Fate

by Nikki Sex

  “It is very well, ma petite lapine,” André said, smoothing both hands over the reddened globes of her beautiful derrière. “That last strike has left lovely red marks,” he said admiringly, his voice was deep with lust. Even in her blindfold, this little sub would be well aware of how she had aroused him. “I did so enjoy your story. Do you know what happens now?”

  Emily snorted. “I’m guessing that we don’t get to call it a night and go home? In which case, I suspect, Sir, that you plan to hit me some more.”

  André chuckled. “You speak of further pain, and yet you are not afraid. Emily, I will not kiss your sweet mouth, and I will not have sex with you. Yet, it would please me to touch you, and to bring you to orgasm.”

  Her immediate giggle again had threads of gleeful hysteria in it. André waited patiently, for her to calm. “This amuses you, ma petite lapine?”

  “Yes, Sir. It’s really funny. Except for that one night with Paul, it’s almost impossible for me to have an orgasm in front of anyone.”

  “Oh?”

  She shrugged. “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to have any trouble coming with you either,” she said with a gleeful snicker that turned into a hollow sort of laugh.

  André pulled her hair, a hard sharp tug, to get her attention. Emily gasped, but stopped laughing. He stroked her, running his fingers through her hair, soothing the small bite of pain.

  “Listen to me, ma petite lapine,” he said, making his voice low and dangerous, reminding her of his authority over her. “I am going to hurt you, and I am going to make you scream out your sexual release, as I do.” He gave her hair another slight tug.

  His little sub was doing very well, André mused. Yet he couldn’t allow her to continue facing this trial with laughter. Laughing was often an expression of rejection, a demonstration that she was having difficulty confronting the scene. Emily had to be here, with him, in the moment.

  It was his job to see that she was.

  André continued to stroke her head, letting her think things over. He bent close to her, and whispered seductively in her ear, “Do you wish to use your safe word and end this, petite lapine?”

  “No, Sir,” she whispered back Her body had returned to trembling. He went to the fridge, and brought her water with a straw. Obedient to his will, Emily drank it.

  “I am well content with you, Emily,” he praised, absently running his hand over her cheek and over her head. “This is much to take in, and I would prefer a gentler gradient up this hill. Yet it was your choice, to learn about pain as quickly as possible because of your dilemma. You have learned something. If you wish, we can end this now. Or we can go further.”

  Moving his hand along one heated buttock, André trailed it down to her leg. He squeezed Emily’s thigh with what he judged was just the right amount of pressure. The flogging had increased her blood flow, creating acute sensitivity to her skin. Her sex was pink and swollen; she could be aroused and brought to orgasm easily. His thumb brushed the outer lips of her sex, an intentionally tantalizing touch.

  André had learned very early on, that the sound of his voice was one of his most powerful tools. It was an integral and instinctive part of being a Dom. Soft whispers of seduction, or commands of authority in differing volumes, pitch or tone. André was a master of voice, his instrument of which he was a virtuoso.

  He knew just how to encourage this little sub’s compliance, and how to get her to accept more pain.

  “It would please me to continue, Emily,” he whispered in a tone of dark seduction, his warm breath brushing sensually along her throat and behind her ear. “I wish, oh-so-much, to watch you thrash and burn with pleasure when you surrender everything you are to me. In France we call it ‘la petite mort,’ meaning ‘the little death.’ It is used to describe the post-orgasmic state of unconsciousness and spiritual release. Trust me, Emily, it is my intention that you experience la petite mort this night. Tonight you will learn how pain and pleasure together, can cause a state of transcendence that you’ve never known.”

  When she blushed and shivered from arousal, he smiled, knowing that she would not refuse him.

  Emily took a deep breath. “I can always use my safe word, but I do trust you, André. I kind of need to know the worst. Besides,” she added with a mischievous grin, “every girl can use an orgasm. Let’s keep going.”

  “Very good.” He stood up and picked up the flogger and softly trailed it across her back. André noticed it raised goose bumps. “Emily, now you will tell me, in great detail, how Paul Jarman fucked you. You may begin.”

  As she began, so did he. Once more, gently using the flogger on her. Swish, thud; swish, thud. Emily spoke to him of Paul, of how he touched her and made her burn and beg with shameless need. André smiled as he worked, enjoying her story. He increased the force of his flogging, but also began to do things to Emily that Paul had done to her.

  With his hand cupping her mound, André pushed two fingers into her soaking wet heat and earned himself a sound from Emily that was a cross between a cry and a groan as her tight channel pulsed.

  “Oh my God!” Emily cried out.

  "You are very wet and swollen," André said, when she bathed his fingers. “Tell me, ma petite lapine, do you know what arouses you? Is it the erotic memories of Paul? The delicious feel of the flogger upon your sweet flesh? Or both?”

  While he spoke, André’s fingers explored Emily’s sex in a heated, sensual caress. Stroking delicately, circling, he was careful not to brush against her clit. He fondled her, watching as this teasing assault to her senses made her breathless and needy. With his other hand, he continued to slap her rhythmically with the flogger.

  Emily moaned, apparently unable to answer. Pleased, André chuckled and continued to sometimes fiercely, and sometimes delicately, work on her. He was Michelangelo, and she was the Sistine Chapel. Using all his skill, this little sub’s lesson concerning pain was a work of art.

  For his own pleasure, with both hands on her thighs, he buried his face between her legs. She was young and swollen and tasted sweet. Every response to his touch was a delight, as he teased her into blind aching need, and then eased back. She jerked, and twitched and called out as his tongue swirled, his fingers delved deep inside of her, and his teeth nipped.

  When he covered her with his mouth and sucked, her clit pulsed and she very nearly came. André adored it all, causing her pain, causing her pleasure, and making her mindless with desire.

  One lick at a time over her young flesh, over and over again. Then he would stop, and flog her. At one point, André thought she would climax when the tails of the flogger slapped against her pussy. It had been very close. This most responsive sub would be easy to train.

  André began to envy Paul Jarman.

  His cock ached and throbbed with the need for his own release, but he ignored it. Orgasm control was not difficult. Once, many years ago, he’d been trained, too. He had never forgotten those lessons. Besides, the mental stimulation and challenge he was enjoying from mastering this sweet sub, more than made up for his lack of climax.

  “You did not answer me, ma petite lapine,” he said softly. “What is it that excites you?”

  Emily was too far gone. He checked his watch; an hour had passed. For some time now, André had brought her near orgasm, and pulled away, and brought her back again repeatedly. Now, she was a creature of pure sensation. Mon Dieu, she was in a perfect place. The place where so much stimulation had overwhelmed her senses that even more stimulation becomes meaningless.

  When she gave a deep moan, André didn't know if she was responding to pleasure or pain. He’d already given her a number of crisscrossing welts on her back and buttocks. They would be sore for a full day, perhaps more, and they would itch after that. Most of all, they would remind her of her submission.

  Each time she remembered, André knew that Emily would smile.

  Originally, he’d planned to bargain with her, to get her to accept more pain for the price of r
elease. That had been unnecessary.

  This one only thinks of the man, Paul Jarman, and she surrenders. It is an important lesson. When she returns to her senses, we will discuss it.

  Sweating profusely, thrashing and making incoherent sounds, his little rabbit looked as if in she was running a high fever. Everything he did to her brought her passions higher. Emily’s body flinched after one heavy strike. She gasped, her face screwed up, and she began to cry.

  Had he gone too far?

  André stopped, sat down near her head, and whispered French endearments encouragingly whilst smoothing his palm over her face and hair. “You are weeping, ma petite. All is well?”

  The woman sobbed, and sobbed, replying in mumbles and disjointed sentences. She spoke of her mother, her father, and Paul’s parents. She talked of betrayal and trust, and love and loss. But mostly, she spoke of Paul.

  André’s chest ached. For a moment, he was swept away by the raw depth of her emotions. There was so much feeling, held tightly inside her.

  Such passion! Such pain! This grief and sadness came from burdens she carried. Emily’s tears were a form of purifying, emotional release.

  Feelings, beliefs, and disjointed thoughts flowed from her. He listened and acknowledged them all, until there were no more words. It was enough. Already, this little sub had experienced more in one night than many others would ever know.

  André kept his hand upon her, a foundation for her soul to cling to as he took her through the experience. His fingers trailed across her shoulder, her back and her buttocks until he worked between her legs once more.

  "Ah, ah, ah!" she began to mindlessly chant as André's thumb stroked her wet, engorged clit in a manner that was expertly calculated to madden her.

  This time, instead of pulling back, when he felt her entire body tense and still, ready to explode he said, "Come for me, Emily. I want to feel it. Come now."

  Carefully choreographed, a number of things happened at once. André slapped the flogger down hard across Emily’s beautiful derrière and back. At the same time, he flicked her clit, and buried his fingers deep inside her.

  Emily reacted with instant thrashing violence. She screamed and writhed with pleasure, she wailed and howled with pain. The walls of her tight muscular channel contracted around André’s fingers like a vice.

  "Oh! Oh, Ohhhh!" She pulled against her cuffs, whimpering and moaning as powerful tremors and a trance-like bliss overtook her.

  Time stopped for a few heart beats.

  André was in the zone. Spellbound, he heard Emily’s every sound, and watched her every movement. Never would he tire of witnessing such passion, such perfection and ecstasy. Could anything be more exhilarating than seeing a beautiful woman fly from an earth-shattering release?

  La petite mort. Spiritual transcendence, obtained by his hand, while under his care.

  Dom space, that heady feeling of god-like control, could only be called otherworldly. André soared with her, for he’d been transported, too.

  Beautiful. So very, very beautiful!

  Chapter 27. A Best Friend

  From: Candy

  To: Paul Jarman

  Subject: Naked

  I’m seriously considering shaving THERE, because the man I’m dreaming of likes it that way.

  Love,

  That Possibly Soon To Be Totally Naked Cabo Woman

  ~~~

  From: Paul Jarman

  To: Candy

  Subject: Naked

  Shaving THERE? For me? I’m overwhelmed. You’re going to look amazing. Did you know shaving increases sensitivity? Shaved skin should also be regularly soothed by a warm, wet, tongue.

  True story.

  Paul

  ~~~

  She was floating in a lazy, pleasant dream.

  Man, I’m buzzed, Emily thought. Where am I? What’s going on? All she knew for certain was that someone was taking care of her, someone she trusted. She felt safe and warm and comfortable.

  It took some time for the aftershocks to end, and to come down from her stratospheric high. She was vaguely aware when André uncuffed her, and soothed and gently blew on her welts. A wet wash-cloth moved softly over the skin of her back and buttocks, cooling down the heat of her stripes.

  Gentle hands applied a soothing lotion, and Emily became aware of making animal sounds of pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure. Yes, she thought quite clearly hearing in her mind the way that André pronounced the word, stressing the ‘s’es.

  Her memory returned suddenly, yet Emily didn’t open her eyes. They felt too heavy, just like she did. Languid, lazy, and content.

  ‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,’ she mused and mentally giggled. The truth was that the tornado had taken her up, far away, but it had safely brought her back again.

  It felt as if she’d suffered a high fever, but now the fever had broken. Someone was softly stroking her hair. She opened her eyes.

  Emily rested on her stomach, the silk sheet and blanket keeping her warm. André lay beside her. Jesus he was so patient. He watched her, a pool of calm still water, waiting for her come back to herself. While he waited, he gently stroked her hair.

  Exhausted, Emily gave him a faint smile. André smiled back at her. Understanding, appreciation, and affection lit those dark brown eyes. He appeared to be on a high of his own.

  “Hey,” she said with a hoarse voice.

  André patted her shoulder comfortingly, got up and went to the fridge. When he returned, he wrapped the sheet and blanket around her, cradled her in his arms, and brought her up to sitting position, resting on the headboard. Then he offered her a cold drink, which she accepted gratefully.

  Chocolate milk, she realized. Man, I love this guy.

  When she finished, he put the carton on the table. Emily felt comfortable in his arms while he rested against the headboard. He still looked immaculate, his clothes pressed and perfectly tailored. All he was missing was his shoes.

  “It is well, ma petite lapine?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sir. All is very well.” The drink had soothed her throat and her voice was normal once again.

  “You may call me André,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “The rules, they disappear. When we walk through public areas of the club, we shall be sub and Dom once more. But for now, in this place, we are equals and we speak as friends. How do you feel, ma petite lapine?”

  Emily held the blankets around her, and shook her head. “I’m blown away. That was seriously amazing.”

  With very little prodding from André, Emily talked through her experience, what she felt, the emotions it brought out, and how grateful she was. He asked if she could explain her tears, as he did not feel he had hit her that hard. She choked out a laugh, and said yes he had, and that she had the welts to prove it!

  He explained that he’d rubbed antiseptic and analgesic cream into her skin, and that she might feel it for a day or two.

  It was then that she discussed her family, her friends, and her life. Words poured out of her like water through a crack in the dam. Emily told him that her tears had been indescribably cleansing of the stressful and repressed issues that she’d struggled with for so long. Her mother’s depression, her father’s irresponsibility, Paul’s father, and her ongoing issues with Paul.

  Her girlfriends were off at college. How could they relate to her problems anyway? Emily felt as if she was in limbo. She’d been existing, but not fully alive. The reality had come crashing in on her. When her flood of words became a trickle, she began to feel embarrassed.

  “Sorry, André,” she said. “I hope I’m not boring you. I’ve never talked like this before. It’s a relief. Quite frankly, I feel so much better. Lighter. I know it’s trite, but I feel as if a weight is been lifted from my shoulders.”

  He looked at her with bright eyes, clearly suppressing a smile. “Ma petite lapine, you flatter me. The way you feel, including this desire to talk, it is quite normal. With the release of passion, comes this need.
The mind tries to make sense of the emotions and reactions of the body, yes? J’ assure, you do not bore me.”

  He handed her a block of dark chocolate, which she took gratefully. “It is best to eat some, perhaps all of this, for you have been through much this night.”

  “Thank you.” She broke off a piece, and happily began chewing. She’d eaten a good dinner, but chocolate was perfect.

  “What I wish to tell you is very important. Are you listening, Emily?”

  Emily met his eyes. “Sure.”

  “You have achieved a very great high, yes?”

  “I sure have.”

  “Bon. Sometimes a person reacts, after such a high. It is called subdrop. Physically, you may feel unwell, perhaps cold or dizzy. Mentally and emotionally you may suddenly feel guilt or shame or begin to cry for no reason. There are many possibilities. You have gone against the cultural norms, by allowing a stranger to tie you, naked to a bed, oui? I tell you these things so you are prepared. None of this may happen to you. Or perhaps later tonight, or tomorrow, something will. For now it is important to be well rested, well slept and well fed, you understand?”

  Emily nodded.

  He handed her a plain white card. The name André Chevalier was written in cursive on it, as well as a phone number. “Call me, anytime. You are my responsibility. I will be there for you.”

  “Thank you, André. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

  “Good. Now do you still fear pain as part of a scene?”

  Emily laughed. “I’m still not that keen on the concept, but I’m not terrified anymore, that’s for damned sure. Wow. I had no idea that pain could make everything so much more intense. It was overwhelming. That was more than sex. That was a mind, body and soul moving experience.”

  “Now you understand, ma petite lapine. Pain is a sensation, neither good nor bad. What you experienced today was pain for the purpose of enhancing pleasure. Pain as punishment, is a dissimilar thing. I try to avoid using pain as punishment; however, your Paul Jarman may choose to do so. As a Dom, I favor the use of the carrot, not the stick.”