Bare, Prone, and Waiting 01: Hers

Part 1 of 2. Both parts were written collaboratively.

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She'd seen the implement, and she had said it would be okay. She wasn't sure in herself whether it really would be, but she had said so and so it would happen whether she changed her mind or not. She lay in the middle of the bed, arms stretched ahead of her, head down, eyes closed. Her mind was taut. She willed her body to not be so, lest she exhaust herself before they even began.

"I am going to go for a walk," he had said carefully and clearly. "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. When I come back, you are to be undressed and on the bed, bare, prone, and waiting. Do not look, and do not speak until I say you can. Do you understand?" She'd nodded and said something affirmative. He'd walked out of the suite without looking back.

It was a gilded cage. The suite was beautiful, understated in a way that only vast resources can provide. She knew that technically she could leave, though where would she go and what would she do? She was here at his pleasure, and she needed to make sure she kept any part of her that was not pleasant hidden from view. She stripped, hastily found a corner to set her effects, and stretched onto the pristine white sheets. She had chosen to be here. That was important. She couldn't stop herself from being scared, but she could keep the fear from becoming obstructive.

The door opened. Her arms stretched forward and she laced her fingers together. She listened. He walked in, paused near the foot of the bed, and simply said, "Good." She heard him open the bag that she knew contained the implements, and willed herself to breathe slowly.

She knew he would keep control of himself, and she knew he would watch her closely. Even though her face was buried, her body carried messages he understood a little already and would learn quickly.

He traced the end of the whip over her bare skin. She tensed only briefly, thinking the first touch would be a blow, then carefully relaxed as the soft leather moved over her. He touched her face, bidding her turn and look, and the scent of the curl of black leather filled her awareness. She wondered how long it would smell like that, and whether it would take on any element of herself.

The tail drew off of her and she tucked her head between her arms, bracing herself.

The first blow surprised her. It was louder than it was sharp. The force of it moved through her and dissipated, and she waited for the next one. It came, again not as hard as she expected, the crack as it struck her skin hitting harder than the leather itself. More followed, and she rode the strikes one at a time, mind on edge but not overwhelmed.

He moved to her legs, then to her back. The strikes got harder, and fell on skin that was already marked and sensitive. The space and time between strikes shrank. Panic became more difficult to keep at bay. Should she ask him to stop? Could she keep going just a little more? What would happen next if she asked to stop? What would happen if she didn't?

Each time she thought she couldn't take any more, the whip fell again. She twisted and cried out, trying to control herself, and simply couldn't. Her body felt like it would break itself with the tension in her arms.

Then it stopped.

"You're done," she heard, and he slipped up alongside her. She flinched involuntarily at the first touch, then stilled as the words sank in. It took a very long time for her to process them, and even longer for her to start to let go of the tension. He pulled a blanket around her, brought a pillow under her head, and wrapped arm and leg over her.

She closed her eyes. Her body tingled. Her heart raced. Her breath was shallow and quick. She willed herself to lengthen those breaths, and only succeeded in putting a gap between exhale and inhale. He simply held her.

The paralysis lifted. She realised she needed to move, to do something. He must be aroused, he must want sex, he does like it and he did so much work. Her eyes opened, and she tightened again. She still didn't have words. He did not move his arm or leg, and he simply held her.

She remained taut and receptive, alert to signs that he wanted to fuck. She worried that she was not doing what she was supposed to be doing. Her breath remained shallow as she listened and felt. Her mind raced. He did not stir, and he simply held her.

She told herself, over and over, that if he wanted something he would take it. He would not wait for her to divine it, nor hold it against her if she could not. She closed her eyes again, mind and body starting to slow. As rational thought started to slowly trickle into her, she started to imagine being able to speak again. He kept his arm around her, holding her close and warm.

She found her breaths had lengthened. He was awake, behind her, yet remained still. He didn't seem bored or restless. He didn't seem like he was waiting for her, even though it seemed unbelievable to her.

She could talk now, and did, asking him questions, finding out what he'd thought, and filling in gaps when he asked.

She wanted to sleep, close and warm in his arms, and somehow knew that it would be okay if she did. Usually she didn't sleep well, if at all, during an assignation, and she was quietly amazed to find that caution was not there. Perhaps it had been beaten out of her. After some time of chatting, holding, and a little sex, she drifted off. He stayed as she did, simply holding her.