Encounter

He sat as his desk, studiously reviewing the reports and the orders scattered across the rough wood. It was the furniture fit for the field; she had noted the lack of polish or finish when she had cleaned it once. She laid out the tea that had been made and broke his attention with her back still to him. "It's ready, sir." He looked up from his work to see her back to him. The dress he'd brought her was indeed less ragged and revealing than the threadbare rags she'd had, but she still filled the dress well. The fabric sat against her skin with a closeness that allowed her contours to be just there, not quite visible but apparent enough that the imagination trace her body's outline with little effort. She was thick in that beautiful, womanly way. Callipygian and buxom, she was the inspiration of fantasy, and he was not immune to her charms.

Taken in, he forgot himself and dropped his pen with a clatter upon the ground. As he stared dumbly, still not entirely himself, she turned to see what had happened, then knelled down to retrieve the instrument. "Here, I wouldn't want you to be deprived of your favorite pen." She handed the pen up to him, and as he looked down to receive it, he couldn't help but be riveted to the neck of her dressed that she hadn't really buttoned.

Filled with desire, he feared a loss of control. "Thank you, Layla. I think I'll take my tea here alone. I've much work to do and would rather not stop. Go ahead and take some time for yourself and get outside of these quarters. You're a diligent worker, and I want you to know I appreciate all you do."

"If that's what you wish, I'll leave you to it," she replied and left. He watched her leave and waited until he was certain of being alone to walk to the chest, unlock it, and remove the flog. He was indeed an austere man, trying hard to live according to a Platonic perfection of subordinating his appetites to his will and intellect. But, she called to every one of his repressed desires, and he felt a need to beat them back. So, he removed his shirt and draped across the back of his chair, knelt on the ground as a penitent, took up the whip, and began to tear from his body the insubordination that challenged his resolve. The intensity of the thoughts of her naked and willing were immense, so the self-flagellation was as well. He beat deep red welts into his skin to take his mind away from hips, hair, breasts, and ass. He scourged himself to forget the want to ravage.

But, unbeknownst to him, he wasn't alone. Layla hadn't left. She was trying damn hard to seduce this man, to convince him to allow her to give herself to him, that she wanted to be near him and observe the effect she had on him. And, it was obvious that her effect was strong, even if it manifested itself in a shocking manner. At any rate, she hated to see his flesh abused in such a manner; it worried her-and in some strange way made her a bit jealous. So, she took it upon herself to intervene.

"Please, sir. Please stop."

He turned sharply, nearly toppling. "What-Layla!? you're supposed-why? You were gone; how did you get here? I didn't mean for you to see this."

He was embarrassed and reaching for his shirt. "Sir, why-why do you whip yourself? I mean, you're hurt; what made you want to do that to yourself?"

"I-uh-I am overcome sometimes. I-I don't always trust myself to be in control, to be decent. I feel strong-strong-I feel strong urges."

"Urges? What do you mean urges? Urges to do what? What could feel so strong a desire to do that you resort to this?"

He stared at the floor, unsure of himself, unsure what to say or do. He opened his mouth to start, but his words failed him. He did not know how to tell her that she was him temptress, that she was catalyst for his behavior. He didn't want her to feel guilty; it was not her fault in any way. He had made her an object of desire. He had made an obsession of her and placed the stumbling block in his own path. Woman was not responsible for man's inability to cope with his desires. So, he looked dumbly on, not able to express his position.

But, his silence and sudden bashfulness was enough to dispel any doubts she may have had as to what he was doing and why he was doing it. Well, she was still unsure of why. Why would this be how he acted upon his desire? She had other ideas when she had worked to show him herself, to send the signals of her receptiveness to him. So, she asked, "Do you feel urges towards me? Are you punishing yourself for wanting me?"

He looked at her now, confronting his shame and steeling himself to give her the honesty she deserved. "Yes, I feel urges towards you, for you. No, I am not punishing myself; at least, I don't think I am. I am not sure what to call it. I'm disciplining myself, I suppose. I'm keeping myself from losing control. Honestly, I am probably distracting myself. There's an intensity and a-uh-a sensual aspect to it. Maybe I'm imposing discipline by giving my body a different sensation to focus on, one intense enough that I don't focus on, well so I don't focus on the sensations I desire from you."

"Sensual? That makes sense I suppose. It does look-well, it looks a bit lurid but in a charming way." She moved toward him and reached out to touch the welts on his back.

"So, you were thinking of me when you did this. What were you thinking of, I wonder. Are you still thinking about it?"

"Yes, I suppose I am, in a way. There's much on my mind besides with you seeing me like this, but I still have my desires."

"So, you were disciplining yourself for your desires?"

"I was."

"Were you disciplining yourself so that you didn't act on your desires?"

"Yes."

"So that you didn't touch me in an inappropriate way?"

"Yes."

"So that you didn't grab me, grasping and kneading my ass?"

"Yes, among other things."

"Other things? That does have me wondering. Did you need discipline to keep from grabbing my hips and pulling me against you, pressing your crotch against me? Did you need discipline so that you didn't reach from my hips and pull my breasts up in your hands, squeezing them and feeling their weight? So that one of those hands didn't drop my breast and reach down my stomach, pull up my dress, and slip itself into my panties?"

"Yes, without discipline, that could have happened."

She looked into his eyes, and she reached out and touched his chest with the tips of her fingers. Then, she moved them up to his chin, across to his shoulder, down his arm, and along his hand. She took that hand in hers and moved it to her breast.

"You were a very naughty boy, but I've a confession to make: I'm a very naughty girl. I wore ragged dresses that barely concealed me in hopes that you would notice. I took the dress you made me and ensured that it was fitted so that it too revealed me to you, if a bit more modestly than before. I positioned myself before your eyes in hopes that you would see and want more than to see. I too have great desires. I too need discipline."

He didn't seize her in this moment, but he didn't try to stop anything wither. He looked at her, just beginning to comprehend that this mutual desire freed him to act differently. But, she was cruel to tease him so, even if he was too blind to realize it.

"I didn't-I wanted to act graciously toward you," he said.

"I understand. You are a well-behaved, disciplined man," she said coquettishly. "Really, I was what disrupted the order of things. As I said, I was a naughty girl. So, why don't we take that whip of yours and discipline what was truly the cause of this misery."

She pressed his hand against her harder for a moment before backing away. Then, she ran her hands down her sides, to her thighs, back up with her dress pulled along with them. She slipped her hands beneath the fabric, and then pushed down along her legs while squatting toward the floor. She stepped out of her panties, threw them against him, and bent over, pulling up her dress to reveal to him that ample, round ass. "Discipline me," she said.

Before him was the object of so many desires and so much consternation. His mind was racked with pleasure, guilt, and confusion so that he was stunned like the proverbial deer in the headlights-though if this were the last thing one were to see before a ton of metal hurtled into them, they'd leave this life with a good idea of what divinity might have to offer. "What?" is all he managed to get from his lips.

"Discipline me. Here, in front of you, this caused so much disorder. It had you so upset that you felt the need to discipline with the sting of leather what caused the confusion and chaos. But, you were wrong in ascribing the blame to yourself. So, do to these cheeks the punishment your innocent shoulders and back were taking."

He still didn't move, was still unsure. So, she straightened from her bent posture and turned to stand before him. She unbuttoned the back and released the dress from herself, stepping to him naked and wanting. She pressed forward until her breasts were pushed against his chest and her upturned neck placed her lips near his ears. "I want you, and I know you want me. I can feel you tightening in your pants now. But, I created an imbalance, a debt I feel must be paid before we move forward. I acted out, was naughty, and I need to be disciplined for that. So, I am going to turn away and bend over your desk, and I want you to whip me. I want to feel the sting that you did. I am jealous of your back, and I want my ass to wear the marks it earned as the tool through which I enticed you and teased you. I want the punishment you deem to fit the crime, and I want that sensual pain you were using to distract yourself. But, I bet it was more than a distraction; It was a pleasure derived from pain and limits on how you are allowed to behave. I want to feel that pain and know those fetters, so discipline me. Whip me."

With that, she turned around bent over the desk, and presented herself to him again. She felt the rough wood against her stomach and breasts, letting her know that she was at his mercy on his territory. She sat and waited, knowing the first blow was to come, wondering where it would land, what it would feel like, exactly how much it would hurt. She imagined it, anticipated it, longed for it, and feared it. She thought so hard and so quick that the wait for a blow to land was almost more unbearable than any strike could be. Would he even do it? Was he still in shock? Was he-and it came, the multi strands of the flog coming down full on her ass. It was softer than she might have feared, but harder than he might have opted to start with. He was riled with passion and fighting hard to control himself. She was left with a red band running across her bottom in a slight diagonal, stinging a little but wanting more.

"Again, please. Please, hit me again," she pleaded. And, he obliged.

He slapped down again with the flog, carefully fighting his passion and working to keep the first strikes at a tolerable degree of discomfort. The tails sliced through the air to land flat against her rear, the biting tails slowed before impact by the middle of the strands first making contact. But, they were enough to make her squirm and lightly whimper. She flinched away rhythmically, expected his blows, moving her hips along to the beat of the whip, swaying her ass up and down, oscillating around the act of submission. He noticed her anticipation and that as she oscillated wit the blows, she was tilting her ass up to meet the tails slapping against her, relishing the sensation. He could see between her thighs when she tilted like this, could glimpse the swollen and spreading lips between her legs. He saw her arousal growing there, and was encouraged to intensify his actions, to give into his desires.

He played upon her anticipation, keeping the rhythm steady, allowing her to become familiar with the pattern. The blows came steady, and she rocked back into them, a dance of their mutual wants and needs, a definite foreshadow of things to come. She rocked into the flog and jumped away as it struck. Her ass moved up as the flog swung down; her ass pushed itself back down as the blow landed, traveling with it in the synchrony of anticipation. Her ass moved up as the flog moved down, and she rocked down with the impact. Her ass moved up as the flog swung back around, and she rocked down again with the impact. Her ass moved up as the flog moved down, and she moved down again. Her ass moved up-but the blow was late. Still unconsciously in their rhythm, she started down again just as the flog came full up to greet her from where he had changed direction. She caught the blow full on, traveling straight into it. And it wasn't the softer thud of a full on blow and the entire length of the tails falling flat against her; it was the biting ends of the tails pulled more quickly and harshly into her. They left a cutting sting of pain, and she yelped from the blow.

They had now graduated from the beginning of a whipping where a kind person will allow the skin of a recipient to grow warm, red, and a bit accustomed to the rough treatment. Now, was the time to introduce a bit of real pain, to circumvent the expectations of an easy burden of anticipated and light blows and to make a sting felt. These sere the blows that would mark her as a willing masochist. These are the blows that would remind her of this moment hours and days later when she saw her exquisitely discolored skin and felt the soreness of a punishment well received. If she allowed this to continue, she was crossing a line between the merely nominal pain and punishment of those dabbling in a lifestyle to ward off suburban boredom and was placing herself into the dynamics of something new, and uncertain.

She straightened her back, pulling her ass away from the blow it had just received. He wondered if this was it, if in his enthusiasm, he had gone too far, if he had shown the demons he tried to keep at bay and they were indeed found to be unacceptable. But, like a cat stretching, she moved her ass back again, pushing it back over ankles. "Again," she whispered.

He reached out and hand and placed it tenderly on her back before moving behind her again. He moved the flog less predictably, at first, placing the blows randomly and making her unsure of when to expect them. They varied between soft and hard, bites and thuds. They were without pattern, the only constant being that there coming was inevitable and that they would bring some sort of pain. Her ass began to glow with the constant attention. She bit down on her lip and gasped when he allowed a blow to fall with a particularly painful sensation. He slowly adopted a pattern and resumed the rhythm they had established earlier, their giving each other their needs and desires, their sharing this moment of unusual intimacy. They made love through pain; their pleasure came with thorns.

Layla soon felt transported away from the moment. She was in a place she'd never been. Her mind was free and clear. The pain was curative. The thoughts of the day melted away. The schemes of life become meaningless. She was at his mercy, and he was not disappointing her. She felt what he wanted her to; she brought him out of his shell and his inward focus, she took the lash off his back and brought it down upon her ass. But, it was his lash, and she could not make it do her bidding. Her ass too was his now, subject to his tool. She accepted these things and allowed herself to be fully in the moment and fully in herself. No part of her was forced to consider anything outside the sensations brought upon her flesh. The pain of the lash, the act of contrition, the act of submission; the flog was her entire existence-until it wasn't.

He had started this process exercising his demons, placing a discipline upon himself for his intense desires to take Layla. He had felt the need to exercise control over the situation. And, this need had been fulfilled with the red and welted ass that was before him. Now, those desires welled up again, strongly, with a vengeful passion and wanting to be freed. And, he felt that now he was in control of them and ready to harness them for the situation at hand. So, when it was time again for him to bring the flog down upon the fine ass that presented himself to him, he didn't. He instead seized her, placing a hand on each of her cheeks and squeezing mightily. She moaned at this unexpected caress, and his needs grew even greater. He spread her as wide as those large cheeks would allow go, exposing fully the cleft between them, showing the rosebud anus winking up at him, and exerting enough pressure to so slightly pull apart her labia to reveal the growing wetness between them.

He allowed the cheeks to again come together, but only with his thumbs between them. He pushed forward until found the sweet lips he had so desired, and he began to rub his fingers along her labia, massaging them together, gently and slowly exploring their fullness and turgid arousal. He grew wet with her need and used the lubrication to spread her apart, gently unfolding her petals and revealing her inner sanctum to his caress. She moaned more loudly and ground back against him, speeding up his slow machinations by bringing her clit against his hand. He smiled and shifted his hand so that her womanhood was against his palm and his fingertips played around the hood of her clit. He teased it and aroused, avoiding direct pressure too early. And then as she was worked up and starting to pant, he granted that pressure and removed her clit from its hiding place to come and play. But, he was not done with her juxtaposition of pleasure and pain just yet. As he worked her up and teased her, making wide circles that just grazed her clit and then moving slowly in to make tight circles directly atop it, he leaned forward, placing his face so that he could kiss the ass he had just abused. He made the circles, he kissed her flesh, and she was riding on a slow building wave of pleasure when he took the opportunity to sink his teeth into her as he pressed firmly against her clit.

She yelled out from the pain and pleasure combined as he bit hard enough to mark her but not so hard as to break the flesh. She gasped, "You don't play nice."

"What do you expect from someone who flogs himself?"

She looked back at him, and he slipped away to pulled her so that she understood he wanted her to roll over. She then lay before him, looking him full in the face, her eyes toward him, her breasts rolling back against her from their own weight, and the natural droop inclining them towards him. Her perky and erect nipple stood proud and pointed directly at him, challenging him to come to them and to own the peaks of her mounds. Her eyes were bright with lust, and her parted lips begged him to resume their passion. So, he leaned forward and kissed her full on her pouted mouth.

Their lips locked together and desperately pulled the other into them, eager to consume the object of their desire. Wet lips wrestled and pulled before tongues urged them to part and allow their entry into the proceedings, and they did not disappoint once they joined. They kissed with a desperate urgency, needing to consume and be consumed by the other's passion. They need to feel the push and pull of tongues entwined, of limbs askew and groping deliriously, and of needs and desires being built up-even as desires were being fulfilled. They needed to feel the ecstasy of sex and love, of feeling need and want build to a painful tension before being released by the knowing and enthralled embrace of their lover. They needed to be held on a pedestal and worshipped, and they needed to humble themselves to be a servant of the other. And so, they found themselves pressed against each other as he began to bring his kisses down from her lips, to her cheeks, to her neck-which elicited a moan and squirm from her, and trailed ever lower down her supple flesh.