Nawashi
Page 10
He sent them away from the park, annoyed. They put away their black pouches, forgetting them in the bottom of their purses, and began to discuss the demonstration they had planned in front of the adult book store the next day…
Brian stood back and watched her struggle for a moment, enjoying the play of her muscles in the light and feeling the flow of energy between them. Slowly, elegantly, he moved to the front of the horse. As he came even with her head, just for a moment, he paused, knowing that she would be aware of the bulge of his cock inches from her face, which was unable to move. He saw her breathing change, deepen, and something deep within her walls again moved, something dark and primal. He moved closer, feeling her gather another burst of defiance ready to fire off at the moment that his cock actually touched her… and then he suddenly crouched, lowering his face to hers, leaving her with another choice denied.
“Control is easy, Miss Sally. One hand and one rope and you are lying here in the middle of this room naked and unable to do anything.” His eyes turned cruel, and he let a harshness enter the mellow tone of his voice. “I could line up every person with a cock and a strap-on at either end of this horse and let them teach you a lesson in manners that you would never forget, two at a time, and you know what the strange thing is?” He leaned closer. “You and I both know that it would only be what you’ve dreamed of in your masturbatory fantasies for years, Sally. It wouldn’t be punishment, or rape, it would be wish fulfillment.” Again he felt that stirring deep within her, even as her eyes left his, unable to look past the flush of her face, her mumbled “I’m not… ” lost into the leather padding.
He continued, again in the mild tone. “But as you put it, Miss Sally, force is easy. And very tiring, and I have better things to do with my energy this evening. But you will be punished both for your lack of manners and for your reluctance to do penance in the stocks. Then, Miss Sally, you will apologize, and we will go about enjoying this party.”
At the word apologize, her eyes flashed up again, and he saw to his pleasure that the defiance was back again. He returned the intensity of her gaze, meeting and holding her eyes, feeling no need to move as his energy poured into and around her, causing the rope yoke to pulse with the pounding connection between them. She spoke through clenched teeth, and he got the feeling that if the ropes had been in reach she would have chewed through them in a moment. “I will never apologize to you, fucker.”
“As I said, Miss Sally, I won’t earn that title until later. In the meantime, the punishment for the rebellion first.” He stood quickly and drew a riding crop, long woven handle topped with a tiny tongue of leather, flexing it through the air with a whooshing noise, making sure that it was swinging true. Kneeling down again, he matter-of-factly forced the crop between Sally’s teeth and lifted her jaw up, looking again into her eyes. They were still filled with defiance and anger, but there seemed to be something else growing, something else building within them. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she faced him, jaw clenched around the hard stem of the crop. “I’m going to use this to give you twenty strokes for your refusal to submit at the stocks. You will count each one, and add ‘sir’, the appropriate honorific, afterwards. Do you understand?”
He waited a moment to give her the chance to reply. She simply glared up at him. Taking the crop from her mouth, he said. “So. We begin.”
The first whistling slap into the flesh of her ass elicited a shriek from her far out of proportion to the sting of the leather. Brian wanted to warm her up slowly, somehow knowing that the energy they needed for their work required not only the conquest and submission, but sexual arousal and eventually climax. He waited a moment to see if she would count the stroke, and when he saw her sullen form lay there silent, he shrugged and lay down two more, slightly harder, observing her start and yell after each.
Moving to her head, he again let the crotch of his trousers fill her field of vision, keeping her very aware not only of her vulnerability but also of her own particular fetish for the male organ. He was playing with extremes, stoking her desire for him at the same time that he purposely instigated her struggle against him, knowing that when the one overcame the other, the power of both would be combined. Crouching down, he said, “Miss Sally. Was there anything about my instructions you did not understand?”
She actually growled at him. “I will not do anything you say. You can’t make me.”
“We shall see.” He stood, leaned over again, and added “So. We begin again.”
He ran the tongue of the crop over the skin of her buttocks, letting it trace around the three marks already left there, and then, just once, let it dip in and stroke the labia peeking out from between her spread cheeks. The energy surged at that, her slight cry and sudden tensing of her thighs only the most superficial indication of the feelings suffusing her body. He rode the wave of sexual stimulation, letting it carry his arm back and driving it down with a snapping gesture. As the tongue hit, she let out another shriek, this one deeper and more genuine, and though he waited to hear if she would count, there was nothing more from her shaking form.
Brian struck nine more times, this time, letting the red marks form a pattern of rectangles lining either side of the cleft of her ass. He’d applied them to the upper curve of the cheeks, five on each side. She twisted within the rope yoke, arms flailing but knowing better than to try and block the blows, her cries getting deeper and throatier as each blow struck her. With every blow the level of power between them increased a tiny amount, the rhythm and shape of the marks causing a cycling resonance to build.
Once again the front of his trousers, now noticeably bulging, filled her eyes, and before she could stop herself she felt her head move towards it—then the resistance re-asserted control and she just gritted her teeth. As he knelt again next to her, leaning close, his soft tone caressed her ear. “Miss Sally, that was ten strokes of the crop.” He paused, to let her think about that. “Since you didn’t count aloud, however, they have to be repeated. It’s a very simple task I’ve given you, Miss Sally, and we will continue this until you have fulfilled it.” He did not wait to hear her response; rising, giving her a last murmured “So. We begin again,” he moved to the back of the horse and resumed a quick series of strikes, letting them fall harder this time, no sensuality involved.
The cycle was repeated three more times before she showed the first signs of breaking, a low moan at the repeated “And so. We begin again,” this time the strike of the crop followed by a soft, almost wailing sound.
“One.”
Brian smiled, and let her count out the next five. Then kneeling before her again, he let his hand come up and stroke her hair and cheek. Sally’s face leaned into his palm for just a moment, eyes closed at the sensation of gentleness, before her eyes snapped open as she fought her own desire to submit. The stream of sexual power traveling between their eyes seemed as tangible as the rope that held her to the sawhorse, and he let it flow and hold as they both breathed. He could see the question in her eyes.
“You’re wondering why I stopped. It is because I am feeling merciful, Miss Sally.” He watched the hope for release blossom in her eyes, and turned his voice cold and hard. “I very specifically told you to follow every count with a measure of respect. That is, after all, why you are here.” Leaning in, he used his voice like the crop, striking her walls of resistance with every syllable. “You will follow every count with a ‘sir’, Miss Sally. Until you do—we begin again.”
She didn’t break at that. Her inner fortress was still strong, in spite of the assault now coming from both Brian’s work and her own deeper desires. The tendrils of his awareness now covered it completely, each breath a new growing branch of pressure on her resistance, which nonetheless held firm, and she was able to ignore, still, the stirring something behind the walls. So she didn’t break.
But the tears came.
And at the next hiss and snap against her flesh, a clear “One, sir!” rushed from her throat.
He held the pattern of the mark in his mind, and set it in lines of bright power across the image of the house. “I am Man; I am Protector; I will care for my own,” he whispered, not knowing where the words came from but knowing they were right.
The pattern flared in his mind. The second Ward was cast.
The Wrinkled Man was becoming annoyed.
With the failure of his minor Tools, he had decided to use a more blunt object, and had planted the idea to search the Mother’s house for drugs into the mind of a police officer in a patrol car nearby. He’d expected the search and seizure to go as smoothly as always, with the rights of the Mother lost in the scandal of the planted drugs, perhaps a plea bargain found if she were willing to manufacture the complicity of the Troublemaker in her habit, the Daughters held in “protective custody” as they began their voyage through a series of foster homes…
Instead, on the way to the house, the officer had suddenly seen a speeding car and decided to give chase, ticketing and then lecturing the hairy tattooed man driving the car. Unfortunately the man had not been nearly as disrespectful as he’d looked. “Yes sir!” and “Sorry, sir!” were uttered in the humblest of tones and all his paperwork was in order.
Then when the officer did get back on the road, he couldn’t find the house. He drove up the street, counting the house numbers, and somehow kept missing it. The Wrinkled Man couldn’t see how the man’s eyes were sliding off of the two story house every time he passed, how the man’s mind justified the change in the house numbers.
The Wrinkled Man attempted a deeper contact with the Tool, and as a result when the man made the fourth attempt to find the house of the Mother, the spiking headache that flashed into the Tool’s head traveled through the connection and caused the Wrinkled Man to wince.
He was becoming annoyed. Now he knew what was happening, and the Troublemaker was becoming more than a nuisance; he was becoming a danger.
The Wrinkled Man frowned. There was only one response to danger, of course.
Annhilation.
She made it through the rest of the strikes, managing a full count to “Twenty, sir!” When Brian congratulated her on her cooperation, she simply lay there, no longer crying but with her cheek lying against the wet leather under her. He moved on to punishing her for the original slight with a more traditional spanking, letting the palm of his hand lay a stinging glow of pain over the sharp welts left from the crop. The skin of her ass became a steady burning ache, around which the rope and their connection flowed and throbbed.
The spanking added another level of energy as well. There was a way of striking, an upward, thudding slap to the underside of her cheek, that would not hurt at all—rather, it sent a jolt of pleasure through her, making her shudder and give quite a different cry, a soft mewling hungry sound. Brian used theses strikes sparingly, at first, only occasional giving her the pleasure in among the stinging blows. Gradually they increased in frequency, though, the burning melding into the pleasure slowly until they were indistinguishable. He gave ten of the pleasure strikes in quick succession, watching her spine arch, lifting her ass in eager anticipation and struggling for friction against her engorged vulva, rubbing over the leather now slick with her sweat and fluids. Suddenly he stopped, and her ass hung there, beautifully arched, red and patterned and hungry for any sort of stimulation.
Brian moved again, deliberately, to the front of the horse, suddenly becoming aware of his own body, sweaty from exertion, the white shirt sticking to his chest. Though his breathing was deep and even, the energy filled his arms and shoulders, traveling up and down his spine, making his head thrum like a high-tension wire being plucked on a suspension bridge. His cock was fully erect, a silhouetted contour under the fabric of his pants, and as it neared Sally’s head again, she didn’t hesitate, moving her cheek over to nuzzle it, laying little nibbling kisses along its length, pushing the top of her head down under the pouching shape of his testes, rubbing up and down.
He pulled away from her questing mouth, bending over to murmur in her ear. “I know you want the cock, Miss Sally. And it wants you, as well. But we have some way further to go on this path. You have paid the price for your disrespect; are you prepared to behave appropriately now?”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was low, throaty, hoarse. “Please, sir… I need your cock. In my mouth, in my pussy, I just need it in me. Please.”
He was surprised at that. He had felt her surrender, felt the way it was tied in to her desire. But this raw need blazing from her eyes—they were heavy lidded, and he felt them drink up the energy like a stroking caress along the connection between them. Prepared to continue fighting resistance, her sudden predatory lust had him off balance, and he didn’t know what to say.
He overcame his hesitation, deciding to go for the direct route and shock her. “Oh, suddenly the high and mighty stylish Miss Sally has become a little slut, has she?”
“Yes, sir. I am a slut.” None of the fury he had expected from her; instead, he felt the way his words had enflamed her lust even more, the air beginning to take on that heaviness that signified the gathering of true power. “I am a cum-hungry cock slut, and I want your cock, now, sir, please fuck me, somehow, some way.” Her voice dropped slightly, in a throaty growl. “You know you want me, too, sir, you want this ass, this pussy with your cock deep inside, my lips wrapped around sucking you dry. Please, sir, fuck me now.”
He stood there, a moment, enjoying the feeling, letting some of the direct sexual arousal flow back into him from her… and was struck by the thought, Why not just do it? He was ready, she was more than ready, they could fuck and release this tension right there. He was suddenly aware of how tired his body was, in spite of the energy that suffused it, the muscles under the pulsing scars of his Mark beginning to burn with the lactic acid buildup. He had no idea of how long they’d been there, but suddenly it seemed like hours, and the desire to simply stop, to simply give in to the urges they both had and let their bodies go where they would seemed overwhelming.
There were Tools, and there were Tools.
Most of the Wrinkled Man’s Tools were little more than impressionable humans who had been encouraged to stop thinking too thoroughly about the world around them. Over the centuries, the Wrinkled Man had assembled enough of an infrastructure, especially in this young culture, that he rarely lacked for material to work with.
When that material was not enough, though, he used his Mauls.
They had been with him for a long time. They had worn many uniforms, adorned with flags of all nations, from lansknecht to green beret. They were used when oblique force was not enough, when the Wrinkled Man decided that a Troublemaker was worth more than the usual lazy elegance with which he sucked the life of the culture into himself.
The Troublemaker had found a way past them once before, but Mauls had long memories; they would not forget him, nor what they owed him. Now he sent two, disguised as lesser Tools, in a uniform of black with shining black plastic nametags, with singleminded purpose. Find them. Take them. Destroy anything that gets in the way.
They were the only tools that knew who it was that used them.
They never smiled.
The rope held him.
The rope that still bound her, that still glowed in his mind, white hot with the flowing lines of pain and desire that had coursed under it, the beauty of the pattern that it made drew him back from the edge of raw desire.
The line of its shape drawing over and pressing on her skin, providing both support and resistance to her movement and his ministrations to her. It whispered of a greater goal, a larger reward than the rush of orgasm and the release of simple endorphins. It hinted at the possibility of a spiritual aesthetic peak within reach, of the deliberate combination of discipline and desire into something greater than the sum of the individuals.
He surrendered to it. Rather than let the fatigue and desire push him into taking her with surge of animal lust, he let the pattern of the rope and the energy it conducted wash them away. It was like relaxing back into a salt sea, feeling the energy supporting him and carrying him past the temptation and into the smooth calm of centered readiness. And in that centered place, he was able to see and realize the true nature of her submission.
She was not actually submitting at all. Her walls were strong as ever, in fact energized and strengthened by the same sexual power that flowed through him and the rope. This was another, more subtle form of rebellion, an attempt to control the situation not through defiance but through lust. He smiled, then, with the satisfaction of knowing the game was far from over, the acknowledgement of a worthy opponent. He moved back to her, letting her head nuzzle him again, her lips now actively sucking at the swell of his cock under the trousers. He knew she could feel the pulse of his heart through the blood vessels there, and he concentrated on that, letting the energy flow into her deeper and more, increasing her own desire in a false security of her impending victory. “You’re a cockslut, then? A cum-hungry cockslut ready to be fucked any way you can?”