back up to deal with the condom. ‘Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Looking up at him, I think he could ask me anything right now and get the same response. Yes, Dimitri, yes, yes, yes.

  ‘Don’t forget.’ He bears down and then he is in me. My bottom shifts on the leather, the lower portion slightly raised, entailing the reawakening of some very sore spots. I gasp with pain and moan with pleasure, one after the other.

  ‘Does that hurt?’ he asks, sinking in until I am full and stretched underneath him.

  ‘A bit. I like it though.’

  ‘I know. So look at me. Don’t shut your eyes. I want you to look at me all the time I fuck you.’

  It’s more difficult than it sounds; easier than the time he took me up the arse, but only slightly. I feel he’s trying to read every hidden, secret thought through my eyes, and succeeding. He knows I love this, to be fucked raw, to be used and dominated and beaten and mastered, and he needs me to know that he knows it. God, it’s hard to admit to, but I have to do it. I have to be honest with him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned today, it’s that.

  I look at him as he thrusts and I know he is seeing every shameful fantasy and every kinky urge that has ever crossed my mind. I can’t hide any of it. Sometimes it gets too much and I want to turn my face away, but he catches my cheek with a finger and pushes me back into place every time. On my third thwarted attempt at mind-reading avoidance, I am climbing, heading up, near the point of orgasm and I know he can see it, so I’d better admit it.

  ‘I’m close,’ I whisper.

  ‘I see that.’ He stops, holds himself stock-still, biting his lip.

  ‘Oh, don’t stop, please.’ I rotate my pelvis, trying to urge him back on track.

  He pulls out.

  I sit up, on one elbow, fighting my way back, reaching out for him. My tender bottom doesn’t like this move and I hiss with sudden pain, but I have to get him back inside me.

  ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘On your knees now.’

  He turns me over, putting me on all fours. In one way, I am grateful for the opportunity this gives me to hide my face from him. In another, I’m not.

  ‘Oh, look, look, look at this,’ he croons behind me, smoothing his palms over my bottom. ‘So pretty. OK, we do it this way now.’

  Gloriously, he is back inside me, a good hard shove until his flat stomach meets my curving arse cheeks, adding to the heat that hasn’t even begun to recede yet.

  A groan of appreciation falls from my lips. This feels too good, indecently, obscenely good. His hands on my hips, then one clutching a big hank of my hair and tugging on it as he rides me, his skin on mine, banging into it, making the cane marks throb anew. It’s a wild conjunction of every sensation and I surf it joyously until the moment nears again. Must I tell him again? Couldn’t I keep it a secret?

  ‘I’m close,’ I mewl, a mite sulkily, dreading another withdrawal.

  ‘Good, that’s good.’

  He keeps going.

  Yes, that’s good! I agree wholeheartedly.

  I am laughing with delight when the wave crests, bathing in it, letting it wash all over me from my beaded br
ow to my curled-up toes, paying special attention to that sweet rear sting.

  I say some words that don’t make sense, might as well be the Russian ones he is coming out with now, as he jolts, in, in, in, hard, giving me his all.

  We fall, slack-jawed and spent, together on the leather.

  ‘I do love you,’ I tell him. Is it the first time? Have I said it before? I can’t even remember.

  ‘I know, of course.’ He yawns. ‘And for me too.’

  I am still wearing the fleece-lined flipping hoody. No wonder I’m so hot. It clings to my skin almost as tightly as he does.

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ I say sleepily, ‘that you can read my thoughts when I can’t read yours.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘No, of course not. They’re in Russian. I don’t speak a word of Russian.’

  He laughs. ‘I teach you. But you help me with English also.’

  ‘Deal.’

  We must have fallen asleep like that.

  The next thing I know, there’s a loud knocking on the dungeon door and O’s voice, sounding very quiet and far away, asking us if we’re done in here.

  At first it seems like part of a dream, as does Dimitri’s solid warmth beside and around me but, as my wits slowly sharpen, I realise I am really lying half dressed on a bondage bed in a dungeon with the mother of all sore bottoms.

  Dimitri mutters in Russian, then shouts, ‘You wait a minute, yes?’ at the door.

  He turns to me. ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t plan to sleep. I wanted to put the cream on you.’

  For a fuzzy moment I think this is a euphemism, then, when he reaches down and pulls a tub out of his jeans pocket, I realise what he means.

  ‘Oh! That’s a nice thought. We can’t, though, can we? Time’s up.’

  ‘Ah, she can wait. Turn over on your belly, yes?’

  I hesitate for a moment, looking over at the door. I don’t really want to see O again. I feel there’s a certain froideur between us after that scene earlier in the week.

  But Dimitri rubbing lotion on my poor stinging bottom … well, that’s too good to turn down. I roll over and rest my head happily on my arms.

  He slathers on the ointment in generous whorls, covering each stiff welt in moisturising balm. The smell of it is gorgeous, the feeling of it on my skin even more so, especially administered with Dimitri’s magic touch.