Mastering Submission Ch. 03

"Sorry, Master," I said.

"That's all right," he replied, the slobbering shouting reduced to a calm, patient tone. "You're new to all this. Try to learn." I looked over my shoulder at the flogger in his hand.

"Keep facing forward," he told me. "There's no need for you to watch what's being done to you."

"No, Master," I said, uncertainly.

"You see," he explained, "you're going to accept what's coming to you anyway, so it's best to keep your eyes to the front and be patient."

"Yes, Master," I replied, turning back to the front, casting my eyes downward.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Ready to be hit?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Ready to feel the sting of leather across that fat arse of yours?" he persisted.

"Yes, Master," I replied.

"Then brace yourself," he said. "If it starts to hurt, think about the money."

I could hear him step back, and the swish of the flogger being swung before he hit me lightly, low down where my buttocks folded into my thighs.

"One," I remembered to count. "Thank you, Master," hearing the surprise in my voice; I had not expected the blow to be so gentle.

"Two," counting again, "Thank you, Master. Three. Thank you, Master. Four -" The fourth one stung enough to make me squeal and do a little dance.

"Keep still, dammit," he said.

"Sorry, Master," I apologized, and resumed counting. "Four. Thank you, Master."

He dealt out the strokes carefully, building up a rhythm with four or five evenly spaced blows and then breaking it by striking twice in quick succession, or making the next one extra soft, or extra hard. I could feel the heat rising in stripes on my skin.

"Thirty-seven. Thank you, Master," I said, feeling and hearing a faint sob in my voice.

He struck out again, harder.

"Thirty-seven. Thank you, Master," I said again; overwhelmed by sensations never experienced before, I had lost count. Some brilliant literary scholar I was - I no longer could count up to forty!

He strode over to the case, tossed the flogger inside, clicked the clasps shut, and locked the case.

"Amber, Master?" I questioned. I had taken my punishment, and was ready for just a little more - almost as if I felt I could get it all out of the way at once and be done with it.

Of course, that was not to be. "No," he told me. "That's it. You have been beaten. Now you know what it's like."

I rubbed my bottom gingerly as he walked over and sat down on the sofa again. "Come here," he ordered. "Assume the position: hands behind your back, legs apart."

The beating had left me dripping with excitement; my right leg was shiny to my knee. He picked up some moisture with a finger and flicked the tip of my clitoris. I could not help moaning as he flicked again and again, building up a rhythm, sliding his fingers between the flaps.

I felt my eyes closing, my nipples hardening to jut forward. When it was too late, he said: "Don't come until I tell you to."

My knees buckled and he caught me as I lurched to one side, shaking with orgasm. He pulled me across his lap and put his fingers to my lips. "Girl juice," he explained. "Lick it up. It's good for you."

In the calm aftermath of my orgasm, I cleaned his fingers dutifully, then started to talk. "I . . . " I began, then corrected myself. "Permission to speak, Master?"

"Permission granted, my brave and beautiful slave," he said.

Already the slightest praise from him lit me up with pride. I said softly, "Thank you for spanking me, Master, but I can take more. You can beat me again, harder if you want to."

"I know," he said, and kissed my forehead. "And I will. After all, I have to punish you for coming without permission. But you have had enough for your first time." When I frowned, he went on, "Don't be disappointed. We've got a whole year to do it again and again, over and over, laying new bruises onto old ones. You shall have many more beatings. Much longer. Much harder."

I had been taken on a journey into a previously unknown land. I had learned that pain, applied as carefully and thoughtfully as it had been tonight, could bring pleasure unmatched in my prior experience. Overcome with excitement at the discoveries I was beginning to believe lay ahead, I reached up and kissed his mouth. That quickly, he tangled his left hand in my hair, yanked back my head, and gently slapped my face three times.

"You cheeky bitch!" he said. "Your duties for the evening are not over yet. You have been beaten, but you haven't been fucked." He rolled me off his lap onto the carpet, and pulled my head down towards his feet. "Take my boots off," he growled. "Undo the laces with your teeth."

It took ages, but he was very patient. Once the boots were off, he said, "Now the socks. Kiss each of my toes in turn." Much less self-conscious than when I had first saluted his feet with a kiss, I followed his orders.

He stood up saying, "Now, take off all my clothes. Fold them neatly over that chair."

"You have a beautiful body, Master," I felt compelled to say.

His only response was to slowly turn and ask, "Do you see my arse?"

"Yes, Master. So small and firm," I complimented.

"Have you ever done any rimming?" he asked.

"Rimming?" I asked, completely at a loss.

"Feuille de Rose. Kissing the khaki buttonhole," he offered in explanation.

Once again, the sensation of being pulled down into a bottomless whirlpool of emotions and experience overtook me. Pulling myself back to the present with an effort of will, I took a slight intake of breath before saying, "No, Master, I haven't."

"One day you will be allowed to kiss my arse," he said, surprising me. "But not tonight. You are not yet worthy. You'll find a condom in the jar on the mantelpiece. Get it, put it on my cock and then bend over the back of that chair."

"Yes, Master. At once, Master," I said, suiting my actions to the words.

"And be sure to thank me afterwards," he said. And, of course, I did.