The Spur Ch. 05

Without answering, he took me by the hand and led me to the living room, standing me behind the chair I had spent hours strapped into the evening before. This time, however, he strapped my feet and calves to the outside of the back legs, then bent me over the back of the chair and strapped my wrists to the points where the bannisters met the seat, leaving my ass sticking straight up in the air.

Suddenly, I knew what the peeled ginger root was for.

I trembled as he laid something on my butt, cold and wet and about the size and shape of one of those miniature bananas you see in Asian grocery stores.

"The ancient Greeks" he said in that dry, professorial tone that made me want to push him down the stairs, "used ginger root to punish female slaves. But we're going to put it to more festive use today." Picking up the horrid thing, he went on,

"Obviously, any lubricant but water creates a barrier that prevents the ginger juice from doing what it's supposed to do, so try to hold still."

I whimpered as he positioned the ginger and began slowly, carefully working it in. I tried hard not to resist, not to make this even more difficult and painful, but my muscles refused to cooperate. (This was NOT how I had expected to lose my anal virginity.) He went on gingerly pushing, turning, rocking and twisting until, all at once, it slid in up to his fingers while I gasped in surprise.

"Good girl," he told me, patting me condescendingly on the ass. I growled with fury and would have glared at him if I hadn't had the fucking blindfold on.

I heard him rooting around through his toy bag, and was surprised to find the ginger wasn't burning me at all--until, all of a sudden, it was. REALLY burning. Fuck! The inside of my asshole was on fire!

"I am now going to administer a celebratory beating" he went on in the same methodical tone. "The wonderful thing about ginger root is that if you brace yourself for the blows by clenching your muscles, you will squeeze the plug and the burning will be much worse--whereas if you relax and refrain from clenching, each blow will sting like hell. Ready?" I made a squeaky noise. "Count them off," he ordered.

I had different ways of processing pain, discomfort, and the thousand natural shocks a sub's flesh is heir to, depending on my state of mind. If I was feeling rebellious, I would bear down and resolve to take my punishment just to show him I could, not doing anything that could be construed as a plea for mercy, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Sometimes he broke me, and I wept with the letting-go, the overwhelming catharsis of it. Sometimes I'd outlast him, and then we'd fuck like animals, with a primal fury, as he pinned me down and overpowered me.

When my submission and need were abject enough, I'd take the pain to please him; I'd offer up my suffering to him like a devotee. This is for you, I'd repeat inwardly like a prayer; I'm enduring this for you. I'd prostrate myself before him, worshipping, eager to have him obliterate me, to burn me away like an offering. The pain, by the alchemy of submission, was changed into exquisite pleasure. Hearing him tell me afterward how proud he was of me, while he stroked my hair and gently kissed me, sent waves of comfort through my whole body and soul. A consummation devoutly to be wished.

Without any preliminary warm-up, he let fly with a leather paddle that struck with the force of a pile-driver.

"OW!" I yelled. "One! Fuck!" He was right--I clenched, and the internal burning went full Edward II on me.

"OW! Two! Give me a minute, please, Sir?" I breathed deeply and concentrated on relaxing my muscles, then nodded my readiness to continue. When the next blow came, it wasn't so bad on the inside, but the outside felt like a branding.

And so it went, with him swinging the paddle ruthlessly into my poor, suffering ass, while I did my best to cope by clenching, unclenching, dissociating, singing "My Favorite Things," or anything else I could think of until we reached thirty-one. The onslaught had come on too quickly, had been so much more brutal than I was expecting, and didn't last long enough for me to use any of my usual ways of processing pain--all of which involved being present to it and in relationship with it, not trying to minimize or escape it.

I wanted to beg him to remove the incendiary root right away, but I gritted my teeth and resolved to take it until he chose to show mercy. Which, to be fair, he wasn't slow in doing. The devil root felt far more lurid and obscene going out than it had coming in, but he extracted it quickly and disposed of it, then washed his hands. After unbinding me, he unlocked the blindfold (finally!) and, as my eyes slowly adjusted to the light, he put his arms around me from behind and said,

"Good morning, birthday girl!"

"Good morning, 'boss'," I replied, turning my head toward him and sharing one of those kisses that makes you hyper-aware of your 'loins'. When we came up for air, I added, "Bastard!" and gripped his balls like a vice.

"Hungry?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Famished," I said, dropping his package and walking out of his arms to the table. He had thoughtfully placed a cushion on one of the seats, so I sat there. I was so hungry, and had experienced so much since those first terrifying moments in my apartment--moments that now seemed so long ago--I didn't even care about eating with a fully clothed man while I had not a stitch on, like a woman in a Cézanne painting. (It saved time later.)

Brunch was lavish and delicious: thick yogurt with honey, fruit salad, home-fries (his home-fries were to die for), toast, and more iced coffee. We skipped the mimosas or Bloody Marys because he'd be driving later, and I don't like drinking by myself.

The finale was a miniature tres leches cake (my favorite!) with a candle in it. He sang the song, I blew out the candle--and bit my lip and winked when he asked me what my wish was.

He insisted on cleaning up, while I waited, more or less patiently, on the bed.

I had *plans.*

* * *

JILL

"Well, that was...vivid," said Steve. "So this is what you're posting on Literotica? Don't you even want to give us pseudonyms, like, I dunno, Julie and Sean or something?"

"I thought it would be more...sordid this way," I replied. Steve shook his head and sang the opening lines of "Getting to Know You," which made me laugh.

"It's, um, a little different from the way I remember it," he remarked.

"I embellished a couple of things."

"For literary effect, or to leave me a trail of breadcrumbs?"

"That would be telling," I said coyly.

"Um, yes," he said. "It would be. Telling. That's why I'm asking--because I want you to tell."

"So who was Gropy McHam-hands, anyway?" I asked to change the subject. (Let him wonder.)

"A friend of mine from the Aerie," Steve answered, referring to a Philly kink club. "He's actually a sweet guy."

"Am I likely to meet him in the future?" I asked.

"Well, you ain't gonna meet him in the past." Smart-ass.

* * *

Sometimes we just made love. No bondage, no humiliation, no pain--just delight in each other. It was very different from our usual and could never replace it, but sometimes it was lovely to feel how completely I belonged to him without any restraints driving home the point. To be able to run my hands over his back and pull him close as he entered me. To show the invader how welcome he was, how I had longed for him--to lead him to the love-nest I had tended while awaiting his return.

Sometimes we'd switch, and it was lots of fun. Steve said my brattiness and my latent dominance are the same creature in different forms--like a grasshopper and a locust. (At least he didn't call me "Locust" when we switched.) But it was always a game; I have a subbie's heart, and he was my dom. *My* dom. Even during vanilla sex, he mastered me--but then I could invite him in myself, and show him how willingly I submitted to him.

STEVE'S JOURNAL

Jill is like an onion, or a Chinese puzzle box; there's always another layer waiting to be uncovered. What an adventure!