by Frost, E J
“Happy to demonstrate. Signal whip’s a good starter if yeh have some experience already. Can Emily take that level of intensity? She seems, delicate.”
My Kevlar baby doll, who held up so well against the worst I had to offer?
“We’re still exploring her limits, but I think we could work up to a whip. She’s done great with a tawse and a silicone paddle. The paddle stings like fuck.”
Niall chuckles. “I have a fiberglass one. Vashi calls it Daruka. That’s a Hindu demon.”
I join his laughter. “Emily hasn’t named my paddle yet—”
“Satan’s paddle?” Emily chirps from my other side.
I have to grab the treadmill’s handrail to keep from falling off while I laugh. “You cannot call my favorite paddle Satan’s paddle, little girl.”
“Fine, Sir,” she grumbles. “Belphegor, then.”
I’m going to have to look that one up, but I can guess the name is not flattering. “If Belphegor doesn’t like his new name, he’s going to give you ten on a very sore spot.”
Emily sticks her tongue out at me, then blushes as bright as the gorgeous color her tits turned this morning and becomes engrossed in her treadmill settings while Niall and I laugh.
“I can see yer girl shares my subs’ feelings about paddles,” Niall says, still grinning.
I give him a wicked grin back. “Let’s see how she feels about canes.”
* * *
At ten of twelve, I knock off my treadmill and give Emily a nod. She says good bye to Barbie-tits, polite girl, but I notice she doesn’t invite Rose to watch the scene. I gather up my bag and water bottle, lay my arm over Emily’s shoulders and steer her towards the changing rooms.
“How are you feeling about the scene, baby doll?” I ask, once we’re out of hearing range of the treadmills.
She looks up at me with nothing but happy anticipation in those big eyes. Whatever her reasons for not inviting Rose to watch the scene, it wasn’t embarrassment or trepidation. “Good, Sir. Excited.”
“Me, too. Your safe word is still airplane, if you need to stop, and the ship’s safe word of ‘red’ will bring the monitor running. If you can’t speak for any reason, three hard slaps on my hip or wherever you can reach, and I’ll stop and check in with you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Anything you’re worried about?”
She shakes her head. “Just excited, Sir.”
“Good girl.” I give her a swat on the ass to send her into the ladies’ changing room, while I head into the space I’ve reserved for our scene.
I expect to have a few minutes to prepare and take in the lay of the land, but the coed changing room is already full of people. It’s a confined space anyway, sandwiched between the ladies and men’s changing rooms along a corridor leading from the gym to the sauna. Through the door, there’s a double-row of lockers to the left, an open, tiled floor that’s clearly the scene area, and a wall shower between two toilet cubicles to the right. An open cubby by the door holds towels, hand-sanitizer, baby wipes, bottled water, and the ever-present, complimentary lotion. Maybe the California kinky crowd suffers from chronically dry skin.
Despite the crowd, the scene monitor is easy to spot. He’s a Pink Pearl Dom, wearing a pink arm band. He’s also wearing black jeans and a black tee, so I guess the thong isn’t mandatory. When I approach, he shakes my hand and introduces himself as Paul. I tell him the broad outline of the scene and Emily’s safe word, while he shows me the emergency kit, which includes a defibrillator and medical shears. Since I intend to restrain Emily during the scene, I appreciate knowing where the shears are. Paul helps me move a wide, heavy, padded bench from beside the lockers to the middle of the scene area. He makes a quick inspection of the toys and tools I’ve brought before giving me a nod and stepping back.
I turn to the crowd lining the walls, which is about thirty strong, many more than I expected. It’s mixed: men and women. About half are naked, and it’s nice to see there are a couple of older people in the crowd. After a decade in the lifestyle, I’m not self-conscious, but the constant parade of perfect tans and twenty-something hard-bodies on this ship makes even my confidence flicker.
I clear my throat and speak to the audience the way I would before a scene or demonstration at Blunts.
“Hello, I’m Logan. My submissive’s name is Emily. We’ll be doing a medium intensity punishment scene. Unless she’s a very bad girl during the scene, I’ll be rewarding Emily at the end of the scene with sex. I’ll be restraining her and using impact toys. Emily’s already marked and I will be marking her during the scene.”
Not everyone is comfortable with welts and bruises, even during impact play, so I figure I’d better give them a warning. I wait a moment, but no one leaves. In the silence, I see Niall wander in, fresh from a shower, naked except for a towel draped around his neck, carrying a gym bag. All the nakedness should help put Emily at ease.
“Emily and I are fluid bonded,” I continue, to avoid any objection when I don’t use a condom. “No one touches Emily but me. I won’t tolerate verbal or physical humiliation of Emily at any point, for any reason. Emily’s a little and sometimes presents as a young girl. That’s normal for her. It’s not regression or traumatic stress.” That’s something I looked at closely when I was researching littles, since I’ve had bottoms regress during scenes and there was nothing fun or sexy about it. “Emily’s safe word is airplane or red. I’ll take questions after the scene while I’m doing her aftercare. I think that’s about all.”
I look around, checking the audience. They’re quieter than a crowd at Blunts would be. Thirty pairs of expectant eyes watch me, but no one says anything, so I figure I’ll just get on with it.
I poke my head out into the corridor. Emily’s waiting; she smiles when she sees me.
“Ready, baby doll?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Her eagerness is evident even through the jitters are making her twist one of her ponytails around her fingers.
“That’s my girl. Let me duck into the shower. One minute and you sneak in. Ignore the people watching. Eyes on me.”
She bites her lip. “Are there a lot of people in there?”
“Emily.” I deepen my voice. “It doesn’t matter if there’s one person or a hundred in there. Where are your eyes?”
She could say something like, “in my head.” If she was a brat, she probably would. Instead, she immediately softens, drawing into herself so she seems even smaller, eyes going wide as she looks up at me. Such big, vulnerable, baby eyes.
“On you, Daddy.”
Her voice has gone smaller, softer, higher. Her little calls to something in me. Something that’s always been there, but I’ve suppressed because it was too closely linked to my feelings for my sister. Now that I’ve put that ghost to rest, I’m free to explore this element of my kink. My pulse thuds in my ears, and in my cock. I can’t wait to get my hands on her.
To satisfy the smallest part of my urges, I draw her to me and kiss her forehead.
“Good girl. One minute. Count it out.” That will give her something to think about other than the crowd in the next room.
I slide back through the door, stripping off my clothes, and duck quickly under the shower, rinsing off the sweat from my workout.
Just as I reach sixty in my own internal count, Emily’s big eyes appear around the doorway. She doesn’t take in the crowd, just locks eyes with me as she sneaks around the corner. Such a good girl.
I stride out of the spray, knocking it off as I go.
“Miss Martin, what are you doing in here?” I boom. “This locker room is off limits to you.”
She takes a step back, eyes going even wider, lower lip trembling. She actually looks afraid. I feel a tug in my chest, but I don’t soften at all as I stalk towards her.
“I asked you a question, Miss Martin. What are you doing in here?”
“S-sorry, coach,” she whispers, in that small, high voice.
“That’s not
an answer. What are you doing in here?”
She looks around wildly, as if the watchers will provide her with an answer.
“Eyes on me,” I bark and her cheeks pale, but her eyes snap to mine. “What are you doing in here? If I have to ask again, there will be consequences, Miss Martin.”
“I-I just need a towel, coach.” She reaches hesitantly towards the pile in the cubby.
“A towel?” I scowl at her. She starts tugging on her ponytail, digging a hole in the floor with the toe of her sneaker the way she did during our scene in New York. Such cute gestures of uncertainty and nervousness. “I know for a fact there are towels in the girl’s locker room, Miss Martin, because I put them there. So that’s a bald-faced lie. You snuck in here to get a naughty peek at me naked. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Do I tolerate lying on my squad?”
She shakes her head. “No, sir.”
“No, I do not. Do you want me to kick you off the team, Miss Martin?”
Her face dissolves and tears fill her eyes. This was one of the parts we discussed, so I know this isn’t a trigger. She’s just deeply into the role. “No, coach. Please, please don’t strike me from the squad, sir. Please, I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
A tear spills, and she whimpers. “Please don’t strike me from the squad.”
“Are you sorry?” I ask as I take her arm and draw her over to the bench. “I don’t think you’re sorry at all, except maybe for getting caught.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t answer.
“I expect answers to my questions, Miss Martin. You’re not sorry, are you?”
She nods vehemently. “I am sorry, coach, sir. I am. I shouldn’t have come in here. I know it’s off-limits. I’m very sorry.”
“You know it’s off-limits, but you came in here anyway. You deliberately broke the rules, is that right?”
Another tear spills but she doesn’t answer.
I slap her cheek. It’s not a hard blow, and I catch her in the right spot: the padding of her cheek instead of on her jaw or cheekbone. It’s a shock rather than real pain. But, boy, does it get her attention.
She drops to her knees, babbling apologies.
“You will answer me when I ask you a question, Miss Martin,” I growl at her.
“Yes, sir!”
“You deliberately broke the rules, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you lied to me about it, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m very disappointed in you, Miss Martin. Very disappointed. Get up. Take off your clothes. I warned you there would be consequences and now you’re going to find out what they are.”
She shakes her head as she rises to her feet. “Please, no, sir. Please don’t make me. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t believe you, young lady. I think if I let you walk out of here now, you won’t have learned anything at all. Take off your clothes.”
Still begging, she pulls off her tee and bike shorts, toes off her running shoes, and stands in her white socks, sports bra, and plain white knickers. She’s rolled her socks up over her knees, which is both adorably sexy and frames the “target” of her thighs nicely. No lingerie, no fetish-wear, just her plain undies and socks and she has me ragingly hard.
She crosses her arms over herself and hangs her head, eyes shooting left and right, glancing at the crowd in her peripheral vision.
“Eyes. On. Me.”
Her head snaps up and her eyes lock on mine.
“Look away again and I will double the number of strokes. In fact, Miss Martin, I think we’d better cover those eyes if you can’t look where you’re told.”
I reach into my toy bag and pull out the blindfold I bought for her. It’s shaped like a sleeping mask, in rose-pink satin, with sequins around the edges and a rim of soft pink feathers. The sequins spell out Sweet Dreams, Sweet Girl, across the fabric.
Emily’s eyes widen when she sees it and her mouth drops into an O. She lifts her eyes to mine again and mouths, “Ta very much, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome,” I mouth back, then growl, “Close your eyes.”
She does, immediately. I fit the mask over her eyes and tie it snugly around the back of her head. I run a finger under the strap to make sure it’s not too tight before saying, “Take off your bra and knickers and hand them to me, Miss Martin. You can leave your socks on.”
“But I can’t see,” she protests.
I give her a sharp smack on the hip, which has her yelping and rubbing the sore spot. “Bra and knickers.”
“Yes, sir.” She pulls them off awkwardly, unbalancing as she pulls her knickers off. I catch her elbows to hold her steady. When she’s balanced again, she holds out her underwear to me.
“Give me your wrists.”
She does, holding them out correctly to be bound. I really do need to send her old top a bottle of wine or something to say thank you for training her so well. I loop her sports bra around one wrist, twist it to create a soft bar between her wrists, and tie off the straps around her other wrist. I test her circulation, then let her hands drop in front of her.
I walk around her, circling the bench, evaluating her. Despite her jitters, she’s doing great. Her breathing’s steady, color high in her cheeks. Her nipples are firm points. This morning’s play left her with a couple of red spots on her ribs and thighs where the paddle wrapped, and her bottom’s still bruised from the hotel spanking. Otherwise, her skin glows cream and pink under the changing room’s halogens. She’s such a gorgeous girl when she’s naked.
I know she can hear me moving by the way her head follows me. She does better keeping her “eyes” on me blindfolded than she did with her eyes uncovered.
I pause behind her and run my fingertips across the bruises that decorate her ass, then pinch one purple mark until she squeaks.
“It looks like someone has already had a few licks to her bottom, Miss Martin. Is that right?”
She brings her bound hands up and buries her face in them, trying to hide her embarrassment.
I give her a flat-palmed swat on top of the bruise. She yelps. “Sorry, sir!”
“I expect answers to my questions, Miss Martin. Did someone’s ass already get a few licks because she was a naughty little girl?”
“Yes, sir,” she admits with a sniffle.
We talked about this part beforehand and she showed no sign of embarrassment or remorse. But put her in the scene and she’s flushing pink and snuffling. I have no doubt that if I lifted the blindfold, there would be real tears standing in her eyes. Little sweetheart.
“And here we are having to work on truthfulness again,” I say. “I think that’s earned you ten strokes for each lie. That’s twenty strokes, Miss Martin.”
“Yes, sir.” Another sniffle.
“That’s a large number of strokes for a little girl, isn’t it?”
While I’m speaking, I move to my toy bag and take out two canes. They’re the same: junior, rattan, straight canes, oiled and flexible. Canes break; it’s just a fact of using canes, so I put the spare under the bench and hold the cane I intend to use in my hands.
Emily rubs her bound hands under her nose, sniffling. “Yes, sir. Twenty is a lot.”
“Then you’ll want to do your very best not to earn more strokes, won’t you, Miss Martin? Open your mouth. You’re going to hold the cane for me while I put you in position.”
She whimpers but opens her mouth obediently, keeping her tongue flat behind her teeth. So very well trained.
I balance the cane on her bottom teeth and then push it back as though I’m inserting a bit. “Bite down gently. Do not damage my cane, Miss Martin.”
“Yethir,” she says around the cane.
“Very good.” I don’t call her a good girl, yet. She needs to earn that. I make another circuit around her, enjoying watching her turn her head to follow me with the cane clamped between her teeth.
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I stop behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and turn her so she’s facing the bench. “I’m going to lift you up, Miss Martin. You’re going to plant your feet and bend your knees. When I pull you backwards, you’re going to sit back against me like you’re sitting in a chair. Do you understand me, Miss Martin?”
“Yethir,” she says.
Her ready agreement is no surprise; she nearly swooned when I explained “chair position” while we were discussing the scene. “Omi-goodness, that’s so domly,” she told me, which had my cape snapping in my ears and gave me a new word for my personal lexicon.
“You will hold the position while I give you ten strokes on your thighs. Under no circumstances will you move out of this position until I tell you we’re done. Do you understand me, Miss Martin?”
“Yethir.”
I move my hands to her hips, grip her firmly and pick her up. She finds the bench with her feet, plants them and bends her knees exactly as instructed. There’s that attention to each command that fills my soul. I take her hips in my hands and pull her backwards. Without flinch or pause, she leans back, trusting me to hold her. I bring her down until her back rests against my chest, then take a half-step forward so she’s well-supported. She relaxes, not going limp but letting me take her weight. Her trust makes my blood pound in my ears.
I take the cane from her mouth with one hand and close the other around the fabric bar between her wrists, guiding her bound hands up and over my head. Her back arches as her arms stretch. The bra settles against the back of my neck. Her weight rests more firmly against me and I wrap my right arm around her waist to keep her steady. Her head tips back against my shoulder, telling me she’s ready.
I use the cane to tap the outside of each thigh until she brings her knees together and gives me a perfect target. Switching the cane to my right hand, I warm her up with flat-palmed slaps across the tops of her legs. She presses her thighs together with each slap; this is more pleasure than pain for her, little masochist. She presses her thighs together as I pepper them with slaps and makes a little keening whimper. Is she coming?