‘You’ll stain those jodhpurs,’ he reproved.
Then there was a whoosh and I almost clenched, but remembered myself just in time to feel the blazing splat full on the centre of my backside, a heavy kind of sting that penetrated my flesh.
‘Twenty of these to start,’ he said. ‘Keep that arse high.’
I pushed it back out and waited for more. I got it. The leather loop fell full-force another nineteen times, burning my tight trousers on to my skin. I was made to push myself out and spread my cheeks wide until I was sure the fabric would split, but it never did, just stretched and stretched while the whip was plied over and over.
After the twenty strokes were laid, he pulled down the jodhpurs, easing them slowly over my sore bottom, right down to the tops of my boots.
‘Good and red all over,’ he applauded himself, feeling the heat with both palms. ‘But I haven’t finished with you yet. Twenty more on your bare bottom. Nice and high, please.’
I felt these more acutely, each hard stroke searing and welting my skin so I knew my arse would be dark red and swollen before too long. That antique leather, although supple, had a particular weight that made it one of the worst weapons in Jasper’s armoury. I was yelling out and pleading (though not safewording) by the sixth stroke.
By twenty, I had tears in my eyes and my pussy was awash in my juices. The fire consumed me, its flames licking every part of my body.
‘Are you learning your lesson?’ asked Jasper. ‘That looks very sore.’ He sucked in a breath and tutted, running his fingers around the ridges and bumps he had wrought.
‘Yes, Sir,’ I moaned.
‘Good,’ he said. His fingers prodded between my lower lips. ‘Christ, you’re wet, girl. Very wet.’
I pushed myself back on them, desperate for stimulation.
‘I don’t know if I should,’ he whispered. ‘But …’
I heard him pull down his own jodhpurs, and then his cock head swirled around in my wetness. (We had had tests done, at his insistence, in a local private clinic and there was no further need for condoms.)
‘Oh, please,’ I begged, my voice quivering.
He entered, an inch, then stopped.
‘Oh, more, please.’
He did this several times, moving further in then waiting for me to beg, until he was all the way in.
I sighed with relief, more than ready for my punishment fuck.
But he thrust no more than three times before pulling out again and saying, ‘No, not yet. You need more whipping first.’
‘Oh, but, Sir,’ I almost screamed.
‘Ten more. And I’m taking off the loop.’
My boiling blood froze. This would really, really hurt. Without the loop, the crop was as bad as the cane, if not more so.
‘Oh, no,’ I whimpered.
‘You’ll count these,’ he said. ‘And every stroke will teach you to be truthful with me. Because if I catch you in any more lies, this will seem like a gentle caress.’
I summoned up all my spirit, all my will, all my courage. I would live through this. I could always safeword but, if I did, I wouldn’t have quite the quality of afterburn and exquisite soreness I wanted. I would think of that, and of the frantic sex afterwards, Jasper’s pelvis slapping against my welts, the sweat adding more sweet sting.
I concentrated hard on these thoughts, and each eye-watering stroke of the whip handle was bearable, even welcome. I let the shock shudder through me, let the fire burn pure and bright, then lessen by degrees, until ten bright red lines were written on my backside. Jasper’s signature, marks of ownership I bore with pride and love.
‘Ten, Sir,’ I whispered, my voice shaky and cracked but still there somehow.
‘Truth
, Sarah,’ he said, bending over me to speak low in my ear. ‘How do you feel?’