'Good. I think we can take things up a level, then. See if we can get you properly hot.'
I was not sure it was possible to get much hotter, but I supposed he meant my skin rather than my libido.
His hand began to fall faster, stingier, peppering my cheeks with shot. Instinctively I tried to put a hand back to shield my bum from this new campaign, but he pre-empted me, twisting my wrists up into the small of my back while the smacks continued in a random unpattern, sometimes down as far as my knees. Now I was writhing with discomfort, considering calling 'amber' but knowing that I would despise myself if I did. This was nothing, surely. But, oh, it really didn't feel like nothing. It felt like searing vengeance on my poor bottom, and the worst of it was that I had no idea when it would end. I compromised with myself, moaning, 'Pleeease stop, it huuuurts,' instead of mentioning a colour. Somehow
, though, I knew that this would inspire his arm to swing higher and his hand to slap harder, which it did.
'Now you're getting what you deserve, Sophie,' he said. 'You're beginning to glow.' I could vouch for that. His hot rain stopped abruptly; I sighed and pushed my bottom up, wanting his fingers to slip down into my burning crevasse. To my infinite joy, he took me up on the offer.
'Hmm, dripping wet,' he observed, skating around my eager spread, pushing in and pressing down. 'Perhaps this is not punishment for you, Sophie? You seem to be finding some pleasure in it? Is that so?'
'No, Sir, no, I don't,' I lied, backing shamelessly into his touch. 'It's awful, Sir. It's too painful for me.'
'Ten strokes of the hairbrush for your dishonesty,' he decreed, withdrawing his fingers with a squelch and reaching for a large wooden-backed number from the bedspread selection.
I flopped back on to his lap, defeated and doomed. The brush cracked down and it really, really hurt. Only ten of these, I told myself, I could handle ten. Mamma mia, but I had no idea wood was so hard! I would have congratulated myself at this point for my choice of soundproofed room, if only I could have thought of anything beyond the sizzling heat and swingeing impact of the oval terror at my rear. What made it more difficult still was that he seemed to be concentrating on just one area – the crease between buttock and thigh, sensitive flesh stretched taut in my bent position. I howled through the remaining nine strokes, then fought to regain my breath.
'Good girl, Sophie; you took that well,' he praised, putting the brush aside.
'More than ten of those would definitely have been amber,' I gasped, and then I lost the words again because his hands were returning to soak in my juices a second time.
'Do you like to hand control over?' he asked me, working busily on my tenderised clit.
'I think so,' I wibbled. Two fingers slipped inside, possessing me.
'Good. I am responsible for you today, Sophie. I am responsible for your punishment, but also for your pleasure. What I want you to do now, Sophie, is tell me when your climax is close. Can you do that?'
'Yes, Sir,' I wailed stickily, riding his hand, luring it up inside, knowing it would take very little. I felt on fire inside and out, tensed as a bowstring. When I snapped there would be a white-out of sensation.
I rocked up and down, sucking him in. I could feel the pressure rising, a counterpoint to the fading sting of my bottom; it would not be long, it was close, I was close. 'I am close, Sir,' I confessed unevenly.
He took his hand away and smacked my bottom hard.
'NO!' I cried.
'Dirty girl,' he gloated. 'Come and look at yourself.'
He stood, toppling me to my feet, then turned me away from him and tucked my skirt into my waistband. I had to keep the knickers at my knees while I waddled over to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe.
I looked over my shoulder, transfixed by the scarlet skin which faded to pink further down my thighs before graduating to its normal whiteness. I looked well tended to and thoroughly chastised.
'I haven't finished with you yet,' Lassiter murmured into my neck, his hands at my hips. 'But you need a break. Rachael's rear end is hardened and can take a lot more in one session. You need a little more TLC.' TLC. Tender loving care. Even as my bottom throbbed, I felt undone by the phrase. He was in control, he was hurting me, and yet he was caring for me. It was a dizzying thought.
I allowed the thought to dizzy me for the entire half-hour I spent in the corner with my hands on my head, waiting for Dr Lassiter to finish drinking a mineral water and do some kind of techy thing with his PDA, all the while taking in an eyeful of my exhibited bottom. I was conscious of its diminishing heat as much as of my slicked thighs, growing colder while my clitoris cried for attention. If Lassiter would only go to the bathroom, I could touch it. Oh, how I needed to touch it.
But he remained obstinately present until he called me back over, gave me a draught of water and then ordered me to bend over the bedside chair.
'You're cooling, girl – we need to heat you back up again, don't we?'
'Erm, yes, Sir,' I replied uncertainly. Still unused on the bed lay a supple-looking strap and a whippy-looking cane, by far the two most villainous characters of the bunch. I had a feeling I was going to want to remember my safe-words.
'Now then, Sophie, for your curious choice of hosiery, I intend to lay this strap across every part of your skin, from the tops of your socks to the centre of your bottom, until it is quite, quite hot. I estimate that I will need to place twenty strokes to achieve this end. I am going to make you count each one. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Sir.' Twenty sounded like a lot. But it was better than an undetermined number. I gritted my teeth, flexed my toes and gripped the side of the chair hard. I did not want to fail myself, or him.
The first crack of the strap was breathtaking; my teeth clenched so hard I thought they would break as I hissed through them. But through the fire I managed, 'One, Sir,' and braced myself for the next. Dr Lassiter took it slowly, magisterially, laying each scorching line with deadly accuracy, one above the other. A couple of times I let go of the seat and leapt up, clutching at my bum, but he merely waited patiently for me to resume my position and then the next whistled down.
At ten, I had to invoke amber. He knelt beside me, rubbing my tight skin, speaking words of reassurance, telling me we could stop here and now if I wanted and I had done so well already, remarkably well for a novice, and should be proud of myself. The whisperings nerved me; I told him I could take the rest, and I did.