Choice

My arrival seems a world ago, my nervous formality as I knelt and handed you the crop you'd told me to bring. You coldly accepted the offering, placing it on the table without a word, leaving it untouched as you methodically stripped layer after layer of my clothing and defences. Soon I was naked and trembling, no longer a witty, sharp talking professional, but a vulnerable and aroused sub, confused by your games, lost, only able to cope with following commands.

It's dark outside now, we've been here for hours, the warmth of the day has turned to evening chill, and you drew the thick curtains sometime when I was blind. Your eyes hold me as you wrap the rope around my wrists behind me. I'd keep them in place from just a word, but I enjoy the sensuality of the cord on my skin, a little rough, a little smooth, as perfectly balanced as everything between us.

You pull up the loose end, making slow pain bloom in my shoulders. I bite my lip, breathe hard. The pain is a gift to me, my suffering a gift to you. You sense the point of my tolerance, hold my arms there, curling your lips, as I try to smile back bravely. Then too suddenly for me to know what's happening you strain my arms up a notch, beyond what I can bear and I scream out from a place deep within me.

Your hand muffles me abruptly, "No," you tell me, and I try to cope with the fire. "OK, better." You efficiently position me across a padded stool, I focus on the cool velvet against my belly as you bind me to the legs, my breasts hang loose over the edge, blood starts to rush to my head. You pinch my nipples hard when you're done, more out of affection than sadism, like a pat on the head to a dog.

I hear you move to the table. It's time. I clench unconsciously. Although the thought of being disciplined turns me on, the hard reality is something I shrink from, but it's too late. I'm helplessly splayed, arse thrust out as if it needs to be struck, like a plant reaching for sunlight.

Your hand strokes my smooth behind, no evidence that this won't be the first time. You've been kind in the past, I fear I passed your tests too well and you're going to take me to the next stage. The first few thwacks fool me, I think it's going to be bearable, then the messages get from my nerves to my mind and I start to scream out wordlessly in anguish.

My protests just make you hit harder, more precisely, until at last some sense of self preservation makes me beg you to stop, I'm crying without shame, big gulps of air, eyes streaming.

"Shh, it's OK," you wipe away my tears with a soft handkerchief, your hand on the back of my neck reassuringly. "I'll give you a choice. You can go home now, I'll clean you up, get you a taxi, and phone you tomorrow to see how you are."

I sniff pathetically, "O-or?"

"Or you can stay, and make me proud of you."

I take some deep breaths. There's no choice really. "I'll stay, please."

"Good girl." I can hear something in your voice that makes it all worthwhile. Something like awe. I vow to take whatever you give me.

Once I've decided that, the pain can't touch me, I just float on the endorphins, every stroke stoking my desire, until my body is just pure sensation. You keep going again and again, in the same place. I whine softly at the purity, at the intensity, until I realise you've stopped. I hold my breath. Is it over? Then, with full force the crop snaps one final time and I feel something break. It's an ecstatic moment, as if I've touched the infinite. I'm coming hard, but I barely notice. I know before you hold your hand in front of my eyes that you've drawn blood. I lean down and kiss your hand, the metallic taste making my tongue tingle.

Your head rests against mine, for a moment we stay like that, calm and at peace, then you move your head away and I feel your pointed tongue run along the welt. I gasp at this new sting, and as I'm reeling I realise you're fucking me, our sweat mingling and rubbing into the soreness. I'll be marked from this. You've claimed me. There's no going back. I grind my behind into you, relishing the ache, not being able to distinguish between it and the growing pleasure. You're pumping hard and deep, but as you're nearly there you pull out, making me come with your hand while your spunk lands molten and burning in the stripes on my behind.

I shudder into your hand, blissfully happy at the holy union of my blood, your spunk and my come.