by Trent Evans
“Yes, Sir.” Her hands clutched both sides of the blouse. She was grateful for something to hold on to her fingers trembled so much.
His arm reached around her, the warm hand sliding up her belly. Fingers worked at her bra, releasing the front clasp in moments, the lace falling away to let cool air caress her breasts. “How will you react when we make you walk down a city street in a skin tight shirt but no bra? Your hard nipples on display for all to see?”
Clutching them both in his big hands, he squeezed her breasts firmly. “I think we’ll make you wear some nice tall heels too. Get those hips rolling and these tits bouncing.”
She dropped her eyes as her deep blush traveled down her neck, the flushing evident even on the slopes of the breasts still clutched in his big hands.
“I love your reactions,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You can’t hide anything from me, you know.”
“Yes, Sir.” She didn’t want to hide anything from him — ever. She only hoped it would be enough, her submission the key that would unlock his heart to her.
He spun her around, forcing her chest against the window. His hands pulled the blouse and loose bra out to the sides and she gasped as her breasts made contact with the cold glass.
“Don’t you dare move,” he growled. He clawed at her slacks, yanking them down along with the black thong.
“Sir, wait I—”
“Shh, just be a good girl. Obey me.”
Breathing labored, heart racing, she closed her eyes against the embarrassment of it. She felt as if every eye down below was trained upon her now, watching the girl with her naked boobs squashed against the window.
Urging her to lift each foot in turn, he slipped off her heels. His hands massaged the grooves the straps left in her flesh, then pulled her slacks completely off. Naked from the waist down, she fought the insanely powerful urge to bring her hands down to cover her pussy. They could see all of it!
“Spread your legs.”
His hard hand stung her ass, and she tried to ignore the embarrassing jiggle of her flesh. “Wider.”
She moved her feet shoulder width apart, trying to ignore the image of what she must look like; the dark patch of pubic hair drawing the eye like a beacon to the sex nestled between pale thighs.
Strong hands gripped her buttocks, kneading the flesh. “God, I thought about this ass all day long.”
Erica’s breath hitched as his fingers dipped into the valley between the cheeks, stroking the velvet flesh of her bottom hole.
“I had Jack Weber giving me construction estimates for the new server farm, and all I could think about was being inside you, fucking this wet cunt.”
A hand smacked against her soft labia, and she yelped. Despite the sting, she could feel the slickness of her sex increase by the second. He always knew how to touch her — just that right mix of roughness, possessiveness. His fingers spread her labia apart, the air cool on her heated inner flesh. Two thick fingers slid in, sinking deep into her wetness, and a low moan escaped her lips.
“All ready I see,” he chuckled, planting a light kiss behind her ear. “Soon enough, bad girl. Soon enough.”
There was a sound of a zipper lowering.
Oh, God! Please don’t make me do this here.
Erica turned, dropping her hands from the glass, moving to step around him. “Wait, not—”
His hand clasped her upper arm in a bruising grip, his other hand grabbing her by the hair, pulling her up short. “What are you doing?” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
“I can’t do that… there.”
Blaine’s hazel eyes locked with hers, boring into her, searching. She saw the warmth there, warring with the lust, the need to control, to own her. He kissed her, hard, his tongue plundering her mouth even as his fist twisted further in her hair, holding her fast. He bit her lip, sucked on her tongue, the almost imperceptible growling from deep in his chest making her pussy spasm.
“You’ll do what I tell you, girl. No questions.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s just—“
A finger, scented with her juices, pressed its wet length across her mouth, silencing her.
“What happens to girls who disobey? Slaves who disobey?”
Erica knew this was right, had fantasized about this as long as she could remember. It had felt like a dream come true meeting a man like Blaine. However, sometimes it unnerved her, the reality of her submission more raw, more intense than even the darkest of her fantasies. She reveled in it even as she tried to flee from it. Flee from the woman she was deep inside… the slave who craved this.
She whimpered as he jerked her head, the sensitive roots of her hair protesting.
“I’m waiting.”
“Slaves are — punished, Sir.”
“That’s correct.” His voice lowered, the sound vibrating in her chest, through her pussy. “And do you deserve to be punished?”
No! Yes! I don’t know!
“Yes… Sir.”
“Good. You will be.” He released her hair, and pointed at the bed. “Bend over the side of the mattress and wait for me.”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered. Blaine left the room, the door closing with a quiet snick, the lock thrown with authority.
Get it together, Erica.
She splayed a hand over her ass as she walked away from the window. She knew she was being ridiculous; it was unlikely anyone on the road below could see much in the waning light of the evening. The sun was nearly set, the clouds on the horizon awash in pinks, lavenders, and deep blues.
Folding herself over the edge of the high mattress, she felt the heat of her blush as a bead of moisture escaped from between her labia, wetting the curls of her sex. Punishment always did that to her, the anticipation and dread becoming all mixed up, confusing her. Soon the pain would clear her mind, simplify everything into nothing but sensation and reaction.
The waiting was as bad as the punishment (okay, maybe it wasn’t quite as bad), and she knew Blaine took great joy in making her wait. He never told her how long she’d have to stew until he'd carry out the sentence. He’d make her lie there for two minutes, or twenty. She never knew, and that uncertainty was itself a cruel certainty of any punishment. Blaine believed that punishment needn’t just be physical — it could be psychological as well. Getting into, and messing with, a sub’s head was a favorite technique of his… and in that, he wasn’t alone.
Shivers coursed through her body at the thought of what Kathryn would do were she to walk into the room and see a bare-bottomed Erica laid out like this for punishment. Though Blaine could be scary when he wanted to be, it was her Mistress who truly terrified Erica.
The fact that such terror held more than a slight undercurrent of excitement to it disturbed Erica. Was it normal to be turned on by fear? She knew the answer to that — and it didn’t lend her any comfort. She wasn’t sure she knew how it was possible to be both scared to death of the woman, and yet have her pussy be soaked at the thought of being under her thumb.
It made no sense, but Erica had long since passed trying to sort out her desires. Things were just too tangled up, her sexual motivations so convoluted as to make any determination of the whys of whom and what she was, impossible. She’d just learned to accept it — mostly. Someday she would examine those motivations more closely, but right now, all she cared to do was surrender to sensation, surrender to her Sir, to her Mistress. Nothing else mattered.
The door opened again, and she heard his heavy footfalls draw near. Something solid hit the mattress near her head, the air current disturbing a strand of her hair.
“No, not there. Other side, Erica. I want that ass facing the windows. Better light.”
She gulped, nodding. Erica had hoped he’d let it go, but as usual he didn’t. Why did she hope for something she didn’t really want? Leniency wasn’t what she wanted. Quite the opposite, actually.
As she moved around to the other side of the bed, her eyes alig
hted on what he’d dropped on the mattress.
The paddle.
It was a broad rectangular piece of dark leather; flexible enough not to cut her with harsh edges, but with enough stiffness to give her what she knew he intended — a roasted ass.
He took up the paddle, swinging it a few times through the air, practicing his form. He brought the leather to her face, the smell of it strong and clean. “Kiss it.”
She pressed her lips to the cold leather, her face burning with a deep blush. He took away the leather and presented his fingers to her lips. She gently kissed those too, his hand leaving her with a caress of her blushing cheek.
It was a well-practiced ritual, but it didn’t make it any easier. Her Sir liked to draw out a punishment, luxuriate in her embarrassment, strip away any last vestiges of her dignity, and finally, enjoy her pain. it sounded crueler than she really thought it was; he was quite open about enjoying inflicting pain — but only if the person receiving it wanted it too. She was ashamed to admit she was very much that person, disturbing to her though it had been when she'd finally come to grips with that fact.
His hand stroked her hip. “Legs together.”
She complied, squeezing her thighs in a vain effort to hide her sex from his gaze. She knew that with her height, bending over the bed would blatantly display the swollen folds of her pussy.
As if to confirm this, his palm patted her labia. “I love the way your pussy peeks back at me this way.” Hands smoothed over her buttocks. “But I’m afraid this won’t do. Move your feet back.”
“What?”
“Come on, girl. Move them back,” he said, landing a slap to her bottom. “Your ass is too tight bent this way. I want those cheeks loose for your punishment. As much as I enjoy watching your cunt weep for me as I discipline you, I don’t want you clenching.”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, pressing her burning face to the thousand thread count sheets. She shuffled them backward until her heels came off the carpet, the weight of her legs on the balls of her feet.
“That’s better; keep those thighs nice and tight now.” His hands roamed over the taught hamstrings. “God I love these legs. These were what I most wanted to get my hands on when I first saw you, Erica. These long legs of yours. So powerful, so graceful.”
All she could think about was wrapping those legs around his waist as he pounded into her needy cunt. But first, she would receive her punishment… eventually.
She hissed in pain at the harsh pinch to her inner thigh. “I’ve got plans for these legs, girl.”
Those little comments made her wonder. Erica had agreed to see both Blaine and Kathryn on a regular basis. In truth, it had quickly evolved into a one-sided arrangement: one of them would call her, and she would arrive at the predetermined destination, aroused, fearful — and hopeful. She considered if perhaps their arrangement was about to change. How would it? Was she ready for it if it did?
Hands smoothed over the curves of her bottom once more. “Kathryn didn’t believe me when I told her about this ass,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. He grasped a cheek between finger and thumb, shaking it back and forth like a dog chewing on a toy. “But when she finally got a look at it, she marveled at it.”
She did?
Erica, like many women had a love/hate relationship with her ass. It gave her great, forbidden pleasure when her Sir caressed it, spanked it — even fucked it. But she thought it was much too big. Cursed, when other tall woman typically had slender hips and asses, she bucked the trend with what was (to her mind anyway) her too plump bottom.
“You still with us, Erica?”
“Oh — sorry. Yes, Sir.” The feel of his hands on her drove her to distraction, the thought of his thick cock pushing between her cheeks sending her mind spinning, even as her pussy clenched with need.
He continued. “Yes, well. Like I said, she couldn’t believe it. I think I remember hearing her use the words ‘dream girl’.”
Erica was stunned. She felt so inadequate when in the presence of the icy, steel-willed Kathryn. Half the time, she wanted to either kneel at her Mistress’ feet, or raise her ass for her whip. It was ridiculous of course; why would she respond in such a way to that callousness, the sometimes arrogant indifference? Could a woman even be described as arrogant? If so, Kathryn could occasionally resemble the remark. Something about the woman spoke to Erica though, spoke to her on a level that simply compelled her to want to do one thing.
Obey.
Kathryn was so different from Sir, though not in a way that left him wanting in Erica’s eyes. No, to Erica, nothing about him would ever be found wanting. Nevertheless, the two certainly differed dramatically in how they treated her, their styles of dominance. To Erica though, they were just two halves of the whole — she responded (God did she) to both of them, regardless of their differences in technique. Her pussy knew what she wanted.
“That first night we all got together,” he said, his fingers stroking up and down the crevice of her buttocks. “She was almost uncontrollable.”
It was at an outdoor light festival, one of several put on display around the city during the winter holiday season, where Erica had agreed to first meet them together (she’d seen Blaine alone before). Nervous as hell, Erica had perched herself on one of the wrought iron chairs, her breath fogging in the chill night air. There were people all around her of course, everyone bathed in the dazzling white light of the displays, but the only two she registered were Blaine and Kathryn. Two beautiful, powerful, unattainable people — both there for her.
God, she was so beautiful, so far out of Erica’s league! She’d thought for a moment about just slinking away, wanting to avoid the humiliation of those strangers’ eyes comparing her gawky frame to the classical beauty of the willowy, elegant Kathryn.
They’d stood and moved away, just out of earshot of her (she’d tried to listen though, oh yes, she’d tried). Erica had watched them talk, watched them stare at her, the cold possessive calculation in their eyes sending chills down her spine, yet moistening her pussy.
“She wanted me to bundle you up and take you home that very night. No taking ‘no’ for an answer, either. Ours — whether you liked it or not. She told me she wanted me to hold you down while she caned your ass until it turned purple.”
Erica’s mouth went dry at the thought. Her pussy, however, had an entirely different reaction to the frightening imagery.
Jesus Christ, Erica. You slut.
Cold leather covered her ass, tapping gently, and she froze. “Do I have your attention?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Oh God, here it comes!
But there was no burst of pain, no loud crack of leather on flesh. Nothing.
The tension in her calves and hamstrings was already building, and waiting for her agony to begin only made it worse.
“I’m waiting.” The leather tapped her bottom.
“Sir, I don’t …”
“You’re clenching. Relax them.”
“Sorry, Sir.” Consciously willing your tense buttocks to relax in the face of an imminent paddling was not a natural act, and despite the fact that this wasn’t the first time he’d admonished her for clenching, she still had a difficult time complying with his order. Her cheeks just wanted to huddle together fearfully, as if they could better weather the coming storm. She couldn’t blame them.
“Now, girl.” The leather snapped down, heat blooming across her skin.
Come on, loosen. Relax! Get it over with, Erica.
“There, much better.” He pulled the leather away, and his hand lightly smacked each cheek a few times. “I like to see them shudder and wobble as I punish you. That doesn’t work when you’re clenching, and keeping those cheeks tight just makes the strokes hurt worse. Unless, that’s what you really want. I can oblige your needs by hitting harder if that’s the case.”
“NO! No, please, Sir!”
Her face heated at his low chuckle. “Okay, girl. Maybe another time we can
explore just how much you need that pain, hmm?”
She didn’t answer, afraid one day he’d go through with it; afraid one day that he wouldn’t go through with it.
He laid the paddle across her ass once more, the leather still, menacing. “Why are you being punished?”
“Because I disobeyed you, Sir.”
“You did, though admittedly it wasn’t too serious an offense. You’re mostly a good girl.”
“Thank you, Sir.” She wanted to turn around and kiss him. Praise helped her, gave her strength for the ordeal to come. The pain was bad enough; his disapproval with her was worse.
“You just… lost your head for a moment,” he said. “Still, punishment is called for here. How many do you think you deserve?”
None! A hundred! Shit.
“As many as you think I deserve, Sir.” Her voice broke ever so slightly on the last word.
She tried to marshal her courage, to be strong. It was this way every time, a warring within her between the urge to flee — fight or flight — and the urge to tell him to hurt her, that there wasn’t enough pain for her.
“Good answer,” he said. “I think ten will do — a minor offense after all.”
The first stroke landed with a loud pop in the quiet room. The tip of the paddle wrapped around her bottom and bit into her flesh. She knew if he gave her a few more like that, she’d wake up tomorrow morning with nice, deep bruising on that far hip.
The next blow was harder, and seemed to cover the whole of her cringing bottom, sending the cheeks bounding.
Relax, relax.
His hand stroked gently over the marks. “Good start here.”
The next blow was much harder, and she yelled at the smart, the sting digging deep into her buttocks. “Felt that one?”
“Yes, Sir.” She drew still once more, urging, begging her body to cooperate.
The leather whipped down four more times in quick succession, and though they were just as hard as the previous strikes, she just managed to keep still for them, her cries muffled by the sheets she clutched to her face in desperate, white-knuckled hands. His growled voice admonished her to loosen her cheeks again before the last blow.
