by Ashe Barker
“What are you waiting for?” I demand, nerves making my tone sharper than I intend.
He looks across at me, frowns darkly. This does not look good.
“Enough questions, enough explaining. I want you to wait there, think about what I’ve just been saying. About how we’re going to start pushing your limits. Really pushing. And think about being patient—I’ll get around to you when I’m ready.” His tone is brusque, curt, every inch the Dom.
“But I… Please, Tom…” My voice is quivering, my earlier confidence evaporating. I can do this stuff, it seems, but not without some help, some warmth from my Dom. I contemplate safe wording right here and now but dismiss that thought. I want to try. I want to please him. I fall silent, turn my face to lean my forehead on the cross, and wait.
“Face the cross, don’t look at me. Use this time to think. And to anticipate. I may have decided to use a lighter whip, but be under no illusions, little Ashley, you’re going to feel this. Really feel this.”
I know better than to continue. I obey him, dropping my brow against the wood to contemplate what’s coming. I estimate it’s maybe fifteen long, slow, silent minutes later when I hear him shift, stand up. I cringe inwardly, listening to his soft footsteps, move around the bed, halting by the chest. The lid opens, then closes again softly. Then his footsteps, coming to a halt behind me. I flinch. Something is stroking my back, drawing a line between my shoulder blades and down to my bottom, then between the cheeks of my bum. I stiffen, afraid to ask what he’s doing to me, what he’s touching me with. It’s not his hand, too cool, too hard. The whip, his chosen whip, it must be. The handle maybe. I stand there, my shoulders already stiff from my long wait in this unnatural position, and I whimper as he draws the whip back up my body. This time he trails it up my side. He uses it to stroke the side of my right breast, lingering there. Fear can do strange things, I’m finding, and I fight back the urge to cry even though he’s not laid a finger on me yet, let alone a whip.
“Do you trust me?”
I hesitate, hold my breath as he draws the whip down my left side, reaching around me this time to nudge my nipple with it.
“Yes. No. I don’t know…” My response is a breathy whisper, my vocal chords more or less paralyzed. Those fifteen minutes were devastating, shattering my self-confidence, as he knew they would. The bastard.
“It’s yes or no, Ashley. Which? And please, don’t curse at me, even in your head.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“Yes or no? Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” My words are barely audible now. And it’s true. I do trust him, even now, when he’s terrifying me, deliberately intimidating me, shredding my courage.
“Then why so scared? You did this yesterday, you know you can handle this.”
I think for a moment, though it’s hardly necessary. “It’s you I’m scared of. Not the whip. Please, Tom, I need you to…” I break off, scared to ask, scared it’ll just make this worse. Deepen the chill.
“What? What is it you need from me?”
I know I can’t lie to him. He’s asked me a direct question, I have to tell him the truth.
“I need you to be kind to me.” I’m pleading, my tone betraying my pathetic need for his approval. I don’t know how I lost it, but if I can’t get it back the next few minutes will be a truly crushing ordeal, even without the vicious six-stranded monster.
“Then ask me, Ashley. Just ask me for what you need.” His voice is soft now, no longer the uncompromising Dom.
Maybe I could…
“Please, I need you to help me. Please.” I can’t find the courage to lift my face, to look at him, though I sense his closeness as he leans alongside me. His breath is on my neck, his lips in my hair. His hand traces my collar bone, and down, under my raised arm to cup my right breast. He presses lightly, his fingers softly kneading the fullness there. He rolls my nipple, still achingly gentle with me. I wait for him to squeeze, to pull, to hurt me. I anticipate the sharp pain before the pleasure he so often provides, but there is none.
He shifts to stand behind me, reaches up to place his hands on both of mine, leaning over me, trapping me. His bare chest is hard, solid, sculpted against my shoulders. He nuzzles my hair with his lips and dips his head to nibble my ear, scraping the lobe with his teeth before trailing kisses along the back of my neck. I shudder, this time in growing desire. I can’t help my sigh as, despite my fear of him, my arousal mounts. The sound is ragged, broken, in the otherwise silent room. He runs his hands down my arms to my shoulders then around me to cup both breasts this time. His caress is quick, thorough, then he drops his hands lower, over my stomach and out to my hips. He massages my bottom firmly before tracing each vertebra on my spine, and eventually he’s caressing my shoulders again. His fingers are pressing, probing, his touch light yet firm, the sensual massage causing me to arch under his hands.
“Does that feel good, my sexy little sub?” His voice is low, seductive, more like my old Tom, the Tom who cares for me and makes me safe. I moan in response, nodding, hope he’ll see and understand. He does, it seems, as he drops his head again to trail more kisses along the nape of my neck.
“Just ten strokes today, I think. Tell me when you’re ready.”
“Ten?”
“Mmm, I think so.”
“But I…”
“You managed more yesterday. Ten’s fine.” His voice is firm, he’s decided.
I submit.
“Yes, ten.” I bow my head as he steps away from me. There’s a rustle as he picks up the whip. And again, I wait.
“I want you to count the strokes. Say the number out loud after each one. And I want you to tell me that you’re ready for the next. Just say ‘ready, Sir’. Do you understand, Ashley?”
“Yes. Sir.” I added the mark of respect as an afterthought.
“Good. Tell me what your safe word is.”
“Smithy’s Forge.” I whisper it, my lips dry against the polished wood of the cross.
“You may not need ‘amber’, because I’m going to wait until you tell me you’re ready before each stroke, but you have it anyway, just in case.” His reminder is unnecessary but part of the pre-beating ritual, I now realize. “I’ll start when you tell me you’re ready.”
I drag in a breath. Let it out slowly. “I’m ready. Sir.”
The lash whistles through the air and lands across my shoulders. It hurts. It hurts like fucking hell. I jerk but manage not to scream. Somehow I suspect my fortitude will be short-lived. He said he liked to hear me scream, no doubt he’ll get what he wants. Christ. Ten. Did he say ten?
I’m shaking, hanging against the cross, waiting for the next blow. It doesn’t come. Then he’s there, close beside me again.
“I told you to count. And to tell me when you’re ready for the next stroke. I don’t like repeating myself, Ashley. You told me you understood. Is any part of what you’re required to do not clear?” His cold, clipped words are dropped in my ear, and my short-lived courage crumbles.
“No. I’m sorry, I just… It hurts. I just forgot.”
“Don’t forget. Concentrate. And do as you’re told.” His hard Dom voice is cutting, more chilling even than the pain from his whip.
He’s very good at this, but I manage not to curse him mentally. It would not be wise.
“That was your last warning, Ashley. The next time you disobey me I’ll add one extra stroke. And go on adding until you get it right. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Yes.” Tears are pricking the backs of my eyes but fight them back. He said this wasn’t a punishment beating, but it definitely feels like it just now. I steel myself, I will get through this. There’s pleasure at the other end, my reward, the goal I’m reaching for.
“Yes what?” That harsh, uncompromising voice again.
“Yes, Sir.” I hesitate a moment, then I say the words he’s waiting for. “One. I’m ready, Sir.”
I tense, ready for the next stroke.
It falls an instant later, this time across my lower back. And this time I do scream, more at the unexpected positioning of the blow than the pain. I’d assumed he’d deliver all the strokes across my shoulders but apparently not. I gasp for air, breathe in, then out. And again. “Two, Sir. I’m ready. Sir.”
The third stroke falls across my right buttock and I scream again. Christ, holy fucking Christ, this is bad. Worse than yesterday. I’m shaking, fighting for breath, my fingers clawing at the wood beneath my hands. I’m not sure I can manage ten strokes. Not all at once. I try to remember what I’m supposed to do, there was something…
“Three.” I hesitate, desperately trying to regroup before giving the signal to continue. I count to five in my head, breathing heavily, biting my lip in an attempt to distract me from the agony exploding across my back and bottom.
Eventually, “I’m ready, Sir.” The whip whistles through the air, to land on my left buttock. My whole body jerks in response but I have no screaming left in me, just a beaten whimper as I sag against my restraints. My heaving sobs are the only sound in the room and I know I’m facing defeat. Six to go. I can’t do it.
“Amber. Time out.” Tom’s voice, soft and low.
There’s a dull thud as the whip hits the floor and he’s close up behind me again, leaning in.
“You’re struggling with this, I can see that. But I know you can do it, I wouldn’t put you through it otherwise. Do you need me to help you, lovely Ashley?”
Thank God. “Yes. Please, Sir.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know… It hurts too much. I can’t bear it.”
“Water, Ashley?”
I nod gratefully, turn my head to accept the cool water he dribbles into my mouth. Anything to delay the inevitable.
“More?”
“Please.” He obliges, then uses his thumb to wipe the drops from my chin.
“How many more strokes, Ashley?”
“It was six still to go, Sir.” My voice is small, faint. I grit my teeth, feel myself starting to shake again at the prospect of continuing.
His hand is on the back of my neck, softly massaging, calming me. He is careful not to touch my tender shoulders now. “Ready to continue yet?”
“Can I have a few moments more, please. Sir?”
“Of course.”
His palm slides across my bottom, lightly, but I still wince. His fingers slip between my legs, and I clench, expecting him to push them into me, but instead he just checks the pulse in my groin. Apparently satisfied that all is well he withdraws his hand.
“You’re struggling, I know that, Ashley. It’s what I intended for you. But you’re still drenched, and it seems a shame not to enjoy your hot, sweet little pussy. I want you to come for me, Ashley. Now.”
“I don’t think I can…”
“No?” His hand is once more between my legs that are widely spread on the cross, open to him.
He flicks my clitoris sharply, I groan helplessly. He picks up the whip again and I tense. He steps behind me, and I moan as he strokes the hard, smooth leather handle between my legs, just easing the end of it between my inner lips, into the entrance of my pussy. It’s not as big as his cock, but… I drop my head against the wood, moaning helplessly as I grind my hips backwards. He slides it farther into me, gentle, probing, then withdraws it, only to thrust it inside me again.
“Squeeze it, Ashley. Caress it. Love it. This is your whip. Hurting you, pleasuring you, all for you.”
He reaches around me, and something hard, sharp almost, rubs across my clit. It’s the whip, but the fine leather lash this time. He’s pulling it, stretching it tight against my throbbing clitoris.
“Come for me. Now, Ashley.”
The whip handle thrusting inside me, the intense sensation of the cruel lash sliding over my engorged, sensitized clit, his low, insistent voice in my ear, combine to tip me over the precipice. I tumble, my entire weight suspended from my wrists as my bones and muscles liquefy. My body spasms around the whip, holding it deep within my core, gripping it tightly, drawing every last shiver of ecstasy from it. He catches me around the waist, holds me in place until my inner convulsions stop, until I can again support myself with the help of the cross. He slowly eases the whip from within my body, and once more stands poised behind me.
“I’m going to continue now. Breathe in when the whip lands, and slowly out between strokes. I’ll do the counting, you concentrate on breathing. Don’t try to fight the pain, accept the whip inside you. Imagine you’re fucking it again. Can you do that, Ashley?” It’s the Dom voice again, but not harsh.
This is my teacher, my trainer speaking to me now. And I have to obey him.
“Yes. Please continue, Sir.” And I’m ready.
The next stroke lands across the middle of my back. My body jerks but I lean in to the cross, let it absorb the blow. The pain is there, sharp, biting, but I breathe it away as he’s taught me. It crackles through me, like electricity, eventually flowing outwards, and my body is emptied. Pain free.
“One.” Tom starts the count, an instant before the whip wraps itself around my buttocks.
I gasp, but no more than that as the electricity once more sizzles through my body. I’m leaning on the cross, allowing it to take my weight, support me, absorb my pain.
“Two.”
Another lightning bolt shoots through me, and it feels good. Painful, but good, my muscles once more melting, relaxing.
“Three.”
Did I hear that? Not sure, sounds like a distant waterfall muffle the sound. I’m oblivious to all around me now, there’s nothing here except me, this beautiful, strong cross holding me, and the deliciously erotic electric current surging through my body, cleansing me.
“Five.”
I’m no longer moving, no longer want to. I’m dizzy, lightheaded, but totally alive too. My body is quivering deliciously, every nerve ending tingling, anticipating, longing for—what? For more of—what?” I groan, shift restlessly as the wonderful sensations fade, dissipate, eventually die. There’s a voice, muttering, murmuring. “More, please, I need… More.”
“Can you hear me, Ashley?” Another voice, soft, caressing, gentle. Hands on my face, brushing back my hair, lips on mine, tasting.
My body goes slack as the cross falls away. I’m afraid, falling, I cry out.
“I can’t…”
“I have you.”
And I am lifted, floating again, then drifting, warm, comfortable, safe.
Slowly my senses return. I’m on the bed, face down. Tom is stretched alongside me, his hand on my cheek. I turn my face, kiss his palm. He flexes his hand, cups my face.
He waits a few more seconds, then, “Open your eyes, love. Look at me.”
It’s a massive effort but I manage to crack my eyelids open. The earth moved, I’m sure it did. So how come everything is still as I remember it, neat, tidy. Everything except me the right way up. I blink, try to focus on Tom’s face. He’s smiling at me, gently, as though he knows some secret that I don’t.
“Was that good?”
Good? I frown, confused, trying to remember. Was I drunk? Did I pass out? How did I get from the cross to here? He sees my confusion, chuckles.
“You hit subspace, love. You were completely out of it for the last two strokes. And sinking before that. What do you remember?”
I struggle to push myself up, my back and buttocks stinging. Odd, nothing hurt just a moment ago. Now I drop back onto my face, I whimper, the pain building fast, sharp and cruel.
“Keep still. Let me help you with that.” He reaches behind him, pulls a tube of arnica gel from the bedside drawer and proceeds to smooth it gently into my skin.
I shiver but manage to relax under his gentle hands. I recall the breathing in and out trick and find it helps me again. Slowly, the pain recedes and the experience comes back to me, I find I can remember everything. Vividly.
I recollect clearly the sharp, biti
ng burn of the first four strokes, and my near despair as I believed I was going to fail. Or at best just barely survive the ordeal. Then Tom called for a time out, calmed me, used the whip handle to fuck me. Oh, God! I quiver just at the recollection of that intense orgasm. And with it my attitude shifted, transformed. The whip was mine, to use, to own. No longer cowed by it I was absorbing what it had to offer me, my senses super-charged and dulled at the same time. I could feel everything that was happening, my senses were acute, but I rode above the pain. I was in my body, totally, but detached from it too. I’ve felt something similar before. Where was it? What was it?
I recall it. It was when David was born. My baby was dead inside me but still had to be delivered. My body was in labor, the pain of the contractions every bit as cruel as if he’d been alive, struggling for his freedom. Maybe more so as there would be no joyful reunion waiting for me at the end of it. The midwife shoved a gas and air facemask at me, told me to breathe it in when I needed to. The effect was wonderful, I could feel the contractions but the pain was curiously missing. This was similar. A few moments ago I could feel the whip across my back, my shoulders, my bottom, but not the pain. Or maybe it was just transformed into energy, that sizzle of electrical current that seemed to wash through me with each stroke. I was totally relaxed, drifting on a cushion of airy sensation. It was totally amazing. Words fail me, it was indescribable.
I struggle to sit up, and Tom reaches for me, helps me to kneel on the bed. He leans back on the headboard, watching me, waiting for me to speak. He asked me a question, I know I have to answer him. I have to be honest. What do I remember?
“I remember it all. It was awful then wonderful. Awesome. Thank you. Sir.” Then, “What happened to me?”
“Some submissives manage to achieve a sort of relaxed state, pain and intense sensation sends them into it. I’m told it’s very, very good. Dom’s love it when their subs do that—shows we’re doing something right. A bit like the satisfaction a man gets when his woman has an orgasm. You found it just then. And from your reaction I’m guessing it was good for you, too. Yes?”
