rely on his co-operation, but he helps me tighten it until he’s on tiptoes. He did this to me once and my arms were sore for two days. Revenge is sweet.
Except it isn’t. Sweet is the wrong word. Grimly satisfying on only one of many levels. Aside from that, I feel sorry for him. He looks so helpless I want to rescue him.
‘You can just concede this and we can go home,’ I whisper to him.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make you hurt me.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Well, you can always concede this and we can go home.’
‘I’m not letting you win!’
‘Right. Best get to it then, ma’am. And make me scream.’
I pick up the flogger, a gentler instrument, and study its plaited strands. He is evil. He knows there’s a very good chance I won’t be able to hurt him.
I swoosh it against his backside.
‘That tickles,’ he says laconically.
I ply it harder. God, he looks good in bondage. That element of the punishment is pleasing me a great deal. His body, stretched and supplicating, cries out to be touched. But his voice doesn’t cry out at all.
I keep going, doggedly, trying to change the colour of his pale bottom and not getting very far.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he says, ‘but have you started yet?’
‘Argh!’ My frustration puts weight behind my stroke, and the next one hits the spot, rewarding me with a grunt.
Gradually, his skin flushes pink, but it takes a lot of flogging by me and gritted teeth by him to get to that point.
‘I’m going to use the crop now,’ I tell him, worried I might wear out my arm.
‘OK, but you have to do it hard,’ he says.
‘Do you think you could stop topping from the bottom for a few moments?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s important. This won’t work if you don’t really lay it on. I want you to make me beg you to stop.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see what you’ll do. I kind of need to see what you’ll do, actually.’
‘You should have a safe word, like I do when it’s the other way round.’
‘No, I don’t want a safe word. I want you to carry on. If you want to win this, you have to carry on.’
‘You’re asking too much of me.’
‘Fine. Then concede it.’
‘No.’
‘Hurt me then. Whip me till I cry.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Lloyd.’
‘Just do it.’
Sheer frustration makes me lay the first stroke much harder than I intended.
‘Ohhhh.’ He howls and pants, pulling at the cuffs.
‘Shit, I’m sorry! Oh, that looks sore.’
A welt rises, long and red and solemn. I touch it with my fingertips. It’s so hot. But he does this to me, so why should I feel guilty? Besides, it looks good. It suits him. I make up my mind to give him twenty. I can take twenty myself. More on a good day, so it shouldn’t be a problem for Lloyd. But then, I like a bit of pain. He doesn’t.
‘It’s OK,’ he puffs. ‘Go on. More.’
He manages to stay silent for the second and third, but his shoulder blades are so tense that I’m the one wincing. His flesh flattens under the whip then bounces back. It’s interesting to watch. I’ve seen video footage of him whipping me before, but it’s different when the handiwork is your own. I find myself taking pride in my work, wanting to keep the strokes even and symmetrical.
At the same time, I want to look at his face. I need an angle that will show me both. I find a stance that allows me to watch his head in profile while still examining the welts that rise on his backside. With each stroke he throws back his neck and I see the curving line, interrupted by his Adam’s apple, ending in a jumble of facial features contorted with pain. He starts to make noises around the fifth stroke, weird grunts and exhalations. I almost give up. Is this what I am like when he does this to me? And, if so, how can he carry on?
But he knows I want him to.
I know no such thing.
The sixth stroke is much gentler. I don’t even mean to hold back, but I definitely do. It’s cheating, I know, but I repeat this technique with the seventh. It doesn’t even leave a mark.
‘No,’ he says. ‘They don’t count. Not hard enough. Count them again.’
‘You’re telling me what to do.’
‘These are my rules, Sophie. Count them again or this is a fail.’
‘But you aren’t enjoying it. I’m finding it a bit upsetting, actually.’
‘Nobody’s forcing you to do it.’
‘Fine.’ I throw down the crop. ‘You win. One fail. I can’t do this to you.’
He looks round at me, almost losing balance and falling sideways. ‘Why can’t you?’ he asks. He is smiling through the sweat, pleased with himself at finding a challenge that has defeated me.
‘I’m not a sadist, and you’re not a masochist. I can’t make it any different. I’m not going to hurt you unless you’re going to enjoy it. It’s not fair to ask me to.’
‘I never said I was going to play fair.’
‘I can’t imagine why I expected you to, to be honest. What a mug.’
‘So the pain thing is out of the window. But that doesn’t mean this scene is over, does it? If you want to order me about a bit, feel free. There’s a lot more to domination than whacking seven bells out of your sub’s bottom, after all.’
‘Yeah.’ I think of the strap-on. My lips quirk upwards. ‘You’re right. I still have some plans for you.’
‘There, you see. You can still swerve another fail.’ He rattles the chains with his straining cuffs. ‘I might need to get out of these, though. Feel like my arms are about to drop off.’
‘You give a lot of orders, don’t you?’
Suddenly, on a whim, I pick the crop back up and give him one heartfelt final swipe, scoring a beautiful deep crimson line across all the others.
He shouts out in stunned alarm. ‘Oi!’
‘Just
