"A girl's education should always begin with the hand," he observed, making a steeple of both his hands before him at waist level, and then raising them to touch the very tips of his fingers to his lips. "The hand is intimate. The contact is skin to skin. There's no better way to gauge the effect of a smack, and thus modify the force of the next one." He looked at me evenly, his pale eyes unblinking and slightly narrowed, then he nodded infinitesimally. Like an android, I rose to my feet.
Mozart played on softly, but all of a sudden I was in a new and surreal dimension. Sebastian Holmwood could control me with the very slightest gesture, and as he walked smoothly towards the settee, then sat down just a yard or so away from me, I turned to face him, my head meekly bowed. He was lower than me, seated whilst I was standing, but in all things he had the upper hand.
"So, Megan Chambers, do you want to understand? Our friends downstairs are woefully ignorant. You know that, don't you?" He reached out, took hold of both of my hands, and then held them in one of his. He let his free hand slide lightly down my hip, tracing its approximate shape through my costume's fluffy petticoats. Sensing that he required it, I looked up and met his eyes, realizing he was a little older, and far wiser, than I'd originally thought he was. I nodded, knowing instinctively what I'd let myself in for, and feeling both fear and curiosity in equal parts.
"Good," he said with a thoughtful smile, then let his hand slip beneath my skirt and petticoats. "Are you wearing anything beneath these?" He plucked at the long, lace trimmed mock Victorian pantaloons that peeked out from beneath my hem, then flattened his hand, slipped it upwards, and cupped the rounded cheek of my bottom.
"N... No," I quavered as he squeezed. I'd expected to get the costume grubby at the party, and as I'd be laundering the whole thing anyway, I'd decided to be naughty and go without any extra knickers.
"Excellent!" His eyes gleamed. "Now lift up all these skirts up for me. There's a good girl." He released my hands and nodded to my Bo Peep dress and all the frippery beneath it.
"But..."
Sebastian didn't speak, but his cool old-fashioned look spoke volumes. Trembling, I reached for my hem, then hauled up my skirts and held the whole lot in a haphazard bunch at my waist.
"Back and front," he specified. I obeyed with a graceless scrabble, and then closed my eyes as he gripped my pantaloons, whipping them down to my knees with one smooth, efficient jerk.
"Lovely," he said softly. I could almost feel the weight of his gaze on the curly triangle of my sex, like a radiant therapy that made my hidden folds heat. "Now turn around for me."
Shuffling, I presented my bottom, keenly aware of its plump, curvaceous shape.
"Perfect." His voice was a whisper and I heard the leather upholstery creak as he shifted position. I was quite disappointed that he didn't try to touch me.
"Turn again."
I complied.
"Open your eyes."
Again, I did as I was told, aware that my whole face was one big blush.
Sebastian was sitting comfortably on the sofa, his posture strong-looking, his knees spread a little apart. "Do you know what to do?" he asked. The gleam in his eyes was like starlight.
I bit my lip. I knew, but I couldn't say it.
"Come on. It's easy. Come across my knee. I won't bite you."
I wasn't worried about him biting.
Slowly, cautiously, I laid myself across his lap, letting his hands guide me into exactly the right position. My balance seemed precarious, and I felt vulnerable and dizzy, with my head down and my bottom rudely up. I couldn't imagine how I'd let myself get into this pickle. What the devil had I been thinking of? One minute I'd been flirting lightly with a moderately attractive man; and the next I was face down across his knee, about to let him spank my bare buttocks. How could I have been so reckless, so foolish? How could I have been so completely insane?
The answer was that against all reason, I trusted Sebastian Holmwood; perhaps more than I'd ever trusted anyone in my life.
And I moaned like a wanton, as if it had been all my idea in the first place, when Sebastian started touching me.
"You have a remarkably nice bottom, Megan," he commented, oh so conversationally, like a wealthy connoisseur appraising an objet d'art. His fingers palpated the muscle of each of my bottom-cheeks in turn, pressing them firmly as if testing their resilience. "Firm flesh. Soft, pale skin. You'll mark very well, I think." His fingers slid dangerously downwards, between my legs, then retreated and settled delicately on the very crown of my left buttock. "Oh yes, my dear, I'm going to make you pink."
Thinking about my face, I was just about to remark that I was pink already. But instead I yelped like a startled puppy when the first spank fell.
Why had I imagined it would just be a mild tap? The full power of his hand was astounding. Earth shaking. I could swear that I felt every bit of the shape of it, four distinct fingers and the open palm, scorched indelibly into my right bottom cheek where it'd landed. My lungs filled, and I opened my mouth ready to howl a protest and stop things going further, but then he spanked again, and my brain couldn't function. The second smack singed my left cheek, making it a match for the other one, and already my eyes were filled with tears. Half-blinded, I reached around, driven by a natural instinct to protect my flesh.
"No," said Sebastian, soft and low, and the single word froze me to immobility. My bottom was tingling, glowing, twitching, yet I dare not move a muscle to try and soothe it. Sobbing, I felt my two hands once more gathered in one of Sebastian's, then pinned gently, but with no nonsense, at the small of my back. I couldn't believe I'd only taken two strokes. It seemed like a hundred. But very soon those first two became nothing more than a memory, submerged in the growing flame that licked and seared across my buttocks.
The spanks landed briskly, methodically and without mercy. Despite feeling as if I was lost in some kinky wonderland, I could still sense Sebastian's excitement too. And admire his meticulous attention to detail. He was working his way around in a pattern, covering the entire surface of my bottom, making every bit of me hurt and turn red. While he belabored me, he talked to me constantly, his soft baritone voice unruffled and hypnotic.
As his palm and his fingers turned my skin and flesh to incandescence, he described the regime he would impose on me in future... if I chose it.
Spank! I would be taken across his knee regularly, for treatment like this, but considerably sterner.
Spank! I would be beaten with implements when I was a little more experienced, when my bottom and my temperament were better seasoned.
Spank! I would taste the strap, the hairbrush, the ruler. And I would cry.
Spank! I would be stripped naked, gagged and bound, and take the cane. The real cane, not that silly toy brandished "Miss Whiplash".
Spank! Spank! Spank! I would suffer, at great length, and I would endure. And afterwards my sweet reward would come.
By the time Sebastian's hand fell still, I was weeping freely, my mind a mass of shock and awe and wonders.
My bottom was a swollen, throbbing war zone. I couldn't believe that anybody in their right mind would seek this condition more than once. It seemed ludicrous. Yet the thought of not following the strange path that Sebastian had laid before me was impossible, unbearable. I felt confused, out on a limb, and bereft of any purpose except sharing this with him. The idea of losing him, or displeasing him, could not be borne.
I whined pitifully when he turned me over on his lap, and the denim cloth of his black jeans chafed the soreness in my bottom. But some of it wasn't from the pain.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" he said, wiping away my tears, and then stroking my jaw line and my brow with infinite gentleness.
Better than what? I wanted to ask, but beyond the superficial question lay the answer my heart knew. I did feel better than before. I felt wonderful. Despite all the torment in my hind-parts, I felt completely relaxed and peculiarly at peace.
Back at the party, I'd b
een edgy, worried about meeting someone, and nervous about how I looked and facing the ever present struggle to make small talk. I'd felt competitive, combative, forced to assert myself and be part of a scene I wasn't really sure I liked at all.
Now I felt calm, serene, and detached from all my former fears. From this day forward, the only thing that mattered was doing well here, in this room, for Sebastian. Life was simple. My world was straightforward. All I had to do was to receive as much punishment as he could give, and he'd be pleased. I wanted to shower him with kisses to show I understood.
But I didn't need to. As I looked at him, his great silver-blue eyes shone, full of happiness. Just as before he'd read my feelings on my face.
"You've done beautifully, Megan," he whispered, "I'm very pleased with you. But I think you already know that, don't you?" With a low laugh, he shifted me on his knees and adjusted my position. As he kissed the groan of anguish off my lips, the proximity of certain parts of him to certain parts of me told a delicious and very unmistakable story.
"And now, my darling, it's time you had a treat for being brave," he said as he broke the kiss.
Then he grinned, and I grinned. We both knew I hadn't been brave at all.
But even so, he placed his hand between my legs, and then bestowed on me that sweetest of rewards.
It was the first of very many, that perfect night.
###
It’s Time
"Late again," says Sebastian, his silver-blue eyes glittering as he fingers his precious antique fob watch.
He loves that watch. He loves it in exactly the way I hoped he would. It was my gift to him, and time has become very important to us recently. It's like the steady beating heart at the center of our relationship; part of a set of conditions that give it weight and form and purpose.
And I love that piercing, metallic look of his, the one that comes over his face when I defy one of his temporal strictures. It has the power to make my heart thud like mad and my pussy quicken with desire. I see that expression unfailingly at the beginning of our erotic adventures together, and when it's there, I know my bottom is bound to suffer for my "crimes", real or imaginary.
"I'm sorry... I just got talking," I mutter, throwing down my bag on Sebastian's leather sofa, and getting an elegantly raised eyebrow for my slovenliness as well as for a grossly late arrival, "You know how it is."
"No... Actually, I don't," he replies, flicking open the beautifully engraved watch, and eyeing the time, then looking up again with that significant facial cast.
Sebastian doesn't chatter. Sebastian doesn't even make small talk without a purpose or subtext. He never wastes a single second of his life, and even these few passing moments during which he silently admonishes me are full of meaning and a source of sly delight to us both. With his eyes squarely on me, unwavering and all knowing, I shiver and feel my knees begin to quake. I can clearly see the color of his plans.
"Time is a very precious thing, Megan," he says to me, quietly, his deep baritone deliciously exciting, "Some people say that it's the fire in which we burn. A predator which stalks us... And thanks to you, we two have lost an hour." Snapping the watch shut, he tucks it away in the pocket of his waistcoat. I notice he is wearing the black, elaborately embroidered one he often chooses on these occasions. It's all part of his dramatic image as the dour disciplinarian. I'd giggle but I know I'm not supposed to. "A cause for punishment, I would have thought, wouldn't you?"
It's on the tip of my tongue to point out that I would have been punished anyway, it's the very reason I'm here, but I hold my counsel, and merely intone a solemn "Yes".
"In that case, Megan, you may go to the bedroom and make the customary preparations," he continues, a tiny smile playing around his lush yet sculpted lips, "And in fifteen minutes I will join you, and then we'll talk."
I nod, trying to keep my face straight, and then turn to leave the room. At the door, I get an overpowering urge to stop and curtsey to him, his manner is so unrelenting and magisterial today. But as he'd probably decree such an action to be flippancy and a lack of respect for our game, so I decide to play it safe and just get out.
Fifteen minutes? Well, it's not a long time in real terms, but plenty long enough to set my every nerve end tingling and drive me into a paroxysm of lust. I must admit that I'm still profoundly in awe of Sebastian and the strange, dark things he does to me, still the trembling acolyte after all these months of hard pain and easy, joyous love. There's so much to it all that still remains a total mystery to me; so much enlightenment that lies ahead. But it's a journey as complex and as tempting as the man himself.
If I'm to be ready in fifteen minutes, I need to get a hustle on. I'll get a black mark against my name if I throw my clothes about, so I've to be as neat as I am quick in getting changed. But it's hard to concentrate in this quiet sunlit bedroom, a place where we've shared so much, reached such heights.
The first thing I perceive as I enter is the ticking of his mahogany long-case clock. Not my gift this time, but his to both of us. The second thing is the nightgown Sebastian has laid out on the bed for me, one of the voluminous old brushed cotton numbers he likes me to wear sometimes... when we're playing. I'd never wear it to sleep; we both sleep naked. But the gown is a symbol, a prop. It's a totem of domestic discipline; part of the ritual, sweet and soft and comforting; in contrast to the hard, hard punishment.
Stripping swiftly, I peel off my smart suit, my blouse, my underwear and my stockings, and then let the snowy gown slither down over my vulnerable nudity. Dashing quickly into the en-suite I look in the mirror and use cotton wool to remove my eye make-up, rubbing away the subtle paint with trembling fingers and a little cleanser from amongst the toiletries I keep here. I didn't used to wear suits and high heels and "power makeup" to the office, but since I first met Sebastian, you could say I've bettered myself. I've progressed far and fast in the company hierarchy. Bending my will to his has given me the strength to conquer others. Talking with him in the long, happy hours when we meet as equals has given me new perspectives, new confidence, new self-belief. His encouragement has made me able to soar.
But now it's time to lie down, and abandon all thoughts of forgettable, everyday trivia, and office nonsense. I have no exalted status here in this room, no authority, no clout; I'm simply Sebastian's willing plaything, a submissive subject of the darkling prince of punishment.
The venue for much delicious pleasure, this bed I call ours now is inviting and comfortable, spread with a soft, pristine throw of high-end white chenille. Settling carefully onto my front, I rest my cheek on one bent arm, and then reach down behind me to pull up my cloudy night dress. Sebastian's preference at these times is for a bare, untrammeled bottom... because exposure makes me penitent and humble.
What must I look like now, I wonder? I try to imagine the sight that would meet any casual intruder, and that will meet my prince.
The vision presented to the visitor is that of a moderately pretty girl lying on face-down on a bed, with her legs and her buttocks completely naked. He'd see that her hair is short and blonde and cut in a stylish layered bob, and that her skin, though normally pale, is slightly flushed. He might be quite taken with the contrast between the billowing white primness of her saintly cotton night-dress and the shocking nudity of her bare, unsheltered buttocks. My buttocks are well-rounded and a little bit plump, and divided by a deep and rosy groove, but I like them that way now. I feel good about my body these days, when once, I didn't. My thighs are sleek and firm, but also curvy, just how Sebastian likes them for the ruler. Something I might well get for being such a hussy and wickedly eager with my sex all lewd and unruly and glistening. I'm as wet as if he'd touched me already, in fact as if he'd stroked me long and lovingly. The way he does...
From where I lie I can easily see the clock. The yellow afternoon sunlight slants across it like a baleful slash, and shows my first five minutes are up.
Bang on time, the door opens and closes and Sebas
tian steps lightly into the room, filling it with the odor if his delicious cologne. I'm facing the window, so he can't see me smile, thinking of him freshening up for me just as I have for him.
He pauses in silence for a moment, piling on the pressure. I bet he's smiling. He might even be touching himself. I try to imagine what he's going to say, and recall similar situations, similar moments. All this waiting is no more than an eye's blink in the grand and cosmic scheme of things, but with his hand, or his belt, or some other well-chosen implement, Sebastian could transform it into an eternity of torment. Only last week he said, "I'm going to cane you for fifteen minutes... and after that I'm going to play with you for five." I can almost feel the rod from just thinking about its hardness; almost taste its bite as it lands upon my flesh. Sebastian didn't stop until those fifteen minutes were finished, despite the fact that I carried on and struggled like a weak-willed ninny. I didn't really deserve what happened in the subsequent five, but I got it all the same and he was equally, if not more resolute. He kept on caressing me no matter how many times I came, and my flesh was incredibly sensitive afterwards.
But that didn't stop me coming again when he kissed it better.
Time... There are so many ways he uses it to tantalize me. Like now... when will he speak? When will he speak?
The leather of the old armchair in the corner of the room creaks as he sits down, and he takes in a long breath. Tiny sounds tell me he's getting comfortable. It takes a second or two. Is he uncomfortable? Has he got an erection? Will he punish me harder because that's my fault?
"So, it's time. What shall we talk about?"
His voice is calm, serene, very soft and low. It flows over me, imparting calmness to me too.
"I don't know. My mind is blank. I've been trying to meditate."
It's pert, and very cheeky of me to answer like that, but he likes me that way. He prefers a bit of "resistance", something to play off, rather than a perfect, bland submission.
Delicious Pain - a BDSM Collection Page 6