Master of the House

‘Thanks.’ I could barely form the word. It was more like a panting breath.

‘Those were hard strokes,’ he said. ‘But you took them like an experienced submissive. Did they hurt?’

‘Yes, but …’ I tried to get my thoughts together so I could articulate more than a long plea to come.

‘But?’

He tapped the crop, lightly but sharply, over my buttocks, waking up a wonderful world of stinging heat, moving right down across my thighs then inside again. I held my breath, hoping he’d strike my pussy.

He did, very lightly.

‘But?’ he repeated.

‘Oh. There’s something … nice … about the pain. Something that makes it more than pain.’

He struck again, sharply against my lips.

‘You forgot something,’ he said sternly.

I let the shock of that burst of fire directly on my clit pulse through my lower body until it was absorbed, then I spoke again, very meekly. ‘Sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘I should think so.’

He patted my pussy this time, and it was both blissful and torturing. Each stroke was like a caress, making my clitoris bigger and rounder and needier, but it wasn’t hard enough to cancel the need or long enough to let me come.

I really wanted to come.

‘You like this, don’t you?’ he said, withdrawing the whip, to my intense disappointment.

‘It’s … oh, God, please don’t stop … it’s so interesting. Sir.’

‘Interesting?’ he repeated with a chuckle. ‘What’s interesting for me is how you’ve taken to it. Duck to water. Sub to bondage. I think you really are kinkier than I ever imagined, which is the most delightful revelation. Stay still.’

It was a tease. I couldn’t do otherwise.

I made an incoherent little noise of desperate need, aware of nothing more than the seemingly giant size and glaring heat of my clit.

‘Would you like to come?’ he asked, bending low to whisper it into my ear.

‘Yes, please, sir.’

‘Poor Lulu. You’re going to have to wait. I want to spank you some more first.’

‘Oh.’ It was a sound of pure anguish.

He laid on the crop, not hard, but it was thorough and long, and by the time he had finished I was burning up all over my poor tight skin. I imagined it to be as shiny and red as a boiled lobster, and he took a photograph on his phone to show me later.

‘If only it never faded,’ he said. ‘I’d like to keep your arse that colour on a permanent basis. I wonder if it could be done.’

I was chewing on the duvet by now, my brain fried along with my bum. I had been straining at the bonds so hard that I thought I’d have marks on my wrists for days.

He tapped the crop against my pussy again, making the strokes short and light, but my clit was so tender by now that the slightest touch was intense. He made them harder by degrees, waiting for me to say the word, but I didn’t say the word. I wanted it harder and harder. I thought if he kept it up, I could come, and the shameful idea of coming while he spanked my pussy turned me on even more and made me want to beg and cry and say the most debased, degraded things to him.

‘You really are loving this, aren’t you?’ he said with wonder.

The crop was slap-slap-slapping at my lips now, and I was getting the leather slippery with my essences.

‘You’ll get much more of this,’ he said. ‘But I think you’re getting close. So let’s hold it there.’