Rich Tapestry

by Ashe Barker

  “Go ahead.”

  “Will you use your hand? Or something else?” I cast my glance around the room at all the alternatives surrounding us. He’ll be spoiled for choice.

  “Yes. Bare hand, bare bottom. So much more intimate, I think, especially for your first time.”

  I let out a breath, only now realizing I was holding it. His decision comes as a relief. I do prefer his hand for this. I definitely do. I just nod my acceptance and lean across the bench obligingly. Dan crouches alongside, tinkering with some part of the structure to raise the height by lengthening the legs.

  “The sub in here before you must have been tiny. We need this a good few inches higher for you. Just stand up a moment while I sort it out.”

  Again I obey, feeling distinctly lanky and ungainly in comparison to the indubitably petite submissive who last graced this bench. I fold my arms across my chest, the action sub-conscious until Dan draws attention to it.

  “What’s wrong, Summer?”

  “Nothing.” The response is automatic, but of course he’s not buying that.

  “Okay. Five extra strokes for not being honest with me—and perhaps yourself too. And a further five for forgetting your manners. Now, do I ask you again?”

  Ten extra strokes! Christ, how did that happen? I cringe. “I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just, I think… I’m not sure.”

  “Well take your time. Be sure. But I want an answer. And ‘nothing’ isn’t it.”

  He continues to adjust the height while I grapple with my insecurities, finding the words to say what’s on my mind. When he’s satisfied the bench is just right for me, he straightens.

  “So, Summer…?”

  “I’m too tall. Lanky. Gangly. I feel awkward.” There, it’s out. I’ve said it.

  Dan’s expression doesn’t alter. He stands back, rakes his eyes up and down me, from the top of my head to the tips of my now bare toes then back to meet my gaze again.

  “Slender is more how I’d describe you. Willowy, perhaps.”

  “But…my tits are too small,” I blurt out my biggest body self-image issue before I have a chance to stifle it. Perhaps just as well, as he doesn’t take kindly to filtered responses as far as I can see.

  His attention is immediately riveted on the tits in question. “Too small for what?” His tone is polite, enquiring.

  “What?”

  “What is it that you think your tits are too small for? This?”

  He reaches for me, cupping my right breast in his warm hand. He kneads the soft mound, caressing my not exactly ample curves. It feels good even so, and my impulse is to lean in and arch my back, offering my breast to him.

  “This one seems to fit my hand perfectly. Let’s try something else.” Still stroking my right breast he takes my left nipple between the fingers of his other hand, tracing the outline slowly.

  I gasp at the featherlight, almost ticklish, sensation. He responds by firming his grip, squeezing the sensitive tip, pulling on it just a little. I hiss as the pain starts to bite, and he releases me.

  “Your breasts are pretty, curvy, exceptionally sensitive. In fact, Miss Jones, I think we may need to come back to these when your spanking is out of the way, just to demonstrate to you how absolutely perfect your breasts are—or your tits, if you prefer. Now, over the bench again please.”

  “But, I…”

  “Still fishing for compliments, Miss Jones? And did I catch a ‘Sir’ just then?

  “Sorry, Sir.” I waste no time in leaning over the bench, before my mouth gets me in more trouble.

  Dan fastens the leather straps, securing my wrists to the feet of the apparatus, but he decides to leave my ankles free. It makes no difference. I’m not going anywhere.

  I ponder how he can manage to make me feel both vulnerable and safe at the same time. And this is yet more untidiness which my dangerously out of control inner submissive manages to consign to the ‘not just now’ pile.

  “So, we’re at twenty-five strokes. Agreed.”

  “Yes, Sir.” No point objecting. Even in my limited experience, I realize this is not negotiable. I just hope he gets it done with quickly and isn’t too heavy-handed. I brace myself for the first slap.

  When his palm does connect with my now upturned and conveniently placed buttock, it’s to massage my soft flesh. I tense under his hand, expecting a sudden burst of pain. It doesn’t come. Instead, he continues to caress me, paying particular attention to the swallows delicately etched into my skin.

  “These really are beautiful. How long have you had them?”

  “Two years, Sir.”

  “What made you decide to get tattooed? It doesn’t seem ‘you’, somehow.”

  I start to tell him I’m not sure, but manage to stop myself in time. Automatic responses won’t do and right at this moment, in this position, naked and draped over a spanking bench, I have no intention of exacerbating matters if I can help it. So I stop and I think, and I try to remember what was in my head the day I wandered into the body art salon in Bristol, soon after I arrived there to start work at the library.

  “I was tired of being bland. I wanted to make a statement—something personal, something about me. My identity. So it was about my name. Summer. In my mind that linked to swallows, as I said earlier, so I chose them. A sort of symbol for me or for what I wanted to become.”

  “They’re in a straight line, perfectly symmetrical. Is that intentional too?”

  The question, so casual, so artlessly dropped into the conversation, but so crucial. His accuracy is unerring. He continues to stroke my buttocks as I battle with myself over what, how much, to say. In the end, though, I know I have no alternative but to tell him the truth.

  “Yes. I like things to be in straight lines, symmetrical. Tidy and ordered.”

  “Does that go for you too, Summer? You said these birds symbolize you. Or at least that’s what I thought you were saying.”

  “Yes. I did. They do. Usually.”

  “Usually?”

  “Well, not now, obviously.”

  “Oh?”

  He wants more, expects more. And there is a whole lot more. But I can’t. I really can’t share my innermost fears and insecurities when I’m poised over a spanking bench.

  “Please, Sir. I will explain—I promise. I want to, really I do, But not here, not now, like this. It’s too…personal.”

  “A spanking is personal. Or at least, this one will be.”

  “Please, Sir, I just can’t. Don’t…”

  He chuckles, the sound warm though, not in the least unkind. “It never fails to amaze me, Miss Jones, how forthcoming submissives tend to become when their arse is on the line. Literally. Okay, we’ll come back to this. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Sir. I think I am.” My relief is enormous. I seem to be getting let off the hook. For now, at least.

  “We’ll soon know. Do you remember your safe word?”

  “Yes. Red means stop.”

  “Red means stop, Sir. I can appreciate you’re under stress right now, so I won’t add any extra slaps for that, but be careful. I’m not known for my leniency. Count the slaps, please. I’ll spank, you count. You stop counting, I stop. That way, if you faint, I’ll know.”

  I’m still processing that possibility when the first blow lands, hard and sharp on my right buttock, as far as I can tell right on top of my third swallow. Pain explodes, radiates across my bottom. I scream, jerking hard against the restraints. Without doubt they’ve already saved me from further punishment.

  “Christ, bloody hell, that hurt. Sir.”

  “Count, please.”

  “One. Sir.”

  He adjusts his stance slightly then lands the next blow, this time on my left buttock. I scream, but manage to count without further prompting.

  “Two. Sir.”

  Slap.

  “Three, Sir.” I gasp out the words, my eyes now tight shut.

  Slap.

  “Four.” I’m grinding my teeth but manage to fo
rce out the word, only remembering afterwards that I forgot to say Sir. He appears ready to overlook my lapse.

  Slap.

  “Five.” I tug against the straps holding me in place, tears starting to form behind my eyelids.

  Slap.

  I’m gasping between sobs now, and miss the next count. True to his word, he waits, allows me time to recover my wits. A few seconds pass, then I resume.

  “Six, Sir.”

  Slap.

  “Seven.” Christ! Only seven?

  Slap.

  “Eight.”

  Slap.

  “Nine.” Tears are streaming down my face, as it seems to me my bottom must be in flames. The pain sizzles everywhere, my skin burning.

  Slap.

  “Oh, God. Please stop. It’s too much.” I’m writhing against the restraints holding me in place, sobbing uncontrollably. Any fondness I might have been developing for the rewards of submission is thoroughly dispelled now under this sustained onslaught. The relentless spanking stops.

  He lays his palm against my smarting skin, stroking my abused bottom.

  “Time out, Summer? Or do you want to use your safe word?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just, I mean… It hurts.” I pause, drag in several rejuvenating breaths. “I think I’d like a time out please. Sir.”

  “No problem. Would you like a drink of water?”

  “Yes, please. Sir.”

  A few moments later he’s crouching close to me, combing my hair away from my eyes with his fingers. His smile is gentle as he surveys at my tear-ravaged face.

  “Not easy, I know. Especially the first time. Here, wet your lips.”

  He holds an opened bottle of mineral water to my mouth and I sip a few drops. It’s refreshing, cool. I lick my lips, closing my eyes to savor the chilled liquid.

  “More?”

  I nod, and turn my head to the side to catch the water as he pours a few more drops into my mouth.

  “How many was that so far, Summer?”

  “Nine, Sir. Out of twenty-five.” I groan inwardly at the prospect of sixteen more spanks. My bottom feels to be on fire already.

  “It was ten, actually. You stopped counting. You can do this. Don’t try to fight it. Absorb the pain. Let it flow through you and away. And now, at least you know what to expect. No shocks, no surprises. It won’t get any worse than this, and should start to feel easier soon.

  “Easy for you to say. Sir.”

  He chuckles and straightens to take up his position behind me once more.

  “Tell me when you’re ready to start again.”

  “I’ll never be ready…”

  “I’ll never be ready, Sir. You do like to live dangerously, considering.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, Sir, just do it and let me get off this thing.”

  “As you wish, Summer. I take it you’re ready for me to start again now.”

  I take a deep breath, appreciating that for a Dom not known for his leniency I seem to be benefiting from a fair bit of it just now. He really is letting me off quite lightly. I don’t doubt Freya’s weathered far worse than this already tonight, and now she’s frolicking in the dungeon. Perhaps I’ll get to frolic later…?

  “Yes. I’m ready, Sir.” And, as an afterthought, “Thank you.”

  Slap.

  “Eleven, Sir.”

  Slap.

  “Twelve, Sir.

  Slap.

  “Thirteen.”

  We continue to twenty as he alternates between my buttocks, carefully placing the swats to cover my whole bottom. I’m amazed to find that it actually isn’t getting any more difficult to cope with. I wonder if he’s deliberately delivering lighter strokes, or maybe my pain threshold is higher now. Whatever, it is bearable. Uncomfortable, not an experience I’ll want to repeat, though I accept that was the purpose. It has worked. My manners are going to be much improved as a result.

  At twenty, he stops.

  “How are you doing, Summer?”

  “I-I’m all right I think. Thank you, Sir.”

  “How polite. I do believe you’re going to make a perfect little subbie, with a bit of practice. And training. And plenty of firm discipline.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” I think. I brace for the final five slaps.

  Instead, he slides his fingers between my stinging buttocks to explore the valley there, drawing his hand slowly down to reach my pussy. He slips his fingers between the slick, sensitive folds to plunge two of them deep into my cunt, scissoring them to create the pressure I crave. I moan in pleasure, squeezing his fingers.

  “Mmm, hot and tight, and so wet. Pity I agreed not to fuck you. Still, I reckon we can drag a couple more orgasms out of you yet. Wouldn’t you agree, little slut?”

  I don’t answer. My response is limited to a more physical form of communication. I grasp his thrusting fingers as tightly as I’m able.

  “Greedy girl. I’m guessing you like this?” He pulls his fingers almost all the way out, slowly circling my entrance. “Do you want more?”

  “Yes. Please, Sir, I…” Did I really tell him I didn’t want him to fuck me? At this precise moment, I want him to fuck me more than I want my next breath.

  He obliges me by driving three fingers deep into my pussy, rubbing my G-spot as he finger-fucks me slowly. I gyrate my hips in an attempt to urge him to quicken his rhythm, but he’s having none of that. He continues to torment me with delightful, lazy strokes, teasing yet achingly sensual. I start to convulse around his gentle fingers, my climax building fast. He responds by withdrawing his hand, oblivious to my pleas.

  “You’ll keep. Ready for this?”

  “What? For what, Sir?” I’m confused, disorientated.

  “This.” His palm connects with my buttock again, re-focusing my thinking instantly.

  “Aah, Christ. I wasn’t ready.” I’m shivering, no doubt due to the combined effects of frustration, shock and renewed pain. Dan applies his much practiced palm to my tender backside with considerably more vigor than I suspect he did prior to our erotic little interlude.

  “You should have said. I did ask. Bear up, little newbie sub, we’re almost finished. Then I’ll let you come again. If you ask me nicely.”

  Somehow I know I’m going to be asking very nicely indeed. I don’t acknowledge that just yet though. Instead, I count.

  “Twenty one.”

  Slap.

  “Twenty two.”

  Slap.

  “Twenty three.”

  “I’m going to drop the last two directly onto your cunt. Keep your legs wide apart for this, Summer.”

  “But I…”

  “Quiet. You can safe word, or you can let me do this. Which is it?” His tone is hard, uncompromising.

  And I know what the answer must be.

  “Do it. Please. Sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  He wastes no time. The first spank to my pussy sends my body juddering into spasm, and the next sends me into orbit, my orgasm ricocheting through me like a bolt of lightning. I forget all about counting—I doubt I can recall how to, in any case—and I simply scream my joy as the powerful sensations pulse through my entire body. I’m held securely in place, but if I wasn’t, I’d by now be collapsing onto the floor as my knees have given way. My pussy is squeezing on nothing, my scalding buttocks clenching. I’m begging, though I don’t rightly know what it is I need, or want, at this moment.

  Dan Riche knows. He plunges three solid fingers deep into me again, rubbing my G-spot expertly as I pant and groan in sheer, mindless ecstasy. His other palm is on the small of my back, holding me still for his ministrations. There’s no need. I don’t believe I ever want to move again, actually. Christ, did anything, ever, in the entire history of the world, feel as good as this?

  The frantic pulsing seems to continue forever, though in reality could only be a few moments. Eventually my body stops convulsing, the tingles subside and my scrambled senses start to re-assert themselves. At last I can c
oncentrate on mundane matters such as breathing. I lie still, secured to the bench, as Dan withdraws his fingers. His hand is on my bottom, his caress gentle, soothing as I re-gather my wits.

  He walks around to the other side of the bench and crouches to unfasten my restraints. “Can you stand?”

  I honestly don’t believe I can, but I attempt it anyway. Foolhardy endeavor. I would have slithered to the floor but for Dan catching me around the waist. He picks me up and carries me to the couch again, depositing me gently on my side. My eyes are closed, but I know he’s there, right in front of me. His breath is on my cheek. He’s smoothing my hair from my face with his fingers.

  “Are you still with us, Summer?”

  The voice is low and sexy, no longer demanding, but I feel compelled to respond anyway. I manage to crack open my eyes just enough to make out his face, close to mine. He really is incredibly good-looking, in a dark and dangerous sort of way. Not my type at all. I wish he’d kiss me.

  His lips brushing my forehead suggest to me that Dan Riche’s telepathic antennae are fully tuned in. A sense of contentment washes through me. I could so easily drift off to sleep here…

  I think perhaps I have dozed off, because now Dan is stroking my hair away from my face again, and this time he kisses my lips. I open my eyes as he breaks the kiss to nuzzle my nose with his.

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. It’s bath time.”

  “What? What did you say?” I’m incredibly groggy. Even though I feel to have slept for hours already, I’m sure I could easily manage to sleep for at least another week if he’d just bugger off and let me. I roll onto my back, the sharp pain in my bum reminding me of why he positioned me on my side to begin with. I start to roll back, but Dan’s palm on my breast stops me. There’s no force applied, I could move if I wanted to, but I choose instead to lie still, relishing the sweetness of his light caress. My tits might be small, but they do fit nicely in his hand and lack nothing in the sensitivity department, as he’s now amply demonstrating.

  Dan circles my nipple slowly with his fingertip, teasing the pink tip to swollen hardness. He’s watching the motion of his finger and the effect it has on me. And I’m watching him. His profile is striking—his nose straight and narrow, his lips full. And soft, just as I remember. He’s sporting a slight shadow across his jaw, and he’ll probably need a shave before long. Without considering what I’m doing, I lift my hand to stroke his cheek, enjoying the raspiness of his emerging stubble. He turns his face to me, smiles, the expression purely dazzling. He takes my breath away.