Sara had just begun to wince in anticipation, when at that moment Jason stopped, carefully setting aside the whips and tenderly approaching her. He held her, allowed her body the chance to ease into an erect stance as relief from leaning, her arms relaxed at her sides, as he spoke gently to her, praising her and using reassuring words. He kissed her, and asked her how she was feeling in all ways, if she was okay. Sara knew to give him essentially clinical answers to these questions so he could better gauge her levels of tolerance. She knew he would ask her questions and comfort her, yet it felt so incredibly odd to be given such tender affection from the same person who moments before had administered repeated doses of such pain. It had hurt, true enough, but she could handle it, and if she didn’t answer him the right way, she would get nothing more.
Soon the second round began.
The whips flew faster now. Sara imagined her bicycle wheel spokes with cards now accelerating faster and faster. The sounds were so steady she began to hear bits of songs in her mind, melodies that coincided with the metronome-like, infallible rhythm of his movements. Each strike allowed only that last inch of the two hairlike strands of cotton to touch her skin. Never did the thicker leather part touch her delicate body at all, and never did a hit on one side fail to be paralleled by one on the other side.
Jason whipped not just her ass, but also her hips, lower back, upper thighs, and even inner thighs. He found a way to flick that whip wherever he wanted, as long as he wanted, with precisely the intensity he wanted, which was invariably just exactly as long as she could endure before he gave her a chance to rest, and quenched her body’s thirst for water, reaffirming their connection.
Was he reading her mind, her body, or both? Regardless, his recess breaks of sweet affection between lessons with the single tails allowed her time to renew her strength and resolve for the next session. In fact, those breaks built new strength within her, enabling her to take more, ask for more.
Just as fireworks on Independence Day begin slowly then grow to be a fury of lights and booms, so too did his applications with the whips. By now, it seemed like each flick of his whips was so often it appeared to be akin to popcorn popping, and she imagined what the kernels experienced before erupting from the heat that exploded them. Sara felt as if she were in the middle of a movie theater’s popcorn popper. She now had barely any chance to think between the thwacks. She could only prepare herself for each blow.
However, the whips began to avoid her completely. Jason, missing her skin, bewildered her, taking away the comforting predictability of the earlier sessions even as it gave her time to steady herself. That’s what had made her think of the popcorn. It was the little explosions of combusted air cracking around her.
At times as the intensity of his whip-slaps grew, she felt as if white-hot, V-shaped needles were attacking her body, just long enough in duration to sear her skin. The pain, incredibly localized each time, accumulated over broad areas as the tender zones were struck repeatedly during the scene.
Throughout all of this, she knew she had rarely ever hurt as much, or as keenly, as she did now. Tears from frequent eruptions of silent crying flowed freely down her face, cooling her emotions and skin. She interspersed her gasps of surprise and need for air with biting her lip to reduce or to intensify her focus on her torso and legs. It hurt like hell. This had to be hell!
Then, why, she asked herself, why was she smiling?
She had to admit it despite all logic. She was in fact smiling with a big grin that in other circumstances would simply indicate happiness. She herself had no idea for a while, and thought at first that she was losing her mind. To think that she or anyone could smile during all of that hurt! Nevertheless, for herself at least, she soon found answers to this enigma.
She realized that, despite the pain she was feeling, she had grown to respect him for more than his surgically precise skill of inducing hurt of varying and increasing intensity. He also, and as importantly, had an artist’s ability to decorate her body in this unique, extremely physical method. She could feel how the impact marks might leave an interesting pattern on her body, temporary tattoos that told a clear story to those who knew how to read it. Her body was a canvas to him on which he painted his desires, using the whips as paintbrushes and her body’s reddening reactions as his paints.
She smiled because, oddly enough, from the exactness of his strikes upon her, combined with the evident caring of her with his gentle caresses afterward, she learned that she could trust him. He did precisely what they had discussed he would do, neither more nor less, giving sensations to her flesh and to her mind equally. She even at times laughed at herself, through the pain of the whippings in progress, because of her expectation-shattering discoveries.
In addition to those revelations, she more positively knew one other thing, that he was exquisitely happy. She had known before that this would be true, but throughout all of the preparation and moreover the delivery, she sensed from his actions, breaths, and even tone of voice that something in him was soothed in this process, became complete, perhaps even healed. She seemed to know that he was challenging depths of himself in ways she could only guess. He was conquering elements of himself, perhaps buried fears or doubts or emotional pains. Possibly not even he knew. The important aspect was that he was becoming more, was totally a human being.
Her nurturing character reached beyond herself and her pains toward him as he whipped her. By standing still for him, allowing him to inflict this pain on her, she gave him the use of her body to work through whatever issues or needs he had to express, those that could not get out of him in any other way, and that would perhaps forever remain a mystery to her. In return, she felt he was giving her something rare and very special of himself, showing her an agape love as she hadn’t known, not for each other, really, but for love’s sake, for all of human beings.
Eventually, despite all her inner resolve and mental exercises, she reached the doorstep of the inability to endure a moment longer. Somehow she still felt victorious, even ironically invigorated as if she had been at a day spa rather than at the business end of two whips. Nevertheless, her arms and legs trembled in exhaustion from the muscle fatigue of standing absolutely still against the onslaught of sensations that demanded she should escape them. The effort to resist those impulses, to maintain a perfectly steady stance, the easel for his canvas, threw her body close to muscle failure. Her resolve was failing, too, but she fought to be more resolute anyway, to handle just a little bit more. The pain was becoming too much, her physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion too great. Yet still somehow, she had just enough of her brain free of focus on pain to wonder if others thought as she did, if other sadists and masochists were aware of their reasons for S&M and the benefits of it.
Awareness.
That word revealed itself as the key. There was nothing like localized pain to force one into the totally here and now. There was no room for “a few moments ago” or “in an hour” or “somewhere else,” only here and now. How closely that simple saying resembled Zen teachings she studied and lived by. Sara thought in an instant, how relatively easy to reach a sort of meditative state in this way. Images of possibly Buddhist monks in self-flagellation flashed through her mind as she made this connection.
She had no idea how much time had passed, how many times his whips had lashed at her or how often and for how long they had taken breaks, but she could no longer handle any more of the assault on her physical being. She wasn’t sure later if she had said it aloud, or barely whispered it, or merely thought it, but that moment she was certain of the undeniable need to stop and had convinced herself it was time to say the magic word, “pyramid,” as she heard the swish of his whip one last time. Her one-word salvation and the searing flick of pain collided.
She bit her lip as the sting from his whip connected, and gasped loudly, crying out her salvation one more time.
The sounds of whips dropping from Jason hands were loud as drums in her mind
, as if for the past howsoever long they had not been a part of his body, of his soul, extensions of his arms and self. She imagined them on the floor, lifeless without his energy and his focus to animate them. For many minutes, or was it hours, they would be nearly forgotten after having been the objects of deepest focus for both of them during all of this.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Master Gabriel move swiftly through the crowd, shouting something she couldn’t quite understand, Matthias right behind him. She stood there motionless, waiting for Jason to come tend her, knowing he would, expecting his touch on her sensitive skin at any minute. However, it was not his touch that soothed her, but the man with green eyes who wrapped his arms around her protectively. Free from her binds, she found herself in the arms of someone familiar, someone strong and loving. Smiling, she looked up into those electric-green fathoms and whispered, “Hi Chip.”
“Hi, baby.” His words caressed her skin, taking away the sting. Content, she closed her eyes and let the pain sweep her away.
Chapter Two
When Chip Patterson received a job offer as the new Dom in charge of Whips and Chains in tunnel four of the Pleasure Cave, he wasn’t sure he wanted the job, not that he needed the job, because he didn’t, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to open up a new can of worms. The thought of being close to his foster brothers, Garret, Zac, Quinton, and Justice did make him reconsider, just a little bit. However, after a long talk with Momma, in which she yelled at him and told him to be a man, and deal with it and go face his past, he handed over the reins of the farm to his brothers Tic and Tac and headed out.
Raised in Simple, Tennessee, he had never thought of leaving the only state and home he had ever known. Unlike most of his brothers, he never knew who his real parents were. According to the private investigator he hired a little over a year ago, his father was some drunk doing life in prison for murder, and his mother was some waitress on interstate seventy-five that worked at some drive-in dive right outside Boggy Bay, Georgia. She died shortly after his third birthday from complications from pneumonia.
Where all of his foster brothers had spent time in Children’s Services, he was the lucky one. Momma Love got her hands on him before he could disappear and get lost in the system forever. His earliest memory was of Momma Love, laughing as she chased him around the house. For all intents and purposes, Momma Love was his real mother, and he had several brothers that each filled in and taught him what he needed to be a man.
Chip had a charmed life. He never wanted for anything, and always felt loved and cherished. He never understood why some of his brothers felt like they were gypped, or had been robbed. Hell, he thought growing up at Momma Love’s Tennessee Walking Horse and Boys Farm was like winning the lottery and finding a sparkly unicorn all in the same day.
Nevertheless, none of that mattered the second he walked into the Pleasure Cave and his former submissive Sarah Joseph, the most beautiful woman in the world, was up on stage, being whipped by a Master Dom. There was just something about a woman who was willing to give herself over to a man and entrusted her body wholly to his ministrations. Finding a submissive willing to do such a thing was hard in today’s society, when most of the woman he was around wanted independence, and everything had to be their way or the highway. It had been that way with Sara. She wanted what he couldn’t give her, so he let her go. Now, looking at her, he wondered if he made the wrong decision.
Nevertheless, there she stood. His Sara was a diamond in the rough, looking all serene and gorgeous. That was until he heard her gasp. He didn’t know why he did what he did, or why he felt the urgency to save her, since he had no right to her anymore, but when he saw the tear roll down her creamy skin, something inside his head roared and he had to stop himself before he did something he would regret. It took everything in him not to stop the scene before him, but as a Master of Whips himself, he knew the importance of complete silence when wielding the deadly instruments. Anyone could theoretically spank or paddle a submissive, but if they didn’t know the force of delivery, that’s when things became abusive. However, all that paled in comparison to wielding whips. A Master of Whips was an earned profession, one that many hours of practice required. Even then, those who studied religiously still took precautions to prevent the dangers of abuse one simple whip could inflict.
Chip watched in silence as the masked man waved and manipulated his whips expertly, with a masterful hand. He had to give the masked man credit. He truly was gifted with the whips. Enjoying the scene before him, he turned his attention back to his submissive.
She had grown over the years, matured, and looked more confident with herself. He was proud of her. It seemed that she had flourished without his guidance, and he was truly happy for her. However that didn’t not quell the sorrow he found bubbling deep within him. When he and Sara parted way over five years ago, they both knew it was the right thing to do at the time. He was not in a position to give her what she was needing and she was unwilling to wait.
He leaned against the wall and watched her closely for any signs of distress or concern, as he knew her body intimately. She stood on that stage and accepted her new Master’s ministrations beautifully and Chip was deeply proud of her. She had finally found her place in this world.
Over the next hour, he grew more concerned. Her body started to take on a clear sheen of sweat, her face became flushed, and her breathing started to increase. “Come on, baby, say your safeword,” he whispered to himself aloud, but the determination in her eyes told him she wouldn’t. Her body was draining, he could see it clearly, and her stubbornness refused to let her say the word she needed to say. Chip was moving quickly through the crowd, when he clearly heard her safeword, just as her Master raised his hand for another strike. Unable to stop the whip before it hit, he cringed when she tensed, as the whip connected. She screamed out her safeword once more, before going slack in his arms, catching her before she collapsed to the stage.
The trembling woman in his arms felt like a feather, as he tried to remove her hands from the binds that held her, only to realize there were none. Admiration and respect for her grew to an insurmountable cliff, as he gently pried her finger loose. When she collapsed in his arms, he heard her clearly. “Hi, Chip.”
Smiling, he replied, “Hi, baby.” He scooped her up in his arms just as she drifted off into nirvana. Turning to the masked man as he ascended the stage, Chip roared violently, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What the hell are you doing?” the masked man shouted back.
“Saving your sub from another lashing. You should have watched her more closely. She had enough thirty minutes ago,” Chip replied venomously.
As a whip Master, he learned over the years that body language was a must. If the one wielding the whip could not properly read the submissive’s body language, then he or she had no business whipping anyone. It angered him, and quite frankly pissed him off, that Gabriel Sexton would allow such a man do a scene in his club without making sure the person knew what he was doing. That was one thing that was sure to change if he still accepted the job in question, and right now, he wanted no part of it. The only thing he cared about doing at the moment was tending to the wounds on Sara’s back, and then getting her the hell out of this club. She had yet to regain consciousness, and for that, Chip was grateful.
Moving towards the stairs, Chip gently walked down them only to be stopped by a hulking black man. “Who the hell are you and where do you think you’re going with one of my Dungeon submissives?”
“The name’s Chip Patterson, and I’m the new Whips and Chains Master for Tunnel four, that is, if I decide this club is reputable enough to have me. Now that the introductions are over, how about you get the fuck out of my way before I move you myself.”
“Gentlemen,” a tall man wearing a tailored black Armani suit, with jet-black hair and eerie gray eyes said ominously. “We need to take Sara to the infirmary to get checked out. Besides, this is not the
place for such discussion. Please follow me, Mr. Patterson, so we can finish this discussion in private?”
“No,” Chip replied, holding his ground. Chip didn’t give a shit who this new person was, nor did he consider him a threat. However, the large black man standing toe to toe with him was a different story.
“Excuse me?” the new guy stated, raising an eyebrow, and for some reason Chip had the distinct feeling that the gentlemen just told him to go fuck himself.
“I hate saying this, but I agree with the new guy, Gabe. I don’t care who he is. Nobody comes into my dungeon, interrupts a scene that has been scheduled for months, and disrupts the cohesiveness of the scene, without some sort of retribution. Besides,” the large black man shouted, turning to the man he called Gabe. “What the hell does he mean he’s the new Whips and Chains Master of tunnel four?”
Chip watched as Gabe furrowed his brow and sighed. “Matthias, we can discuss this in my office later.”
“No, bossman. We discuss this now, or I quit!”
Chip knew when to stay and fight and when it was time to cut tail and run. This was a time to cut tail, and that’s exactly what he did, leaving the two bickering men. Making his way through the crowd, Chip didn’t have to say a single word as people moved out of his way. Once in the hallway, he realized he really didn’t know where he was going. That’s when the masked man whistled loudly from down the long hallway and said, “The infirmary is over here.”
* * * *
Manipulated [The Masters Series 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 4