He opened his jacket and removed the pink remote for the butterfly vibrator. Setting the remote on the sink, he reached into his jacket once more. This time he brought out an extremely short-handled riding crop—surely too short to use with any effect.
Perhaps seeing her puzzled expression, he remarked, “It’s a travel crop. Looks harmless enough, but it packs a powerful wallop.” His eyes flashed with power. “Fits nicely in a little nylon pouch in my carry-on. I’ve never had a problem getting through airline security.” He pulled the retracted handle, extending it until it was maybe two feet long. Focusing again on her, Master Jack slapped the small, thick leather tongue against his palm. “Prepare to suffer for your Master’s amusement, slave girl.”
Cleo’s mouth went suddenly dry with nervous anticipation. She nodded mutely.
“Bend over the toilet seat, ass out.”
The space was only just large enough for her to obey, with Master Jack standing with his back against the door to give her space. Once she was in position, he flipped up the back of her skirt, uncovering her bare ass. A moment later, the butterfly began to vibrate gently against her mons. A small, involuntary shudder moved through her at the sudden stimulation.
“I owe you a punishment for coming without permission the other night,” he reminded her. “I’m going to turn that sweet little ass cherry red. You will not move. You will not make a sound.”
Cleo closed her eyes, her heart fluttering.
The leather rectangle snapped against her left cheek, stinging along her flesh. She drew in a breath but otherwise remained still. It snapped against the right cheek, just as hard. Quieter than a flogger or a whip or even a hard palm, the slapping sound was still plenty loud, at least in Cleo’s ears. What if someone heard the noise coming from the bathroom? Though, given the masking white noise of the plane’s engines, that was probably unlikely. Still, they were both in a single-occupancy stall. What if someone had noticed Jack slipping in behind her?
Not your problem. Master Jack will keep you safe.
He smacked her several more times in quick, painful strokes. Tears sprang to her eyes as she braced herself against the toilet seat lid. She kept her lips pressed tightly closed in her effort to remain silent.
The butterfly began to vibrate more rapidly, sending spirals of trembly sensation through her core. She was distracted from the pleasure by the pain of the crop landing again and again against her ass and the backs of her thighs.
It wasn’t long before the erotic pain, the vibrating pleasure and the potential danger of discovery all combined to hurtle Cleo toward a rapidly escalating climax. This wasn’t a punishment—not for a masochistic sub girl like her.
Then, all at once, she understood.
Earlier in the week, he’d given her the overall mandate that she was never to climax without first obtaining permission. Yet, just now he’d forbidden her from making a sound. She couldn’t ask, yet nor could she come without permission. That, she understood, was the real punishment.
The crop landed again, smacking against the tender spot where her ass met her thigh. A strangled cry escaped her lips, in spite of her desperate attempt to remain silent. The vibrator ratcheted up in intensity, nearly toppling her from her tenuous perch of self-control.
Bloody hell, she was going to come and there was no stopping it. Lifting one hand from the toilet lid, she shoved her knuckles into her mouth in an effort to stifle any sound. She tried to think of awful things to distract herself, but it was no use. Her mind was no longer functioning. She was just a repository for nearly unbearable pleasure and erotic pain, helpless to resist the inevitable.
Just as she had resigned herself to fail this particular test, all at once the vibrator ceased its judder. The crop no longer snapped against her tenderized flesh. The cresting orgasm receded like a wave leaving the shore. Her arms trembled from the effort of holding herself up and in position. She struggled to catch her breath, heart pounding.
Without saying a word, Master Jack pulled the butterfly G-string past her hips and down her legs, dragging the vibrator along with it. He flipped her skirt back into place.
As he hadn’t given her permission to move, she remained in position. She was still struggling to catch her breath, her ass on fire, her cunt throbbing with thwarted need.
“Once I leave, you can do your sleep prep, then come back to your seat. Make sure your hands stay away from your sopping wet little cunt, slut girl.”
“Yes, Sir,” Cleo replied softly, aching with unrequited lust.
As she washed up, she thought about what an odd dichotomy BDSM was, and more specifically, erotic pain. While suffering was, on its face, an inherently bad thing one tried to avoid, it took on a whole different meaning when D/s was added to the mix.