Sarah's Awakening

by Claire Thompson

  How many backs and buttocks had felt its perfect kiss? How many tears had it drawn? How many welts had it raised? Sarah felt a thrill of fear as she looked at it and, almost unconsciously, began to delicately finger her pussy. Sarah knew this was strictly forbidden. What pleasure her trainer had promised her was only to be taken in his presence and for his amusement. She knew she had better stop at once.

  And yet, she did not. Her fingers seemed to have a will of their own. It had been so long. She stopped after a moment, listening intently for any sign of her trainer. Just a little caress, she thought to herself. I won't come. No, I certainly won't. But this just feels so good...

  Having lifted her skirt before she sat, Sarah was aware of her nakedness against the soft silk of the pillows. She allowed herself to sink back into them. Her eyes were closing of their own accord, her lips were parted, her face slack with sweet sensation. Her fingers parted the hot cleft there and she felt a gush of wetness. Her fingers increased their tempo, playing a perfect little song of lust and desire.

  Sinking into a sexual reverie, Sarah lost track of herself and her position. She was aware of nothing save her own pleasure. Suddenly, her hand stayed itself in mid-caress. There had been no sound, but she had felt another presence.

  Her eyes flew open.

  Lawrence towered over her. He had entered quietly from the door just out of her line of vision. Sarah let out a cry of dismay as she struggled to an upright position, trying to smooth her dress over her exposed sex. Her heart was pounding, all thoughts of sexual desire erased from her mind in an instant. The young woman leaped up, ashamed, blushing furiously.

  Lawrence didn't speak. There was no gentleness in his expression as she tried to drop to the floor at his feet. She was trying to kneel and beg forgiveness for her very obvious transgression, but her trainer didn't allow her to drop there. Without a word, he grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her to the center of the floor. Still without speaking, he flung her to the ground and pushed her roughly with the toe of his shoe. She was terrified and began to whimper.

  "Quiet!” he roared. “What could you possibly have been thinking? Didn't you learn your lesson last time? Has all our work been a total waste of time? You were finally granted a release, you unworthy girl, and you took that release before I gave you permission! You have shown such lack of control. You are unfit to serve any Master! Jack was right! You would call yourself submissive, but all you are is a slut!"

  Sarah lay very still, crushed. She bit her trembling lips to keep from wailing in despair. She longed to erase the last few minutes and to be his little golden girl again, but the full weight of her action was upon her. She felt pinned down by it more surely than any chains could have held her down.

  Lawrence watched her there, huddled on the floor, her dress flipped up lewdly to reveal her shapely behind. He did not attempt to cover her, but stood staring at her, his face dark with controlled anger. Finally he said, “Well? What have you to say for yourself?"

  Trying to control her trembling mouth, Sarah stammered through her tears, “God, oh, God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! It has been so long; I have waited so long. I didn't mean to. I didn't even realize what I was doing. I have disobeyed your simplest request. I am not worthy. I ... I should be punished. Please, Sir. Punish me. Let me earn my way back into your good graces. Please, Sir. I beg of you."

  Lawrence stood silently for a moment. Sarah felt the world tilt in the balance as she waited for his decree. At last he spoke. “Very well. Because of the progress you have made during training, up until this transgression, I will allow you to stay.” Was that the only reason? Poor Sarah couldn't help wondering what had happened to the man who had called her “his Sarah, his love,” so recently.

  But that man, if he still existed, wasn't in evidence now. Lawrence, the trainer, said with little emotion, “I will punish you, as you have requested. And as you deserve. You will be caned. Severely."

  Sarah seemed to shrink into a little ball at his feet, but she did not protest. He continued, ignoring her trembling. “You will be tested beyond anything you have experienced with me to date. If you cannot obey me, I don't want you. If you are not ready now to submit totally and completely, regardless of what I choose to do to you, I have no place for you. Now decide. Will you take what I mete out? Or will you go?

  "You are free to go, you know. But if you stay, you must accept what I teach you, without reservation and without question. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir,” she whispered, though she wasn't sure she had spoken aloud.

  Taking her small wrist, he pulled her to her feet. She looked down, avoiding his stony gaze. From the large brass stand in the corner of the room, Lawrence withdrew a long, supple cane made from a birch branch. He flicked it through the air several times, causing a whoosh and whistle that further frightened the poor girl in front of him.

  "Strip,” he said quietly. “Lie on the floor, on your stomach. Over here, near these hooks.” She scrambled to do as he had ordered, quickly and with no hint of seduction. “On your knees, ass in the air, head down, hands on the back of your neck. Move!"

  She hurried into position. “Spread your asscheeks.” God! Sarah wished the earth would open and swallow her. Her shame burned into her till she was ablaze, but she knew that her ass belonged to him, and she did as he commanded. Lawrence walked around behind her. She felt his hands on her bottom, his fingers probing her asshole. She tried to stay very still, though her body twitched in nervous anticipation of the caning to come. She knew he was testing her submission.

  "Hands back on your neck. Brace yourself and don't move!” Lawrence said sternly. “You may cry out; indeed, I expect you to, but you may not move out of this position. Do you understand?"

  She nodded.

  "I can't hear you, slave!"

  "Yes, Sir,” she managed to croak, her voice breaking as her throat dried in terror.

  "I will cane you now. Prepare yourself.” Without further warning, he swung the supple cane down onto her waiting body. It caught her ass—both cheeks. She flinched and drew in her breath sharply. He did observe with some satisfaction that she did not move out of position. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Twice more he sliced the air and then her flesh with the brutal rod. Though she stayed in position, Sarah screamed out with that final lash. It was unexpectedly hard and fell just where the one before had, across the tender flesh at the base of her ass.

  Even through her tears, Sarah was angry with herself. She had so wanted to stay silent—to endure this for him, to show him that she was truly repentant. But at least she had remained still. Lawrence now dragged the cane slowly across her bared asshole. She tensed but remained in position. He stood back then, as she waited for more. She felt sure she wouldn't get off so easily. She was right.

  Leaning down, Lawrence flipped Sarah's crouched body over effortlessly. She fell on her back, clutching herself in her surprise. “Spread-eagle,” was all he said. She quickly stretched her arms and legs apart, desperate to obey him. Her poor bottom smarted against the cold wood floor. Quickly and expertly, Lawrence attached her wrists and ankles with thin, strong rope to the hooks placed strategically on the floor. He pulled the ropes so tightly that Sarah's slim body was arched up, her breasts jutting out, her mons pressing upward.

  He touched her nipples gently and they at once hardened to attention. His hand trailed down to her still-wet cunt; he smeared the glistening juices up to her pubis and onto her belly. “Slut!” he hissed, feigning disgust. Standing back, Lawrence appraised the spread-and-naked woman before him grimly.

  Sarah whimpered softly. She was much more frightened of being beaten on her breasts and tummy, and Lawrence knew this. “Do you think you have been punished enough?” he asked her coldly.

  "That ... that is for you to say, Sir,” she managed to whisper.

  "That is correct. It is. And I say you have not.” With that, he let the cane fall across her breasts. At once, a welt began to rise across the white flesh. He de
livered one more lash across the belly, and then a final one across her thighs.

  Sarah lay in the silence, her eyes shut, her mind still reeling with the pain of the beating and with her shame. She realized she was waiting for her release, for him to take her in his arms, to cradle her gently against him—even, dare she hope—to kiss away her tears. But he hadn't finished with her yet, it seemed.

  The room was darkening as the sun disappeared over the horizon. After a few minutes, Sarah opened her eyes and saw to her surprise that Lawrence was maneuvering a full-length mirror into position at her feet. Without saying a word, he crossed over to the whip wall and took down the very whip she had been admiring earlier that evening. Taking a tube of some sort of lubricant, he smeared it onto the handle of the whip. Leaning over her, so close that she could smell his cologne, he bent down and pressed the handle against her spread pussy.

  Oh, God! She refused to believe what she was feeling. And yet he persisted. Gently but firmly he inserted the whip handle into her vagina. Involuntarily, her body tried to push it out.

  "Take it!” he warned her. “This is your final act of repentance. Take it for me."

  "For me, for me.” What did he mean? Did this mean he was accepting her as his slave? Was he no longer just her trainer? Sarah couldn't squelch the rising hope inside her. She opened to his whip handle as if it were his cock. She would take it for him; she would take anything for him. He inserted the whip gently until Sarah felt it press against her cervix. Her vaginal walls clamped down on it. Lawrence reached up and twisted her nipples till she moaned. Then he kissed her forehead and walked out of the room.

  It took her a moment to realize what had happened. He was gone! Sarah was alone—bound, spread-eagled on the floor, covered in welts from her beating, her underarms trickling sweat, her face streaked with tears, her perverse little cunt stuffed with the handle of a whip. Weakly, she lifted her head as far as she was able and looked into the mirror. It was set at just such an angle so she could see her own pussy exposed lewdly before her.

  She couldn't help but stare in fascination at her predicament. She saw before her a young woman, dark hair curled and matted with sweat. Her cheeks were reddened from heat and wet with tears. Her full, round breasts were heaving on her chest, arched up from the binds holding her arms out in cruciform. Her eyes were drawn back again and again to her legs, spread wide open, with that blond whip handle sticking perversely out of her, lashes dangling to the floor.

  Again her instinct was to push out the whip handle, but she knew she mustn't. This was her final test, and she would endure it. She would show her love and subservience for her Master, for Lawrence, with this last act of will. She clamped down on the handle and made sure it remained firmly in place. She let her head drop back and lay in the stillness, staring at the ceiling.

  Time passed and lost all meaning. She fell into a fitful sleep. Her dreams consisted of reenacting the day's events over and over. She would awake again and again, bathed in a sweat, heart pounding, the feel of the cane on her body. Then slowly, she would become aware of her position, of her restraints. Her arms and legs ached. She longed to curl up and fall into a dreamless sleep. Or take a bath, soaking away the stinging of the welts, the shame of the whip hanging there.

  And yet the long night continued.

  Would he ever return for her? Did he not love her just a little bit? She craned her neck repeatedly, trying to see out the window, searching for a streak of gray or gold that might indicate the approaching dawn and, hopefully, her release.

  Lawrence sat up the entire night, keeping a separate vigil for his Sarah. The image of her, bound in rope, pulled taut and open by the restraints, was burned into his mind. He saw with complete clarity her expression of fear, underlain with a subtle erotic intensity that inflamed him. He could no longer deny that he was on fire with lust for this lovely, wanton woman. He yearned to go at once and free her from her bonds. To take her lovingly in his arms and make love to her until they both were spent. And then hold her close as they drifted together to a peaceful sleep.

  But this was not the time to give in to his romantic feelings. He owed it to her to train her to be the best slave she could be. If he gave her sweetness and love now, she would never understand what it truly was to submit. To serve. He would be no better than her Julian, playing at Master though all the while enslaved by his own desire for a willing, pretty girl. No. What Sarah needed now—indeed, what she had demanded through her flagrant behavior—was to be punished, and punished severely. So he left her, alone, impaled on a whip, to ponder her condition and her fate.

  As the sun was just about to creep over the windowsill, Lawrence returned to his slave girl. He found her in the position he had bound her, legs still splayed. Her lips were slightly apart; they looked dry. She lay still, though awake. Her large eyes were open, but barely registered even when Lawrence bent down to her. He caught his breath as he wondered if he had gone too far. He knew he had to break her somehow; her will was too strong to ever truly serve another.

  But she looked so small, lying there, stretched and defiled by the whip. He knelt beside her and raised her head gently, offering her a drink of the water he had brought for her. Weakly, but eagerly, she parted her lips for the sweet liquid. She gulped down what she could from her position, oblivious to the cold water that splashed down her chin and over her breasts. She tried to speak but only rasped.

  "What, Sarah? I couldn't hear you.” He leaned forward to catch her words.

  "Please, Sir, I have to go pee,” she whispered.

  Lawrence couldn't hide the huge smile as he responded, “Well, then. I suppose we'd better take care of that.” Very carefully, he withdrew the whip from her now-gaping pussy. Then he quickly loosened the ropes that bound her.

  Lawrence helped the weakened woman to her feet. Her legs were rubber and she collapsed against him. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bathroom. Carefully he set her on the toilet and wrapped her still-lifeless arms around his neck, kneeling down next to her.

  There was no shyness; he had finally claimed her modesty as he had promised her he would. She dropped her head to his chest as she peed. He wiped her carefully and then carried her to his bed.

  As he had done before, he handled her as if she were his precious child. She lay still, completely spent and passive, though alert to his attentions. Gently, he massaged a soothing ointment into the already-fading welts that crisscrossed her flesh. Then, to her astonishment and delight, he began to kiss her face and breasts slowly. She didn't dare move, afraid that any sudden reaction might snap him out of whatever dream he was in.

  Surely this was not her trainer—the man who trained his slaves, but never fell in love. Sarah held her breath, but couldn't stop a sigh from escaping as he moved to her sensitive nipples and began to suckle them as a lover would. She tried to stay still but found her body yielding to the slightest pressure of his hand, his mouth. He kissed her again, less gently this time, some of his own passion spilling over.

  "Oh, Lawrence, oh, my love!” she murmured as her arms encircled his neck. She pulled him down to her, no longer able to control her need, her passion for this man who had become the center of her universe. He too, finally abandoned his careful control and wrapped his own powerful arms around her, pulling her up against him as he claimed her with his mouth and with his hands. He grabbed her sex, which he found wet and warm. She was so eager to feel his heat, his hardness in her.

  His kisses trailed down her body, past her erect pink nipples, down her belly to her hot, needy pussy. She moaned low and gutturally, as his mouth found the center of her need. She had been so aroused for so long that she almost instantly began to climax.

  As she arched up into his face, she managed to beg, “Please, oh please, oh, please, oh, please!” She couldn't finish the request, the desperate plea for his permission to come. She was awash in perfect, rolling sensation.

  Feeling the heat of her passion as she writhed against
him, Lawrence knew just what she was begging for. “You may,” he whispered, aware of her intense need. Immediately, she began to buck and moan, a high-pitched wail that almost frightened him with its intensity. Grabbing Lawrence's head, she held him fast as she ground her pussy into his face. Her entire body stiffened as she keened her pleasure and need.

  Finally she fell back, panting and flushed with the heat of her release. She longed to embrace him; to pull him close to her, but she was beyond movement. Every inch of her body was like jelly. Had he commanded her to stand at that moment, she would have been incapable of doing so, however much she wished to obey.

  And now it was Lawrence who could not contain himself. The long days of denying his own desire for this woman—of denying his impulses, his desires, his feelings of love for his Sarah—had left him ravenous. Was she his? Could she possibly love him, as he adored her? It wasn't enough to love him. She must worship him; she must be his slave, his property. Was she ready to give herself completely to him? To trust her very life to him? He had to know.

  "Sarah. Sarah. Listen to me."

  Sarah struggled to open her eyes and listen to her Master. “Yes?” she whispered.

  "Sarah. Do you want to serve me? As my slave? As my lover? Do you want to belong to me?"

  "Oh!” she breathed, “Oh, my Master, more than anything in this world."

  "Then I want to mark you. I want to claim you with my cock and with my mark. Go get my penknife from the bureau. Go.” He pulled her up and pushed her from the bed almost roughly. She hadn't felt she could walk, but somehow her legs carried her to the bureau. She retrieved his little silver knife, still folded in its sheath. With trembling hands, she presented it to him, her head lowered.