More than a Dare (Masters Club 4)

As his hand trailed down between her legs, he pushed all these weighty thoughts aside. She had such a pretty little cunt, her labia like dark pink orchid petals. He stroked them and slipped a finger inside her. She was wet, as she should be.

She shivered at his touch, a small moan escaping her lips as he circled the hardening nub of her clit. He trailed his hand toward the perfect asterisk between her ass cheeks. She stiffened, still shy. He would soon fix that. He would teach her that a slave held nothing back from her Master. Every orifice, every inch of her, was his to use, to plunder, to adore.

Letting his hand fall away, he leaned over her on the bench, his chest against her narrow back. Her face was turned to the side, resting against the smooth leather of the bench, her eyes closed. He brought his mouth close to her exposed ear.

“Are you ready, slave? Ready for the kiss of the cane?”

Her eyes flew open as she drew in an audible breath, her body tensing beneath his hand.

He wrapped his fingers around her thick, soft hair and gave it a tug. “I asked you a direct question, slave.”

“Yes,” she cried. “Yes, Sir. I think. I mean, I don’t know. I’m afraid. It hurt so much before.”

He released her hair and stroked her cheek. “This morning was a punishment stroke. This session, we’ll take it slow. I’ll warm your skin first, and gradually increase the intensity. And it’s okay to be afraid. That’s what makes you so brave, Dahlia. You work your way through your fear in order to submit to your Master.”

He stood upright. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To serve your Master above all else?”

“Um,” she hedged. But then, in a small voice, she said, “Yes, Sir.”

He smiled. “Good girl.”

Leaving her a moment, he went to the toy rack. He considered which cane to use. He bypassed the dragon—a thicker, thuddy cane that could cause deep bruising. Ditto the synthetic cane, which delivered more of a whippy stroke and was better suited to seasoned subs. That left the rattan heart cane he’d used earlier that morning.

He pulled it from the rack and came to stand beside Dahlia. He flicked the cane through the air with an audible whoosh. Predictably, she flinched at the sound.

Submissive fear never failed to stoke Hayden’s inner sadist, and his cock, already semi-erect, stiffened further. Crouching in front of her so his face was level with hers, he said, “Remember, Dahlia. You ultimately control the action. It is your choice to submit. You showed me this morning how strong and brave you are. Can you show me again?”

Some of the rabbit-like fear left her expression, a look of resolve replacing it. “Yes, Sir,” she said in a steady voice.

Hayden smiled, proud of her. He held the side of the cane to her lips. “Kiss it as a sign of your respect and willingness to submit.”

Color rose in her cheeks as she obeyed. She was so adorable. How had he spent his entire life until now without this amazing woman?

Getting to his feet, he took a step back and stroked the hair that had fallen over her cheek behind her ear. “We begin,” he said softly.

Moving behind her, he stood just to the side, focusing on his sexy target. With a gentle flick of the wrist, he tapped the cane lightly against the fleshiest part of her ass. He kept the rhythm consistent, the strikes soft and gentle. He continued in this way until she relaxed, her tension easing.

Pulling back his arm just a bit, he let the cane land with a little more force, the rattan cracking against her flesh a touch harder than before. Dahlia yelped, but before full-on panic could set in, he caressed her flesh with gentle fingers and then moved his hand lower, brushing the petals of her sex.

When he judged she was calm again, he resumed his stance and again tapped rhythmically against her ass, a little lower down this time. He kept it up for a minute or so and then—thwack—delivered a strike that packed some real sting.

Dahlia cried out, and he waited, listening for either yellow light or rosebud. But, after that initial, startled cry, she remained silent, save for shallow panting.

“Breathe,” he reminded her. “Fill your lungs. Take slow, deep breaths to keep yourself centered.”

Once she had calmed herself, he resumed the tapping rhythm, brushing her skin the way a drummer uses brushes on the drums. Every once in a while, he’d deliver a harder stroke, but then immediately return to the steady, easy rhythm.

He continued in this way until she was fully relaxed, off in that lovely floaty place masochists drifted to when properly primed. Judging the time was right, he struck hard again, twice in quick succession.