squirm, then he let it ping back down. I breathed out.
‘This can stay for now,’ he said. ‘But I have a feeling it might outlive its practicality, once I’ve dealt with your bottom. Speaking of which … up. It’s not high enough. I want it high and ready as you can get it. I want those little cheeks to beg me for the strap.’
Ah, the strap. I felt a twinge in my shoulder blades, a slight relaxation. The strap was good. Sharp at first, but its bark was worse than its bite and it always ended up giving more pleasure than pain.
‘That’s better.’ Jasper approved. ‘But I want your legs wider than that. I want to see what that lacy little scrap is hiding.’
I widened the gap between my thighs, knowing that he would want them well clear of each other so he could flick the leather over my tender inner skin. Perhaps he would aim a couple of snaps at my pussy. The lace might protect it a little, but not much. I wiggled, remembering the delicious fire a previous attempt at this had sparked. I had been so wet, so hot …
‘Now that’s a view,’ said Jasper, appreciative as ever. ‘What a still that would make. I’d have it for the poster. What’s the movie title? Hmm. “Sarah’s Submissions”. And on every billboard, every bus, along the sidebar of everyone’s facebook page, there you’d be, in this position, and maybe the strap would be laid across your bottom just to make it absolutely clear what’s happening to you in this film. What do you think? Shall I approach some backers?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
The ‘sir’ came out easily now, no longer a painful prickly thing staining my lips for minutes afterwards. It was natural. It was what he was to me.
‘Well, I suppose I am still waiting to hear about funding for the other project. Let’s just say it’s on hold, shall we? And in the meantime, you need to rehearse. Twenty strokes, hard ones, you know the drill.’
Yes, I did. Take the stroke, keep position, count it, thank him, ask for the next. So straightforward in theory, so easy to get wrong in practice. But twenty was manageable. It was when it went over thirty I started to struggle.
The strap fell with a thud then a sting, ringing and cracking through the air. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on anticipating the pain, it always came as a shock to me. I had thought that might change one day, but apparently not yet.
All the same, I was able to keep my bottom up, avoiding the shaming crumpling of knees that had accompanied our earlier scenes.
‘One, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
Four more strokes, each as hard as the last, but I stuck heroically to my brief, never so much as wriggling a hip in an effort to protect my bottom from the line of fire.
Six months of submission and at last I felt I was beginning to earn my stripes.
Literally.
I earned five more but these were harder to endure and I could feel the stress in my thigh muscles as they recovered from each blow. They were beginning to weaken and tremble.
I kept the count but it was less easy to think in the red fog of pain. Asking for another was the easy part. It came out of my lips, sing-song, mechanical.
Now I was feeling the burn, which I liked. The glow seeped into my skin and juiced me up. It didn’t stop me dreading the next stroke, though.
Eleven shook through me and I almost broke position – just a quiver, really, but Jasper saw it.
‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get five more added if you move.’
It was enough to focus me. I had done this before, numerous times. I knew I was capable of it. I just had to grit my teeth and breathe through it.
I gave the count and kept myself still for the twelfth. Ah, here it was, just in time – the moment when it all became easy. When extra strokes just kept the delicious heat sealed in and satisfied my craving.
Now I was able to push my bottom up high again and purr instead of yelping. The strap was a gift like that – it never happened this way with the cane, which bit cruelly from start to end, or the paddle, which was a feat of endurance. But the strap had a kind heart, which it would show you if you put up with its nasty streak for long enough. Oh, how I revelled in those final strokes, sighing into the burn.
‘Twenty, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
‘Do you really want one?’
He flicked the end of the strap between my thighs. He hadn’t struck there in the end, nor against my pussy in its lacy bag.
‘If it pleases you, sir,’ I said, hoping I had put enough longing in the formulaic phrase to show I meant it.
Apparently I had. He smacked at my thighs in turn, quick snappy strokes that made me gasp continuously and jolt from side to side on the mattress. My gasps couldn’t keep pace with his hand and it occurred to me in my haze that I would have to keep gasping long after he finished in order to match response with provocation. But it didn’t matter. The grand finale was one loud, hard smack against my pussy, then my thong was at my knees before I could draw breath.
He took hold of my thighs, keeping me in position, and buried his face in my hot, sticky core. I felt steaming breath then the wet, sweet intrusion of his tongue. He rubbed himself into me, prickling my thighs with his stubble, raising one hand to smack again at my bottom, ensuring it lost none of its heat while he licked me with gourmet delicacy and thoroughness.
I began to whimper, overloaded with sensations, stuck between them, unable to alight on one in particular. My bottom was sore and tight and my pussy was wet and my clit was bursting into vivid life. I wanted it all and more, I wanted him inside me, I wanted all of myself filled with all of him.
He tongued an orgasm out of me with ease, then withdrew his mouth and continued spanking me until his free hand had dealt with the inconvenience of trousers and underpants. I loved the way his pelvis slapped against me, keeping me aware of the state of my bottom while my pussy was filled and thrust into.
He reached under to pull my breasts out of the basque cups and hold them as he banged into me, feeling and fumbling and plundering the soft flesh, flicking and pinching at my nipples. All of me was all of his and I knew he liked me to know it.
‘I suppose you’d like to come, would you?’ he asked between thrusts. There was no telling from his voice whether this question would lead to ecstasy or agony.
‘Yes, please, sir.’
‘Ah, well, you’ve been a good girl,’ he said. One hand quit my breasts and replaced itself over my clit, the fingertips pressing down in the way that always guaranteed a messy, wet-eyed, hot-cheeked orgasm from me.
This was no different. I bumped and ground on his fingers while he fucked hard. I fell into a chasm, a blind place of intense sensation. I was only aware of the noise I was making a few seconds after I started making it.
He took up the cry, lower and shakier, as if a part of him had been torn out with the orgasm. We collapsed, kissing damp brows, hugging each other’s bones.
A phone rang.
Jasper swore and
