by Adira August
He took a position just to the side of her knee and brought the bundle swiftly up to strike the back of her thigh. Shwip! She gasped.
“What did you feel?” He asked.
Avia found herself smiling. “It’s warm and ... tingly.”
He smiled, too. “I’m thinking of using this on you when I spank you Sunday. To begin with anyway. You can actually do all over body massage with it. We call it the Sweet Sweep. It’s basically an old-fashioned broom.”
He swished it back and forth a few times and then took a half-step back. “This time, I’m going to strike a lot harder. Harder than I’d ever use any other implement on anyone.”
She felt her chest hollow in fear. But he waited for her permission. “Okay.”
He swung his whole arm back and she heard the swoosh through the air. The sweeper connected with her thigh. “Oh!” She said. It stung. She could almost identify the individual lines of the sticks warming. It was almost hot, but not quite.
“How bad was that?” He asked.
She put her foot down. “It wasn’t, really, it’s just … stingy.”
“If I were to a soak this, to make it supple, the ends would be a lot stingier. It’s pretty simulating. If someone wants to use it as punishment, make it hurt enough to be a deterrent, they’d use it wet and strong and in the same spot over and over. But his arm would give out before he could do any real damage.” He explained.
“The Sweet Sweep has a rating of zero to one. We sell a lot of them to couples who are into Dominant/submissive relationships but not inflicting or experiencing pain. It’s a great thing for sensual spanking or massage. They come in sets of three for around fifty dollars.”
She rubbed the back of her thigh experimentally. “The sting is already fading, I think. Is that possible?”
“It’s designed to. Multiple strikes will fade less quickly, but the point is to cause you to feel something, not inflict damage.”
She reached for the sweeper and he let go easily. She fingered the ... stems? “What’s it made from?”
“Sorghum,” he said. “There’s actually a species called ‘broom sorghum.’” He said.
She swished it back and forth and struck her palm a few times and imagined laying across his thighs with her panties around her ankles and him flicking her over and over, up and down. Her clit woke up. Not now. She handed it back to him.
“I get it. That’s not at all scary and I can see it could even be ... fun, I suppose is the word.”
“Arousing is the word, Avia,” he said, his voice low and husky. His eyes dark.
He stepped close to her, so close she could see the weave of his vest and the pulse at the side of his neck. He reached for her hand and took the sweeper from her, running it over the side of her face and down over her breasts.
“I can make you come with this, alone,” he whispered. Her breath caught, her lips parted, the flesh between her legs heated. She stepped back from him.
“No!” she said, even though their eyes were locked in mutual lust and need. Fuck!
“No,” she repeated “That’s not the issue. Pleasure spanking I now believe exists. The damage I saw came from punishment.”
She turned to the cabinet again. “Look at this stuff. Wood and leather and plastic and none of it for massage. This is designed to hurt. Don’t show me how you’ll pleasure me. Show me how you’ll discipline me. Hurt me.” She demanded.
He stared at her for a long minute. Considering, calculating, deciding. “As you wish. But you’ll have to do exactly as I say. You’ll have to trust me one more time.”
She felt her breath coming faster. Her heart pounding. She was afraid. She thought of Irene and she was afraid.
And then she looked into his sculpted handsome face and his patient eyes and she calmed. You asked him for this. You need to know this. “Okay,” she said.
“Go stand at the short side of the table facing it. Pull up your skirt and tuck it into your waistband. Pull your panties down just far enough to expose your cheeks.” He didn’t watch her. He walked to the door and locked it and strode away to the end of the room.
She was trembling as she complied. Her hands shook, fingers fumbling as she tucked her skirt into her waistband to keep it out of the way of whatever he would strike her with. Her mouth was dry. She slid her panties down to the tops of her thighs.
He came striding back, his mouth set in a grim line and put two couch cushions on the table in front of her, one atop the other.
“Move forward so your thighs press against the table. Then lie down on the pillows and grab the sides of the table. Do not let go until I tell you.” His words clipped and cold.
He selected something from the cabinet and brought it over to the table. He placed it along the edge, next to the pillows, where she could see it clearly.
It was a simple wooden yardstick, an inch wide. It had to been cut in half to eighteen inches. A handle took up the first six inches: wrapped leather with a slight protrusion to anchor the thumb. She saw this would made the grip secure. Give the wielder more control.
“Well?” He asked, his face impassive.
She tried to swallow. Nothing. She pressed against the table; it hit her about mid-thigh. Then she bent from the hips and lay over the cushions. They sank a little under her weight. She reached out with both hands and felt for the sides of the table. Slipped her fingers over and gripped hard.
“Disciplinary strokes are always delivered at the same intensity,” he explained.
“The pain is just that, pain. It is not injury,” he continued. “The subjective intensity of the stroke, what you feel, varies with the implement used, the number of layers, and the number of strokes in the same place. The Yardstick is rated five. The intensity of the stroke I deliver for discipline, is a six.
“Again, I deliver all disciplinary strokes at the same intensity. Now, do you believe that or must I strike you multiple times to prove I have that much skill and control?” He sounded angry.
An angry man is going to hit you with a wooden stick. Okay, focus. Did she believe he had that much control? Do it right.
“Three times,” she said, her voice shaking and barely a whisper. His lips pressed, the planes of his face sharpened. Shrugging out of his suit coat, he tossed it over one of the chairs.
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up to mid-forearm, his actions jerky with tension. Done, he snatched the yardstick off the table and disappeared behind her.
“Kick your shoes off and spread your legs. Feet about a foot apart. Point your toes in. Don’t lift up and don’t let go.” He ordered.
She obeyed him and when her feet were flat on the floor, found she was bent at a ninety degree angle over the table. She spread her feet apart and turned her toes in. She remembered that this prevented her from flexing her buttocks. No defense against the pain.
He flipped open her other back garter and tucked both carefully up under the garter belt.
Moving to a position just to the left of her body, he placed his left hand flat on her sacrum and pressed. Her back bowed, her naked ass popped up, presenting itself for punishment. A hot flush spread over her chest and neck.
“This is the discipline position. If I ever tell you to “present,” I expect to see your ass in the air, just like this.” He told her. “We should be in the Keep where you’d be in a device that would position you, restrain you properly. I can’t keep my hand on you and maintain the correct angle to be sure of my stroke so you must stay still. This will hurt. You must stay still, anyway. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, barely able to breathe through her fear. The “sir” coming automatically.
“Don’t hold your breath, you need the oxygen. Breathe.” He said, sounding a less angry now. “I’m going to deliver three strokes. There will be a four second pause between each. After the last, do not move until I tell you.” He instructed.
“Yes, Sir,” she said again. Twelve seconds. She could certainly bear s
ome pain for twelve seconds.
“Why am I doing this?” He waited for an answer, but the question so surprised her, her mind went blank.
“Why am I doing this to you, Avia?” He demanded.
“Because I want you to. I asked you to. I need you to.” She answered.
She heard the whistle of the stick through the air and WHAP! It connected with both cheeks at once.
“Fuck!” Avia cried as the pain hit her. This was no sweet stinging; this hurt.
“One.” He said. … Another whistle and WHAP!
“Two,” he counted.
“No!” she yelled. Fuck that hurts. Her body responded on its own, her spine bowed up, her hips pulled in, trying to avoid another stroke. Her hands moved back to protect her bare skin. She instantly felt his hand on her, pressing down.
“Stay. Still.” He commanded in his Dom voice. “Grab the table.”
She did as he ordered. He pushed down and her ass raised up again, ready for another stroke. She buried her face in the cushion - no, no, no - His hand disappeared from her back.
The whistle and WHAP!
Avia screamed a little into the cushion.
“Three,” he said.
There were tears in her eyes and three solid stripes of heat across her ass. The burn seemed to spread and overlap, prolonging the pain.
She wanted to stand up. Rub her sore bottom. Cover her shame. But she obeyed him and remained as she was, legs spread, ass in the air, tears leaking into the cushion. She saw him carry the yardstick away, but not to the cabinet.
He passed that and stopped at the desk where he grasped both ends and bent the flexible wood until it snapped in half with a surprisingly loud CRACK! The look on his face was … terrible. Pained. He threw the halves into a wastebasket behind the desk. She heard the metallic rattle as they hit.
He returned to her and pulled up her panties, careful to hold the elastic away from her, so as not to chafe her burning skin. Then he gently freed her skirt from her waistband and lowered it into place. He leaned over her and grasped both her upper arms, lifting her up.
When she was standing, he still held her arms. Avia was glad as a wave of dizziness washed over her.
“Breathe,” he said quietly. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
The feeling passed and she looked around for her shoes. “I’m okay,” she said, wiping tears from her cheeks and eyes. He squatted down and slipped her shoes on, holding the opposite calf to steady her as she stepped into each one.
“This way,” he said.
He unlocked the door and led her out of the room. She followed him down the hall to the very next door. They entered an office, this time a real one. He walked over to a smaller door and through to a dressing room, with a bathroom beyond. In the corner, was a full length three-way mirror.
“I change clothes here for meetings and night functions,” he said. He positioned her in front of the mirror and unbuttoned her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Then he reached behind her, the front of his body pressed the front of hers, and used both hands to carefully lower her panties.
“Look,” he told her.
For a second she was afraid. Afraid to see the dark red welts, the blood on her skin. She steeled herself and looked.
Three pale pink stripes on each buttock. Six narrow rectangles on the fullest part of her rear end, prevented from being continuous by the curve of her bottom. Close together. Evenly spaced. Parallel. His aim was perfect.
He was bent over, messing with her skirt. He came up with her cell.
“Turn toward the light,” he said and positioned her so the dressing lights illuminated the marks. He took a picture. Avia was shocked, but - it was her phone. He fiddled with the picture, making it bigger, and handed it to her: three pink rectangles in close-up.
“See the edges? See how they aren’t sharp, but kind of blurred? That’s because the edges of every spanking implement of any type or material I sell have been sanded or molded to have rounded edges, to prevent the kind of bloody injury you saw.”
He took a small tube from his pocket and rubbed a soothing cream of some kind on her backside. Then he replaced panties and skirt, tucked in her blouse, zipping and buttoning. His fingers deft.
“Did you think the strokes were delivered with the same intensity?” He asked.
“All I thought was that they hurt a lot,” she said.
“They have to hurt or they don’t work,” he replied. “They’re disciplinary. Did you think they hurt the same amount?”
She thought about it.”Yes. But I still don’t understand why it has to be this way.”
“That’s instruction you’ll get when discipline is in force. During a session. Probably the one after this upcoming one.” He led her out to the office. From a small refrigerator in a closet, he brought out two bottles of water and gestured with one to ask if she wanted it. She accepted, gratefully.
He sat down in his desk chair and she automatically sat in a visitor’s chair across from him. Her mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Comfortable?” He asked.
Avia shifted back and forth experimentally. “It’s like I can feel all the places where you hit me. It’s sensitive but, really, it hardly hurts now.” She was very confused. “I don’t understand, it’s only been about ten minutes or so.”
He checked his watch. “Thirteen. And you’re right. You don’t understand. I do.”
He took a long drink from his bottle, head tilted back. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. And she wanted to press her lips there. But there was still an undercurrent of distance and anger about him. She didn’t dare think about approaching him.
He put down the bottle and opened his middle desk drawer, pulling out some kind of snack bar. He tossed it across the desk to her. “Eat that. It has chocolate and plenty of sugar. Being assaulted can make you shocky.” He waited but she didn’t reach out. “You said you’d do as I instructed.”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought that part was over,” she replied and opened the granola bar. There were large chunks of chocolate and pecans. She chewed a bite. Delicious. She felt color returning to her cheeks.
“I thought chocolate was for dementors,” she said, taking another bite.
Surprised, his lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. “Wards them off. They can be quite a nuisance to some people after discipline. Even those who know what to expect.”
She took her own long drink of water. “Why did you call spanking ‘assault?’”
He shrugged. “Because it is. Whatever we do, for whatever reason, however willingly, it’s still an assault on your body. Like surgery. You may need it, want it, it might save your life. But cutting into your flesh is ‘surgical assault.’ Striking your flesh and inflicting pain is also an assault.”
She nodded, chewing a bite. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, why would you think that?” He seemed concerned.
“You seemed angry before. Before you started. And you’re sitting way over there,” She answered, taking the last bite.
“I’m sitting here to give you space. And I was angry at the situation, not you.” He looked to the chair next to hers. “Would you rather I sat closer?”
She drank off her water and smiled at him. Is he kidding? “Of course I would. I like you, you know? I don’t let just any passing billionaire give me fabulous orgasms.”
He was next to her before she finished speaking, settling into the other visitor’s chair. He gave her a grin and arched an eyebrow at her. “You like me? It didn’t seem that way when you got here.”
Suddenly she was teary, again. “Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me?” He handed her some tissue from one of the ubiquitous boxes that inhabited his domains.
“Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s the aftereffects. The release of endorphins and enkephalins ramp you up pretty quickly. Coming down can be an emotional roller coaster. Especially since you were already in a subtle but definite state of shock when you arrived a
nd then of extreme anxiety about the disciplinary strokes when you didn’t know what to expect.”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands, forearms on his knees. “Avia, it wasn’t just seeing the extent of the woman’s injuries, was it? It was something she said that made you doubt me. Not men like me, but me, personally.”
She twisted the tissue in her fingers. “You know I can’t reveal anything I was told by a source.”
“Yeah,” he said sitting back. “And I can’t tell you anything that could refute it.”
She looked up. She knew he knew it was Irene in the picture. His former Companion who was threatening to sue him. Expose him. And she knew he knew she knew. It would be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating, the two of them needing so much to share with each other, to believe in one another. Bound to silence by their various oaths of confidentiality. They sat like that, looking into each other’s faces, wondering how to regain and maintain trust.
“How do you feel when you discipline your Companions?” Avia asked, finally.
His eyes clouded. He looked down and away. He looked like he might not answer her. “I try not to feel. I need to concentrate, to do it correctly for them.” Then he took a breath and met her gaze, his voice so low she almost didn’t hear him. “I don’t like it.”
She thought this over and stood up. She walked around the desk and opened the middle drawer. Found the granola bars and slid one across the desktop.
“Eat. I’m not the only one who can use some chocolate.” She waved her hands around in the air as if brushing away mosquitos. “Fucking dementors.”
He laughed out loud. She came back and made a call on her cell. While she waited to be connected, she grabbed the bar she slid over and shoved it into his hands. Pointed at it firmly. He unwrapped it.
“Hey,” she said into the phone. “Remember when I said it was up to you if I stayed on the story? … Right. … Well, that’s changed. I have to drop off a phone and then I’m coming in to type up my notes. I’m off it. … No, not this time. … I’m just off it … “
Avia listened, nodding. “Okay, do that. Pretty sure I’ll have three better paying offers in twenty-four hours. … I know I am. … Love you, too.” She clicked off.