Single White Submissive

by Madeleine Oh

  Fear flushed her body, even though she knew Rikard was not a pirate, that there was no crew waiting to ravish her to death if she failed to satisfy him. Her heart pounded, and her palms sweated, as if the scene he’d described was real.

  He stroked her cheek again, turning her face so that he could read her expression.

  “So, my sweet pirate prize. Do you want to play?”

  “Yes, Master Rikard. I want to play.”

  “Pirate booty does not wear clothing. Take it off.”

  He released her, stepping back so that he was out of her way. Quickly, Gayle pulled off the clinging top, then unzipped the leather skirt and stepped out of it. She dropped her clothing to the floor, and stood naked before Rikard.

  His blue eyes gleamed within his mask as he approached her. Softly, slowly, he reached out and glided his gloved fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, around her breasts, across her nipples, down her stomach, over her hips, and around her ass. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and sighed with pleasure.

  Something warm and wet touched her shoulder, and her eyes flew open. Rikard was kissing her, with a gentle openmouthed kiss that was barely firmer than a breath. He licked her shoulder, then traced the line of her muscles and vein with his tongue, placing another soft kiss in the hollow of her neck.

  “From now until the end of the scene, you will address me as Captain. If you need to stop the scene for any reason, refer to me as Master Rikard.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “The first thing I must do is make sure you can’t jump ship and try to swim to safety.” He opened the wine cabinet and dug in one of the baskets. Triumphantly, he turned to her holding a pair of black leather wrist restraints and a rough length of hemp rope.

  “Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.”

  Quivering, Gayle did as he instructed. She was giving him her trust and belief in addition to her obedience. With her hands bound behind her, she’d be unable to fight him off if he decided to try something she didn’t want him to do. But she had no doubt that she could stop him with a word.

  Getting into the game, she pleaded, “Please, Captain. Don’t tie me up. I promise I’ll do everything you ask. Everything.”

  He chuckled. “Saucy wench.”

  The length of rope flicked out, rasping lightly across her ass cheeks. She gasped, more surprised than pained.

  “You’ll do everything I demand anyhow, or I’ll see you walk the plank.”

  A delightful tendril of fear skittered up her spine, her skin turning icy. Her nipples tightened into hard buds, from the cold, her growing excitement, or both.

  Rikard’s gentle hands placed the restraints around her wrists, testing the fit and ensuring that her shoulders were not pulled too severely. Then he wrapped the length of rope around the restraints, not tying it, but letting the rough hemp brush against her wrists and forearms. Her mind transformed the padded restraints into heavy loops of rough rope.

  He circled around her, admiring her naked body. Gayle held up her head and stood rigidly beneath his examination.

  “Yes, you’re a proper lady. I can tell. But you’re my prisoner now. I’ll break you of that soon enough, and have you begging and moaning like the commonest of gutter trash.”

  She tipped up her chin in defiance. “Never! I am a lady, Captain. And nothing you do to me will make me less of one.”

  He sucked in a deep breath, a slow grin lighting his face. “I do love a challenge. But I can’t have you disagreeing with me. This is my ship, and what I say goes. If one of my crew dared to contradict me as you’ve done, it would be twenty lashes of the cat, until he learned to keep a civil tongue.”

  Rikard stalked closer, his gloved hand shooting out and gripping her chin in a firm hold. She couldn’t pull away or twist out of his grasp, but his fingers merely rested against her skin rather than digging into her flesh.

  “But I’ll forgive you this time, if you beg. Get down on your knees and beg me not to whip you.”

  Gayle stiffened her back, completely lost in character. “A lady does not beg, Captain.”

  He laughed, deep and low in his throat. “Right. It’s the cat for you, then.”

  Grabbing her by her upper arm, he dragged her over to a waist-high bench, and bent her across it. He loosed the rope and unlinked the wrist restraints, then pulled her arms out to the side, clipping the restraints to rings at the top and bottom of the bench. Gayle tried to lift her upper body, and found herself unable to move. She had never felt so completely helpless.

  Hot fluid gathered between her legs. When Rikard slipped his booted foot between hers and kicked her ankles apart with a gentle nudge, flattening her completely against the bench, a trickle of fluid coursed down the inside of her thigh.

  He moved away, returning a moment later swishing something back and forth through the air with ominous snaps. Narrow strips of leather trailed across her shoulder blades.

  “This is the cat. Twenty strips of leather, each with an edge sharp enough to rip open that delicate skin. And you’re getting twenty lashes with it. You’ll be nothing but a bloody wreck from your graceful neck to your sweet, tight ass. Sure you don’t want to beg?”

  Gayle trembled. Rikard wouldn’t really slice her back open. She remembered his desperate panic in the kitchen when he feared he’d hurt her. But stretched across the bench, the lashes of the cat sweeping back and forth across her quivering skin in teasing caresses, she had trouble believing she was not at the mercy of a bloodthirsty pirate.

  “Never,” she whispered.

  “One.” The whip rose and fell, the tips of the lashes flicking across her shoulder blade before the body of the cat smacked her upper back.

  Gayle cried out in shock and surprise. She hadn’t expected he’d hit her with no warning. But it hadn’t hurt.

  “Two.” The lash tips flicked across her other shoulder blade, followed by the heavy smack of the body.

  “Eighteen more to go. Are you certain you don’t want to beg?”

  “Do your worst!”

  Rikard laughed again, the low sound chillingly unlike his normal melodic laughter. The cat smacked her shoulders over and over, as Rikard counted his strokes.

  “That makes ten.” He trailed the whip’s lashes down her sensitive spine. “Halfway there.”

  “You’ll never break me, Captain.”

  “Your skin is a lovely shade of pink, blushing like a virgin bride’s. Where else could my whip touch you? Where else are you a virgin?”

  The lashes stroked down, feathering across her ass, and tickling her crack.

  “Are you a virgin here?” he whispered, one leather-clad finger following the path of the whip to press lightly at her hole.

  Gayle moaned, her ass clenching tightly in reaction to his invading finger. What would it feel like to have him press his finger not just against the entrance, but actually inside? Two fingers? His cock, slicking in and out of her ass?

  “Captain, please.”

  “Please stop? Or please continue?”

  “You’re right. I am a virgin, there.”

  “And…?”

  “You’re a pirate. I’m a lady.”

  “No, I’m a pirate and you’re my prisoner. If I wanted to slide inside that tight hole, pumping in and out until you screamed, I could do it, and no one would stop me. I’m the captain of this ship. My word is law.”

  His fingertip tapped lightly on her sensitive nerves. Gayle gasped, her muscles tightening and contracting. More fluid trickled down her leg.

  “But you didn’t finish whipping me. Or do you want to leave my challenge to your authority unmet?”

  “I answer every challenge.”

  The cat tickled and struck the firm globes of her ass, once on each side. She didn’t think he’d hit her harder than he had before, but what had felt like a weird kind of massage on her shoulders felt mildly painful on her ass.

  “Thirteen.” The whip hit her first ass cheek exactly where it
had struck before, wringing a soft whimper from her. It didn’t hurt, so much as burn.

  “Fourteen.” He slapped the cat against her other ass cheek, again in the exact same spot as his first strike.

  Gayle moaned low in her throat.

  “Fifteen.” Another smack, falling on her already tender skin, then again on the opposite side.

  “Sixteen. Are you ready to beg yet?”

  “Never,” she panted.

  Rikard slapped her with his gloved hand. She clenched her ass muscles, determined to resist him, even as her breath grew short, and her body trembled, eager for him to claim her.

  “I said I was giving you twenty strokes with the cat.” His leather-clad palm smacked her ass with short, sharp strokes, rocking her against the bench. “If I hit you with something else, it doesn’t count.”

  “Vile pirate! I might have known you wouldn’t keep your word.”

  His right hand continued to fall rhythmically on her ass cheeks, his left pressing lightly at the top of her ass, covering the base of her spine, while his thumb gently spread her cheeks. Her ass burned, each stroke a brief sting, followed by a glorious heat that spread down her thighs, and pooled deep in her sex like a hot spring just waiting to burst forth into a steaming geyser.

  “Master…” she moaned.

  Rikard’s next slap never fell. “Master…?”

  Belatedly, she remembered she was to call him Captain, and to call him Master Rikard would end the scene. She had not used his full name, so he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stop or not.

  “Captain. I mean Captain. You can spank me and whip me until the deck of your ship runs with blood, I will never beg!”

  “Oh, you will beg, my pretty slave.”

  His fingertips smoothed across her stinging ass, cool upon her heated flesh. She shivered beneath his soft caress, desire flaring hot and wet, even as fear rippled through her, tensing her muscles.

  “You will beg for me to let you come, for me to end your torture. You will beg for me to hit you, again and again, until you explode from the ecstasy. And if you beg sweetly enough, I just might give you what you need.”

  He slapped her ass, hard enough to hurt instead of just sting. Gayle’s knees buckled, and all of her weight rested on her chest and stomach, stretched across the bench. Warmth trickled down her inner thigh. She moaned, crushed beneath a landslide of fear and desire.

  “No. Never,” she whispered.

  “Have I not warned you not to contradict me? That merits another twenty lashes with the cat.”

  Gayle whimpered. He teased her with the body of lashes, stroking them over her hot and swollen ass. Was he going to whip her there?

  He lifted the hand holding her down. Oh, God, he was.

  The cat smacked her ass, wrenching a cry from her. She couldn’t endure twenty of those. She couldn’t.

  “Seventeen. Eighteen.” The cat smacked the other side of her ass, pulling another cry from her lips. “We never finished the first set.”

  She moaned. She was going to die. Her entire body was on fire, rivers of flame coursing through her veins with every pulse, driven by the beating tempo of his strokes.

  “Nineteen. Twenty.” He paused, and this time, it was the cessation of blows that made her give a pained cry of helpless need.

  Rikard inhaled deeply, his shuddering breath hinting that he was growing as excited as she.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “You begin to understand.”

  The cat’s lashes landed on her shoulder blade, harder than the previous blows, and spreading further. The tips swept outward from her spine, then outward from her spine on the other side, as if Rikard was tracing giant figure eights. Sometimes harder, sometimes softer, sometimes faster and sometimes slower, he varied the whip’s caress so that she never knew what to expect. Then she stopped trying, and just allowed herself to feel.

  Sting. Smack. Pain. Heat. Pleasure, thick and heady, coiling deep within. She began to grunt, low and guttural, with each blow.

  Rikard paused, his gentle fingers stroking soft caresses over her ass, reminding her that she was still delightfully sensitive there.

  “Do not grunt like a pig,” he admonished. “God gave you a voice. Use it. Sing for me.”

  “I don’t understand.” She nearly cried, devastated that she might not be able to please him.

  “Relax your throat. Open your mouth. Hold in your mind the sound of a perfect high C.”

  The whip fell on her ass, and she released a high, shrill note of pain and pleasure.

  “That was more like an E-flat. But much better.”

  She was being ravished by a pirate with perfect pitch.

  Then his whip landed on her shoulder blades, and she cried out in joy, careful to lower her tone a minor third. Again and again, the whip stroked her with flaming lashes, and she sang out in need and hunger.

  She waited, trembling in anticipation, but the whip did not fall.

  “That was twenty,” he said softly.

  “No. Please. Don’t stop. I’m so close. Please. Don’t stop.”

  “Are you begging?”

  “Yes. Please. Whip me again. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Rikard stroked her shoulders with trembling fingers, then smoothed her skin with his gloved palms. Gayle was certain that he molded her body anew out of sheets of living flame, holding her untouched in the center of the blaze.

  “Please, Captain. Please. Let me come. Don’t stop.”

  “I can refuse you nothing when you sing.”

  The whip fell again, and she sang. Slowly, relentlessly, she climbed the scale, a quarter-step at a time like some strange Indian modulation. Each blow drove her higher, deeper into the heat and flames, surrounded by music that pulsed and rippled like nothing she’d ever heard before. Finally, with a long, drawn-out A above high C, she climaxed, shuddering and shaking as the orgasm thundered through her body like a surging series of arpeggios.

  And then the music claimed her, and she was gone.

  * * * * *

  Rikard smiled at the limp, sweat-soaked woman sprawled across the whipping bench. He felt sated with power, relaxed and replete. Her charming insistence that she would never beg had made him as hard as the leather-wrapped handle of his whip, eager to prove her wrong. And her voice as she came! Perfection.

  His lips twisted, self-mockery spoiling the moment. His proficiency in playing the human body had grown over the past two years, after he realized the scar tissue in his left hand would never allow him to play the piano again. Like a blind man whose hearing grows acute to compensate, he’d been given another instrument to assuage his loss. Sometimes it helped.

  Now, though, his ears were filled with Gayle’s slow rise to that final, drawn-out note. His mind stacked chord progressions beneath, with a series of descending sevenths in staccato triplets as counterpoints.

  He freed her arms from the restraints, then lifted her up to lay her on her side on the bench. Popping the recessed latch on the concealed closet, he retrieved a thick white robe in soft French terry. The logo of some hotel he no longer remembered was embroidered on the breast in gold thread.

  Carefully, he wrapped her in the fluffy embrace of the robe. She gave no sign of awareness, letting him dress her as if she was a rag doll.

  Another thrill of power surged through him, stiffening his cock. He’d well and thoroughly pleased her, his touch shooting her deep into whatever place subs went when their minds left their bodies. If all went well, when she woke, she’d be eager for sex. He didn’t always want sex with his submissives. Often, the rush of dominating them was enough. But he wanted sex with Gayle.

  He’d take her from behind, the reddened marks of his whipping visible on her pale, perfect skin as he thrust into her, again and again, driving him into a frenzy until she came in a crying symphony of delight.

  But first, she needed to rest in warmth and safety. Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her from the room.

  He was almost at the
doorway to the home theater when an annoyingly chirped rendition of an old Motown classic stopped him in his tracks. What the hell was that?

  “Shit!” Gayle’s cell phone.

  Chapter Five

  Rikard hurried into the kitchen. Placing Gayle’s limp body in one of the chairs, he held her steady with one hand while he dumped her purse out on the table. There!

  Grabbing the chirping phone, he flipped it open and took the call.

  “Hello. Gayle can’t come to the phone right now.”

  There was a moment of silence, followed by a woman’s accusing voice demanding, “Where is she, and what have you done to her?”

  “She’s right here, but she’s asleep. And as for what I did, I’ll say she enjoyed it, and leave it at that.”

  “I don’t believe you. Put Gayle on the phone.”

  Rikard took a deep breath, and flipped the switch in his mind that engaged the other new instrument he’d been gifted with after his accident. He’d studied self-hypnosis as a way to manage the agonizing pain of the third-degree burns, working with the visualizations his therapists suggested. It hadn’t been very effective until he’d tried recording himself, and playing back his spoken suggestions. Then it was surprisingly successful. Even more surprisingly, he developed the ability to hypnotize others into sharing his visualizations—or any other belief he wanted them to hold.

  “Gayle is asleep,” he repeated, his voice vibrating with hidden emphasis. “She is safe, and you have no cause for fear. Call back in an hour, and she’ll speak to you then.”

  “Well, if she’s really asleep, I suppose you shouldn’t wake her. I’ll call back in an hour. But if I still can’t talk to her then, I’m calling the cops!”

  “You are a good friend to her. She will thank you for your concern when she wakes.”

  “She’d better.”

  The phone went dead in his hand.

  He dropped it onto the table, ignoring the scattered debris from Gayle’s purse, and lifted her into his arms again. That had been close. He’d sworn that she’d told her friend all was well and not to call again. Then again, he hadn’t heard her entire conversation, just snippets between the sizzles of the tuna steaks. It’s possible her friend had convinced her to continue the calls. Or else, her friend had called back despite Gayle’s request to leave them alone.