by Ashe Barker
I know the drill—strip naked, tie my hair up, and stand in the middle of the room until he comes in to issue his further directions. I expect I’m going to be on the bed, but not entirely sure. He could use the St Andrew’s cross…
Tom keeps me waiting for twenty minutes, the bastard. By the time he saunters in I’m absolutely terrified, having let my vivid imagination loose conjuring up a whole range of possible excruciating positions and possibilities. I trust him, and he knows I do, but he can still bring out this response in me just by making me anticipate what’s to come, letting my imagination do his work for him.
Trying hard not to tremble—and failing—I keep my eyes firmly fixed on his feet, bare I notice, as he approaches me. He stands still, a yard or so in front of me, his height somehow enhanced by my inability to look up, to look him in the eye. And I can feel his eyes on my body, examining, assessing. I’m acutely aware of my nakedness since he shaved my pubic hair yesterday—it really does make a massive difference. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and very small suddenly compared to his solid build. He waits, deliberately I know, as I fail entirely to control my shivering.
“Look at me, Ashley.” His voice is quiet but firm, and I obey.
No smile, but I can clearly see the sexual appreciation in his emerald gaze as he swirls his finger indicating that I’m to turn around. I do so, and he immediately instructs me to bend over and spread my legs. I do as I’m told, quivering as I imagine his unrestricted view of my most intimate areas. I jerk, stagger and nearly lose my balance when he trails his fingers across my exposed vulva, testing the new smoothness there.
“Keep still, unless you want to start with a spanking.”
His curt reprimand is enough to make me stiffen my legs, concentrate on my balance, but it seems to no avail.
“On second thoughts, your arse is looking incredibly pale and interesting this evening, little Ashley. I’m minded to lay a few stripes on there. With your permission of course…?”
How polite. And I realize the request is probably rhetorical but answer anyway.
“Yes, Sir, of course,” and as an afterthought, “Thank you.”
Tom steps away, returns with the small chair normally positioned beneath the window. He places it in front of me and brusquely instructs me to bend right over and place my face on the cushion. I obey without comment, acutely aware of my undefended bottom now perfectly positioned as a target for whatever he’s opted to use this time.
His telepathic antennae unerring as usual, Tom puts me out of my misery immediately. “A ruler I think. How many strokes, Ashley?”
I shudder. I much prefer his hand, but I never, ever get a say in this. “I’m not sure. Does a ruler hurt much?”
He lands a sharp, stinging blow to my left buttock. I hiss, my knees almost buckling.
“You tell me, love. How many, Ashley.”
“Christ, I wasn’t ready…” My eyes are watering, my bottom already on fire.
“Well get ready. Fast. How many?”
“Six. I can manage six.” There’s a definite pleading, almost desperate note in my voice, then I yelp as the ruler lands again, this time on the right side.
“That’s ‘six, Sir’. And you’re being a wimp. You can manage at least twelve.” His tone is hard now, implacable.
But still, I’m sure he won’t go further than I agree to. Will he?
“No, Sir. Please—just six.” I’m struggling to keep my balance, to hold the position in spite of the chair. My bum is burning, the sizzle of pain fierce and white-hot. I wait nevertheless, braced for the next stroke.
“Six then. But the first two don’t count, agreed?”
I nod into the cushion. “Agreed. Sir.”
“So that’s three more on each side. Just enough to make a beautiful pattern on your lovely arse and the backs of your legs. I’m going to position them so you have perfect stripes. Hold very still, breathe deeply, ride the pain. Okay?”
My muffled “okay” is a sufficient signal, and he starts. I flinch, yelping into the cushion with each stroke. I’m acclimatized to this treatment now, enough to know exactly where each blow is landing, where each stripe is being painted onto my skin. He works his way evenly and efficiently down the right side, then up the left, allowing me a few seconds between each accurately positioned blow to brace for the next. Not that it helps. It’s absolutely excruciating. Sharp, blistering, biting. Tears flow unchecked across my cheeks, moistening the cushion. Silently I count the strokes, absorbing the force of the blows and never once considering asking him to stop.
It seems a lifetime but in reality it’s no more than half a minute or so after he started that he’s placing the ruler alongside my face on the seat of the chair, the six agreed strokes swiftly administered. He steps back to admire his handiwork, softly caressing my blistering buttocks with his palms. I sob silently as the pain bites again, and this time my knees do give way and I collapse forward to kneel on the floor, cradling my head on my arms. I’m shaking, dragging air into my lungs, waiting for the agony to subside. Tom straightens, stands back, then coldly instructs me to get up.
With some difficulty I drag myself stiffly to my feet, my whole body protesting every movement. Tom offers no assistance. I glance at him hopefully, but he’s leaning casually against the wardrobe watching my unsteady progress. His only concession is to tell me to take my time. At last, on my feet, I drop my gaze as once more he strolls toward me.
“Turn round, Ashley. Let me see your bum.” The command is dispassionate, and once more I obey without question.
Although I know, at some level, that this is a game, a role we are both adopting, Tom delivers it with such authenticity I can’t help but live it too. For now, this is real. I am his, to command and to use.
His fingers are gentle on my sensitive, smarting skin as he trails them across my no doubt glowing stripes. His breath, then his lips are on the nape of my neck, beneath the heavy knot of my coiled hair. He kisses me, nibbling his way around to my collar bone, at the same time bringing his arm around me to caress my left breast. “So beautiful, so sexy. You are truly lovely, my little Ashley. And so brave. You take my breath away.”
I arch back against him, the pain in my bottom evaporating under his gentle ministrations and appreciative murmurs. My eyes close, he takes my weight as he teases and traces my nipples with his fingers, and they harden into pebbles under his touch. I sigh, content, sore but ready to continue.
He senses my return to the zone and whispers in my ear, “Your hands please, behind your back.”
He arranges my hands so that each palm is cupping the opposite elbow, and uses soft scarves from the Bible drawer to secure each wrist against the opposite forearm. Not quite uncomfortable, the position thrusts my breasts forward and pulls my shoulders back. Satisfied that the ties are secure without obstructing my circulation, Tom steps around to admire my body from the front. He runs his fingertips softly from my navel down to the apex of my thighs, across my smooth skin.
“Mmm, loving this new look. I really like you truly naked. I should have done this before. Next time, though, I think you should be waxed.”
“I’ve never, I mean I don’t think I could…”
“There’s a beautician at The Hermitage who can do it. A full Brazilian. We’ll book a session next time we’re there. Or—Nathan could do it. He’s pretty skilled I gather.”
“No! No, not Nathan.” God, I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.
He chuckles at my startled expression. Catching my face between his palms he holds me still to kiss me. His tongue in my mouth stops all further protest, and quickly I’m purring again, deep in my throat as he caresses my body freely. At last, raising his head, he gestures me toward the bed. I make my way unsteadily, my bound hands setting me off balance, but soon I’m kneeling on the edge of the bed, looking back at him over my shoulder. He crouches to pull something from under the divan then tosses a thick leather strap up onto the duvet. He glances at me, winks, then walks ca
lmly around to pull its twin out from under the other side. I look at them in some trepidation, recognizing what they are. Leg spreaders, similar to the apparatus I found under Tom’s bed at Greystones. I’ve never been especially reluctant to spread my legs on request so I’m not sure why they are needed now, but I know better than to question.
“Lie down please, in the middle of the bed. On your back.”
I do so, moving gingerly into the center of the duvet, then sliding first onto my side before rolling slowly onto my back. The soreness in my buttocks has cooled off considerably, but my weight pressing against the bed is enough to make me gasp, the friction every time I move causing fresh sensations of burning across my tender bum. Tom lies alongside me, leaning on one elbow to watch me carefully, every expression I make captured by his gaze.
“Sore?” He asks the question quietly, and I can’t help but harbor a rebellious notion that it’s a bit late now to be concerned with my comfort.
Needless to say, my response is much more restrained. “A little. But I’m fine. Really, Sir.”
He smiles, leans in to kiss me again, deeply and thoroughly. And I forget all about the beating. Eventually he raises his head again, once more capturing my gaze.
“Ready to try out some new toys, little Ashley?” His grin is lopsided, lazy and full of sexual promise.
I know this will be intense. I gulp, take a deep breath and nod.
As if once more reading my mind, Tom asks me for my safe word, reminding me to use it if I need to. Then, leaning to one side, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out—what? A small, metal clip not unlike a hairgrip in appearance. This is prettier, though, especially with the small colored beads attached to the end of each of the arms.
He smiles again. “Here, a present for you. Your very own clit clip.” His tone is light, conversational.
He turns it over in his hand before placing it on my stomach where I can see it plainly. Study it. And I have to admit, it’s a lot less fierce in appearance than I expected. Definitely more clip than clamp, though I suppose those arms could nip a bit.
Leaving me to contemplate my navel, or more accurately the clit clip now adorning it, Tom reaches behind me to grab a couple of pillows.
“Lift up,” he instructs lightly, tapping my hip to signal which bit of me is to shift.
I use my heels and elbows, digging them into the duvet to raise my middle section off the bed, and Tom shoves first one then the other pillow under my bum. The friction against my sensitive skin sets off the soreness again, but the soft pillows are actually more comfortable than the bed was. I sink back, my hips thrust upwards and my shoulders dropping back onto the bed. Tom stands, picks up the leather strap and watches me for a few moments, gauging my reaction.
Then, “I need your legs open, Ashley. Wide open.”
He lifts my ankle to loop the leather around it, pushing it up my leg to my knee. Dropping my leg to rest on the bed, he walks around to pick up the other identical strap. He loops this around my other knee before taking up his position at the foot of the bed again.
“Bend your knees, Ashley. Just bring your heels up toward your bum, and when you feel the pressure start to pull just let your legs fall open. It might feel a bit strange at first but don’t try to resist, you won’t win.”
Dumbly, I lift my knees as instructed. Tom adjusts the position of the straps so they rest across my kneecaps. With a soft whirring sound the straps around my knees tighten, shorten, obviously under the control of some mechanism under the bed. The straps are being pulled outwards, toward the sides of the bed, forcing my legs apart, slowly, inexorably, exposing me to his gaze as he watches my progress.
I gasp as the pressure builds—surely I can’t spread my legs any farther. “Please, that’s enough.”
The whirring stops and Tom comes to sit beside me, running his hands firmly along my inner thighs, his thumbs sliding into the now perfectly smooth crease between my legs and my groin. Looking at me he orders me to breathe in, deeply, and out. And again, and again. And with each breath he massages my protesting thigh muscles.
I am intensely conscious of his fingers brushing so close to my pussy, my swelling clitoris, apparently oblivious to what’s in store, helplessly exposed and already dripping wet. I know he’s noticed, his smirk and playful wink tell me as much, but he doesn’t touch me there. All in good time, no doubt. After a few minutes of firmly working my thighs he stands and returns to his station at the foot of the bed.
Glancing up at me he quirks his lips, the smile so slight it’s barely there at all. “We can manage a little more I think.” The whirring starts again and he stretches me farther open.
He’s right, the tension in my legs has relaxed enough to allow it, but I cry out in pain when my limit is quickly reached.
“Okay, that’ll do.”
The whirring stops, and I lie still, thankful, aware of the silence as he looks me up and down, helpless, immobile, waiting. His eyes on my slick, wet pussy, he strolls around me, carefully looking his fill from all angles. Eventually, “Open your eyes, Ashley.”
I hadn’t even realized they were closed, but I obey, naturally, unable to resist the pull of his magnetic green gaze. His eyes are warm, sensual, and I know that he’s as aroused as I am. I lower my eyes, catch a peek at his groin and can see his cock clearly outlined, huge and hard inside his jeans. I’d say it was wasted in there and I can’t help remarking on it.
“You don’t look comfortable. Sir.”
“Indeed. What an observant little sub you are. Any suggestions?”
“I’d offer to suck your cock for you, but you can see how I’m fixed…” I attempt a nonchalant shrug but it loses much in the delivery.
Even so, his grin broadens and his hands go to his zipper. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure you could manage to oblige me.”
He quickly pulls his T-shirt over his head, then drops his jeans and shorts. Gloriously nude he joins me on the bed, straddles me, his knees on either side of my shoulders. He leans forward, his wonderful cock inches from my mouth. “Open up, Ashley,” he whispers.
I open my mouth, and he slides the head of his cock inside. He stops there, not forcing further, not pressing me. My movement is severely restricted, but I have enough left to reach forward, take more of him. I flick my tongue playfully across the round, smooth head, tasting his juices. He twitches, his breath hissing sharply when I graze my teeth lightly around him. Slowly, he starts to thrust, not deep, not hard or fast. He’s restrained, careful, achingly considerate. I swallow, clearing my throat, ready for more. I lean forward, stretching, the head of his penis nudging the back of my mouth as I start to suck.
“Christ, baby, that’s fucking wonderful…”
His strangled groan arouses me even further, his teeth grinding. He appears to wrestle himself for control, and I know it’s me—I did this, I brought him to this. I increase the pressure with my lips and tongue, signaling my willingness to take this, to take him. I suck again, harder, swirling my tongue around the head, lapping his juices, loving the saltiness. His hands are on the bed behind my head and he’s leaning over me, his thrusts gathering strength. His breathing is labored, hitching in his throat. He growls, one hand in my hair, holding my head still as he takes over the motion completely. I have a moment of fear as I realize he’s completely in control, I can’t move, can do nothing to limit his penetration. Then I relax. When is he ever not in control? He won’t hurt me, will never take more than I can give. I open my mouth wider still, allowing him even greater access, and he takes it.
I taste, then feel his release start to flow. He jerks hard, the movement violent before he stiffens and plunges forward. He growls some obscenity, then my mouth is full of his semen, salty, warm, smooth and thick, clogging my throat. I swallow desperately, clear my airways, manage to suck in air again. He relaxes, is still at last, and I allow my mouth to loosen around him. Slowly he withdraws, rolls to his left and slides down to lie alongside me. He’s on
his back, breathing heavily, and neither one of us speaks at first. Then, he rolls to face me, cups my cheek to turn my face to him. He traces my lips with his thumb, smiling softly.
“That was unexpected. You need to be careful what you suggest to me, sweetheart. I’ve no self-control where you’re concerned. And now, maybe I should return the favor…”
I don’t answer, although that does sound like an excellent idea to me. Sure of his welcome he leans in to nuzzle my neck, then swiftly transfers his attention lower, to my nipples. He suckles them, each in turn, then lifts his head to admire their glistening, rosy hardness. He takes the left one between his finger and thumb, pinches it firmly, testing the tension there. Apparently satisfied, he tests the other too, and I know we’re both visualizing silky yellow ribbons. I sigh, close my eyes, remembering.
His finger sliding straight into my pussy no preamble, no warning, has me stiffening, my hips arching forward. I cry out, though not in pain. The sensation is exquisite as he skillfully probes, finding that exact inner spot, and presses hard. My hips gyrate wildly, despite my restricted movement, my head thrashing from side to side. My readiness is confirmed by the sound of my own juices flowing around and against his hand. I feel the boil and surge of my orgasm gathering, then he suddenly stops, withdraws his long, wicked finger.
“Please, please, Tom, don’t tease me. Not now. I can’t, I need…”
My desperate pleas fall on deaf ears as he moves to kneel between my legs, strokes his palms along my inner thighs toward my knees.
“Your clit looks naked, baby. I think we need to fix that. Don’t you?”
My only response is an incoherent growl, which is apparently not nearly good enough.
“Ashley, if you want me to touch you, you’ll have to answer my questions. Tell me what you want. Do you understand? Are you listening?” His voice has hardened, just a fraction, but enough to make the difference.
