Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  I lie still, and despite my eagerness to be done with this, I know I do need to regroup. I nod.

  “Open your legs, girl. I want to know if you’re wet. You’re such a randy little slut I bet you’re actually getting aroused by this.”

  I seriously doubt that, but if he wants to check I have no objection. I part my thighs obligingly, and sigh contentedly as he slides his fingers through my hot, slick folds. That feels so nice, I could almost purr. Almost.

  “Mmm, I’ve known you wetter. Maybe this is a good punishment for you. Nice and effective. I’ll have to buy in some more ginger root. Still, while we’re waiting for you to collect yourself so we can move on, let’s see what we can do to juice you up a bit, shall we? But you’re not allowed to come. Is that clear?”

  I nod—anything as long as he continues to stroke his talented fingers across my pussy like that. I shift under his hands, earning myself a tap on my bum. It’s not painful, just one of his ‘behave yourself’ reminders. I lie still as he slips three fingers deep inside my pussy, and I feel the wetness start in earnest, all discomfort momentarily forgotten as he rubs my G-spot mercilessly.

  “If you orgasm without my permission you’ll earn yourself ten more spanks before I move you to the bench. Got that?”

  I nod, but I doubt that he sees me as his attention is on my quivering pussy. He uses his free hand to part my lips as he finger-fucks me, his rhythm smooth and firm and very, very effective. I squeeze then wince as even that movement sends hot tingles of discomfort shimmering through me. He chuckles and splays his fingers inside me to intensify the feeling, at the same time reaching his free hand around to rub my clit. Ten extra spanks or not, I know I can’t stand much more of this without orgasming. And I know that’s going to hurt, as well as earn me more time over his lap.

  I bite my lip, chewing on it nervously, now trying to think of something nasty, anything to take my mind off the delightful sensations in my pussy and coalescing at my clit. I’m grasping his ankles, my fingers digging in fiercely as I feel my body start to betray me.

  Then, suddenly, he stops. He helps me to stand, his hands on my hips to steady me as I sway in front of him. His smile is sexy, his eyes dark with lust, and his erection is straining inside his jeans. He looks almost as uncomfortable as I am, and I suspect he’s as keen as me to get to the end of this. Sure enough, he stands and takes my hand, leading me to the spanking bench.

  “Lie along the top, lengthways. I want your hands on top where I can easily see them if you need to signal me.”

  I’m accustomed to this position so I quickly manoeuvre myself into place. Nick releases straps from the sides of the bench and uses those to encircle my elbows, pinning me to the top of the bench. He straps my ankles too, and my knees so I am held securely in place. I am bent over the bench, unable to move my body at all but my hands are free.

  Nick parts my buttocks, checking the position of the ginger root. He twists it again, and I glance over my shoulder in time to see his wry grin as I hiss in pain.

  “This bit is harder, so I’ll check you often. But I expect you to use those wristbands. Yellow for a rest, or if you need a drink, anything at all. Red means you’ve had enough. For now. We can pick this up where we left off. I’ve plenty more ginger so we can come back to it tomorrow. Or the day after. There’s no hurry.”

  He may not think so. For myself I’m determined not to be coming back to this any time soon, so it has to be finished today. Only twenty strokes with a paddle, I can manage that, ginger root or not. I’m not so confident about the cane—I’ve never managed to endure a serious caning, and Nick knows that. I have no doubt that’s why he’s decided on it for me today. Twice before, in the early stages of my training with him, he caned me, and each time I gave my safe signal. The first time I only managed two strikes, the second time I got as far as five before I waved my red wristband at him. After the second attempt Nick advised me to put caning on my hard limits list for the future, but like an idiot I refused, said I’d practise until I could do it. Nick just shrugged, and we haven’t practised it any more since then. Until now. Still, there’s a first time for everything. And by the time we get to that stage I’ll be past caring probably.

  Somehow, though, I doubt that. And even if I am, Nick won’t be. He’ll stop whether I ask him to or not if he thinks it’s gone far enough.

  From my vantage point on the bench I watch as Nick strolls across the dungeon to the rack where he keeps his paddles, whips and canes. He selects a solid-looking black rubber paddle, and I’m relieved to see it’s one we’ve used a number of times before. It’s heavy, has a real bite, but I know I can live with it. In fact, I’ve developed a certain fondness for this particular paddle in the past.

  The cane he chooses is more worrying. It’s light, slender, built to cause a sharp sting rather than to land a heavy blow, but nonetheless painful for that. From my two previous brief encounters I know enough now to appreciate that these thin canes are more often used on female submissives because they don’t usually leave any bruises, but they hurt like hell. I shiver, not yet ready to throw in the towel, or red wristband, but definitely scared.

  Nick comes back over to me, drops the cane onto the floor where I can see it clearly, and moves behind me.

  “Twenty then. I’ll count these out loud. Are you ready?”

  I give an ‘okay’ sign with my finger and thumb, and brace myself. That’s my first mistake as the ginger radiates its own brand of vile heat inside me. I struggle to loosen my muscles just as the first blow lands. I jerk violently, winded by the intensity of the pain, inside and out.

  “One. Can I continue?” His tone is clipped and formal, Nick in absolute Dom mode and intimidating as hell.

  He doesn’t hurry me, though, and I have time to take several deep breaths before giving the ‘okay’ sign again. And I gasp as the next blow lands.

  “Two. Freya?” Still that unsympathetic, businesslike tone.

  I know he intends to make this a memorable occasion and I’m by no means certain now that we will complete my punishment today. I don’t recall this paddle ever hurting as much as this. My buttocks feel to be on fire already, and my arse is even more painful on the inside.

  I steel myself and sign ‘okay’ again, and we repeat the process. Then again, and again. Each time he waits until I signal I’m ready to continue, and I manage to reach seven before I raise my right hand, the one with the yellow wristband. Christ, I know I begged him for this, but I never anticipated it would be this hard.

  “Okay, time out.” He drops the paddle beside the cane and walks away, only to return moments later with an uncapped bottle of chilled water. “Take small sips,” he instructs as he holds the neck of the bottle to my lips.

  I try to gulp the sweet, cool water, but he tips it away from my mouth. “Slowly, Freya. Take your time—you can have as much as you want. And try to relax for a few minutes.”

  I obey, and he slowly pours water into my mouth. At last I’m satisfied and shake my head as he offers me more. He smiles, glances at my tender buttocks. “Your arse is turning a beautiful shade of pink. Positively glowing. We’ve a way to go, though. Do you think you can continue yet or do you want more time? If you like we can call it a day for now, and you can go lie down, take a nice long soak in the bath, whatever?”

  I shake my head firmly. This is awful, utterly horrible, but the ordeal won’t be any less for being kept on hold overnight. If anything the anticipation will make everything he has in store for me much worse. The idea of a long soak is tempting, but I want it to be after the caning if I can possibly manage that. So I brace myself, do the best I can to ignore the ferocious sizzling inside my arse as I clench on the ginger root, and prepare myself for number eight.

  It doesn’t disappoint, harsh and solid, sending waves of pain through my body once more. I grind my teeth, and abandon any attempt at bravado as I let my tears flow freely.

  “Eight.”

  I signal the okay, and he con
tinues. After another five strikes he stops and once more insists that I take a few sips of water. “Just seven more, then this part is over. Can I continue or do you want to wait a while?”

  I shake my head, then realise he could misunderstand me, and give the okay signal as well.

  “We’re continuing then, yes?” Just checking, as always.

  I nod, close my eyes and relax my weight against the soft leather beneath my body, convincing myself that the pain will flow through me and be absorbed by the spanking bench. I spread my fingers out on the yielding surface under them, caressing the buttery padding.

  “If you want me to stop, just raise your hand. Otherwise, though, I’m just going to get this done now. Are you ready?”

  Another okay signal, and I lie still, accepting the inevitable.

  He’s as good as his word. The final seven strikes are delivered swiftly, and I somehow manage to distance myself from the pain. I know my natural endorphins have a lot to do with that, but it’s also a state of mind. I’m visualising my goal of completing this punishment, accepting the discipline I deserve, and reaching a point beyond it where my Master approves of me once more. I crave his approval, yearn for his acceptance more than anything, and I’ll submit willingly to whatever I need to endure to achieve it, to win it back.

  The discarded paddle lands on the floor again, next to the cane. I force my eyelids to open, knowing it’s time for the final lap. But first, there’s more hydration. Lifting my hair away from my face, Nick holds the bottle to my lips, and I sip the remaining few drops. He goes back to the fridge for another bottle then pours more of the chilled water into my mouth.

  He continues to stroke my hair as he crouches beside me. “Do you want to continue, Freya? You’ve done really well, and we’re a lot further than I imagined we might be. You’ll have appreciated I laid the paddle on harder than I have before, and if you’ve had enough for one day I’ll understand that. I am going to insist on the ten strikes with the cane, but the timing is up to you. We can do the whole lot here and now, or we can take days over it. You will get there, eventually.” His tone is a gentle murmur. Gone, just for the moment, is the stern Dom. He’s been replaced by the caring lover. I adore them both.

  I know I will get there eventually, but I want it to be now. Or soon. It’s just so hard, and I fucking hate this ginger root. Even though he’s finished paddling me, I’m still gasping from the pain inside my delicate arse, and I know the root stays there until either it finally spends itself, or he completes delivering my entire punishment. I glance at the clock, and see that it’s only been half an hour, though it seems like a lifetime since he inserted the vicious finger of ginger into me. It could be another hour yet before it starts to fade, maybe more.

  Ten strokes. That could be done within seconds if he gets on with it. And if I manage not to signal stop, or pass out or anything stupid like that. Ten seconds, twenty at most. I can bear that. Surely. Then it’ll be done, ginger gone, and I’ll be able to have that hot, scented bath. And better still, I’ll have my Master back. A no-brainer really, which is probably just as well because I seem to have left whatever grey matter I may have once possessed outside the dungeon.

  I signal okay, knowing my messages are ambiguous, but also confident that he’ll check.

  Sure enough, “Okay what? Okay to continue, or okay, we’ll come back tomorrow? Or the day after? Yellow for now, Freya, and red for another day.”

  I lift my right hand, the one with the yellow wristband. Now.

  He nods briefly, but doesn’t pick up the cane immediately. Instead he goes over to the chest of drawers where he keeps creams and ointments, and returns with a tub of body butter.

  “Your gorgeous arse has had enough. You’re glowing like a Christmas tree. The caning is going to be across the backs of your legs, which I’ve been careful to avoid until now. This cream will help protect your skin, but even so you won’t be able to sit down, probably for a few days.” He smears a generous quantity of the scented cream across the backs of my legs, rubbing it into the skin. He then applies the cream to my buttocks, but his touch there is much lighter as he spreads the soothing balm across my smarting skin and leaves it to be absorbed naturally. Even then, he doesn’t pick up the cane. Instead, he slips his fingers between my legs and trails them across my pussy. I clench without thinking, and flinch as the root does its worst. He chuckles, then, “Sorry, darling. You just look so fucking tempting. Still, first things first.”

  And at last he picks up the cane.

  “Right, I’m going to be watching you carefully, and at the first sign of real distress I’ll stop, reassess. Or if you give me a signal, we stop immediately. Otherwise, though, I’m just going to get on with it. It’ll hurt like fuck, like nothing before. But ten quick strokes, then we’re out of here. Is that okay with you, girl?”

  I nod, start to brace myself, but don’t even have time for that before the first blow bites across my upper right thigh. Christ, he was right. The spanking was tough, the paddling worse. But this is off the scale. Blinding. The pain sears the back of my thigh but seems to be everywhere else too, so intense I can almost taste it, smell it. I sag forward onto the bench, and I know I would have crumpled to the floor but for the restraints holding me in place. I hear Nick counting the strokes, but his voice sounds to be a long way away, in a tunnel somewhere. The next blow falls on my left thigh. The agony explodes once more and without doubt I would safe word now if this were any other scene. If I knew I wouldn’t have to come back to it again. And again. Until it’s finished.

  My lower body feels to be on fire and I’m gasping for breath. The third stroke lands on the right again but a little lower than the first. Despite the agony that now seems to fill every corner of my body, each separate blow is felt to the full, searing in its perfection. Nick knows what he is about. The fourth stroke is a mirror image of the second, and I realise he’s placing the strokes with absolute precision, making sure he never hits the same spot twice. Very considerate, but it’s still total agony, utterly excruciating.

  I grip the leather padding, and grind my jaw viciously. I’ll be lucky not to wear my teeth to stumps. Never again, I promise myself, never, ever again will I bring anything like this down on myself. And caning definitely goes on the hard limits list the moment my hands are free and I’m able to sign again.

  Five, six, seven. My body is jerking involuntarily under each stroke of the cane. I could almost imagine that it feels less awful now, but not quite. Maybe my body is adjusting, or simply shutting down. Shutting it out. I feel dizzy, and I can no longer hear him counting. I think he must be farther away in that tunnel, or maybe I am. Then I realise it’s because he’s stopped counting. The water bottle nudges my lips and I sip obediently. Have we finished?

  As if in answer to my silent question, “Three to go, but we’re taking a five minute break.”

  I start to shake my head, but he’s having none of it. “Not your call. Five minutes. I’m going to untie you now, though. You can stand up, take a stretch if you like.”

  He deftly unfastens the restraints, and I flex my hands first before pushing myself up to stand, leaning forward against the bench. The water bottle is on top of the leather padding in front of me, and I help myself this time. I finish the bottle, and another is placed in my hands before I even have the chance to ask for it. I take a long drink then lift my gaze to Nick’s. He’s leaning on the other end of the bench, and reaches across to cup my chin in his palm. He smiles, his gaze affectionate. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”

  My answering smile is tremulous, but genuine. I sign that he’s pretty amazing too. And that I love him. And that I’m sorry.

  He continues to hold my face in his palm as he studies me, then, “I know. That you’re sorry, I mean. And I’m ready to accept your apology. You’re beautiful, and you’re brave, and I really think you’ve been punished enough now. He leans across, and I know he intends to kiss me. I place my hand, palm out, on his chest. He h
esitates, and I take my opportunity, signing quickly, “I am sorry, and I’m glad you accept my apology, but you still owe me three more. Please. We need to finish. I need to finish.” I drop my hands again, and wait for his response.

  “I understand. So, are you ready?”

  I don’t bother to nod this time. Instead I just assume the position across the bench. I grip the leather cover hard between my fingers, deliberately raising my bottom to make the backs of my legs vulnerable, offering myself to him. Despite the pain, and I am seriously hurting, my pussy is dripping. There’s something intensely sensual about this scene now. This is beyond discipline and has become very intimate, a deep connection forging between us, made even more profound as I’m unrestrained, placing myself willingly beneath his cane.

  I’m hardly aware of the final three strikes. My body is glowing, inside and out, but this feeling is more emotional, spiritual even, than it is physical. The cane clatters to the polished wood floor, and I almost weep with relief as he parts my buttocks with the fingers of his left hand and quickly removes the ginger root. He tosses that in the waste bin before simply scooping me up and carrying me from the dungeon. Moments later I’m face down on our huge bed, and I can hear Nick in the adjacent bathroom. I hear the running water, and know that the long soak he promised me is not far off now. I’d totter to the bathroom and throw myself in, but I’m just too sore. And completely exhausted.

  No need to bother, though, because Nick is back after just a few minutes. He says nothing, just lifts me again and carries me into the bathroom. His chest is bare. I suspect so is the rest of him but I can’t see from my position cradled in his arms. My eyes were shut as he came back across the bedroom so I didn’t see then either. I don’t have long to ponder that question, though, as he simply steps into the bath and sinks down, still holding me.

  The water is warm, just as I like it, and scented with hints of lemon and other citrus fragrances. Nick hits a switch somewhere, and the bath bursts into life as a constant flow of refreshing bubbles swirls around us. My abused skin smarts at first, but not for long as the gentle water laps and caresses me, and the tension in my body dissipates. I swear, if I looked down at my limbs I’d see the pain, so acute and almost unbearable from only a few minutes ago, just rippling out and away, dissolving in the sensuous bubbles.