No Surrender To Her

It was horrible, but it was supposed to be. Every slash of her wrist brought agony onto my rump as she cackled. She wanted me to fail. She wanted me to scream enough was enough and spew forth my safeword.

The safeword was "Surrender" but I would not allow her to succeed. In fact, I would have ceded to anyone else but her. She was my enemy, my sworn enemy. My writing nemesis. A rivalry colder than Arsenal and Tottenham and with considerably less mutual respect. So as my rump felt every stroke of her weapon, I ignored the pain, I fought it, desperate to dismiss the fire burning in my backside as a mere feathery touch.

I kept my boxer shorts on for dignity: my jeans bunched around my ankles as I leant on the table. The soft red velvet of the fabric underneath my palm in contrast to vicious whip swooshing through the air and landing on my black underwear.

"Ooh ... it tickles!" I cried through gritted teeth, shooting a glance at the assembled audience. This was a grudge match: scores were being settled. She had threatened to make me cry; I scoffed at the snarling bitch and told her to deliver. She offered, and I was goaded into leaning over the table with my jeans unbuckled to my ankles.

But she was getting perilously close to my surrender. I fought the stripes of pain landing squarely across my flesh, the sharpness of the sensation as her whip bounced off my buttocks. The crack of her whip filled the small room as she grunted behind me. I could feel her launching her weight into her strikes, using every muscle in her body to drive the equine whip against my aching skin.

She was desperate to hurt me. I could see her movements in the reflection of the glass, concentrating intensely on my pain. Her strokes became faster and faster, slashing against my bruised flesh with barely a pause for breath.

I whimpered. My resolve was cracking. I wanted to yell, swear and cry. I wanted to squeal my safeword and admit her savagery was too much for me to bear. But I would not surrender to her. Nothing in the land would make that worthwhile, I could not capitulate to her. It would not happen.

"Still tickling!" I teased, because the only alternative was to yield. "When are you going to start trying to hurt me?"

I was moments away from crying. My rear was ablaze, no doubt a violent shade of red or purple that would be agonisingly painful for days. I focused on the patterns in front of me: my mind interested only in the interwoven stitching of the soft velvet tablecloth instead of the fierce beating unleashed on my defenceless flesh.

They watched, chattering. I heard snippets of whispering, mutterings of disbelief from our mutual friends, tired of our constant bickerings. I was taking a wild pounding, but I was a depraved, kinky individual, and a brutal assault on my body was a small price to pay for claiming the tiniest victory over her.

Determined, she unleashed harder and harder strokes of her whip against my buns. My nervous system was alight to the torture, my endorphins flowing into my blood stream to respond to her malevolence.

"Ooh, I might have a felt a little something there." I lied. I felt everything. Every agonising stroke, every excruciating hit on my bloodied seat was torture. A self-inflicted torment from my ego for responding to her challenge that I could not hope to win.

But I gritted my teeth, squeezing my muscles as the heat in my skin sizzled to her tune. This was mind over matter, sheer willpower as my body received a dozen more strokes: each one ten times more painful than the one that preceded it.

She mopped her brow: the anger in the statuesque blonde translating into a strenuous workout. "Getting bored now," I called out, humming to rile her. To provoke her. To poke her consciousness and get under her skin. "I've had more of a beating from a toddler. This is pathetic."

And that's when she swore, shouting as an avalanche of cruel emotion channelled through her whip to land in the middle of my bruises. To bounce off my sit spot. To rap the backs of my damaged thighs. To break my resistance. For me to yield to her pitiless swats.

My fists screwed the tablecloth as my rump erupted into a mass of suffering. I panted, looking into the table so no-one could see the pain etched upon my face. My flesh was burning hot, my resolve all but crumbled as she wielded the whip relentlessly. "I'm bored," I cried, straightening my back and standing up.

"I've not finished," she cried as I stepped towards our mutual friends.

One of our audience patronisingly patted my backside with a giggle. "Aaaaahhhh, does it hurt?"

"Ow," I squealed. "Fuck! Ahhh, that really hurt!" I lied as an unknown hand gently tapped my abused rump.

"Sorry," she muttered, apologetically.

"S'ok," I replied, before sneering at my nemesis. "They managed to hurt me with their hand, you didn't touch me with your whip."

"I've not finished, get your arse back here," she demanded. But there was no way I could take any more of her punishment and shook my head.

"Bored. And I've been hurt now so it would invalidate the test. You failed to make me surrender, you completely and utterly failed," I condescendingly crowed.

But everyone knew the truth. I would not sit down properly for a week: every movement would be excruciatingly painful and I had taken a battering of epic proportions. Every waking moment I would be reminded that the bane of my writing world had given me a hundred lashes of the whip and I had taken it because my pride would not let me concede that a riding whip hurts.

And it was almost worth it: I had not surrendered to her. She had not beaten me. I had won.