hope for is that he’ll excuse my lapse. The curator explained that I was new, after all.
A man’s laugh rings out in the silent room, as jarring as a horn. ‘Well, it looks like your Galatea has a voice!’
The others laugh at that and one by one they slip away to the dining room. Someone calls out to my master, to ask if he is coming. But he shakes his head, standing before me as still as a statue himself.
‘It would seem,’ he says calmly, ‘that you are not yet fully trained after all.’
My trembling intensifies and I feel tears pricking my eyes. My very first private exhibition and I have failed. The shame threatens to overwhelm me.
‘But no matter. What’s done is done. We’re none of us perfect, are we?’
I know better than to deepen my disgrace by responding as though he had asked the question of a person. Flawed or not, I am still a statue and must hold on to as much of my role as I can.
‘No,’ he continues, his voice kind and forgiving. I sense his smile as he smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Not perfect. Which means I have the pleasure of teaching you how to mimic perfection.’
My heart seems to stumble in my chest as I realise he isn’t going to send me back. Immediately I regain control of myself, will my eyes to stop welling with tears, will my body to stop shaking. I focus on the red and black swirls in his tie and lose myself in the pattern as I try to disengage from my body. I think of Natasha and the other girls, so silent and still, so perfect. How can I ever hope to be as good as they are?
‘You will have to earn your submissive pose again,’ he says. Then he paces away across the room and when he returns he is holding a riding crop.
If my eyes widen slightly he doesn’t notice, as he is inspecting the looped leather tongue at the end of the crop. He slaps it against his palm a few times. Then he slices the crop through the air before me and I can’t help it: I flinch.
He tuts and shakes his head. ‘Statues do not react,’ he says, and his tone is inscrutable. ‘Not to noises or touches. Not to pleasure or pain. Not to any stimuli at all.’
I still the trembling that threatens to overwhelm me and he holds the crop out, pressing the tongue firmly against my left nipple. The leather is cool and I immediately stiffen beneath its touch. He does the same on the other side and I suppress a shiver. My focus is completely gone and I can’t seem to regain it. Quite apart from my horror at having failed him, I’m both frightened and aroused by his authority. I desperately want to please him, to earn my pose back and to be touched again like before.
He raises the crop a few inches and then flicks it down onto the hard peak of my nipple. Not enough to hurt, just enough to send a flash of stimulation through me. It’s all I can do not to react but I hold myself still for him as he moves to the other side and repeats the stroke. He watches my face closely as he positions the crop again and taps me gently. This time he brings it down with a little more force.
The sensation is intense on such a delicate part of me and I can’t fully process what I’m feeling. The smack of leather is impossible to ignore. It awakens all the sensitive nerve endings, sending a confusing blend of signals through me. Pleasure, pain and something in between.
He moves the crop back and forth, bringing it down in a brisk motion on first one nipple, then the other. A little harder each time now. I force myself to stay still, to resist the urge to cry out, gasp or whimper. When I realise I’m not breathing I make myself inhale slowly and hold the breath for several seconds before letting it out just as slowly.
The crop descends smartly, again and again, daring me to defy the man inflicting the torment. But I breathe through the strokes, determined to pass his test, determined to make him proud of me. My nipples tingle from the strange stimulation and the burning flows through my body like waves until my sex is throbbing in response.
When he finally stops I feel strangely bereft. Then my master tucks the crop under his arm to free both his hands. He cups my aching breasts, and the warmth of his palms against the burning skin of my nipples is both soothing and agonising. Even then, I don’t allow myself to react. He’ll be able to feel the wild pounding of my heart but I hope I have borne the punishment to his satisfaction.
‘Very good,’ he says.
Before I can relax, however, he takes up the crop again and this time places the leather tongue up against my sex. Tingling with fear and excitement, I brace myself.
The first stroke is gentle, just a little tap. But my sex is even more sensitive than my breasts and the smack of leather is like a jolt of electricity. The next stroke is harder and the next is harder still. I feel each one deep inside me, penetrating me as his finger did earlier.
Although I hold perfectly still for him, there is no doubt that he can see how much his actions are arousing me. Each smack of the crop against my wetness floods me with sensation and when he flicks the tip back and forth across my clit I realise with sudden alarm that he intends to make me come. My eyes must reflect some fear over this because he gives a low chuckle and the crop ceases its relentless assault for a moment. My sex tingles along with my breasts, burning and pulsing at the sensory onslaught, wanting more.
But he teases me. He steps around to my side and now he rests the crop against the smooth curve of my bottom. I hold my breath as I feel it lift away and then connect with a sharp smack. He is less forgiving here, laying on the strokes smartly and giving me less time to recover in between. It’s all I can do not to yelp and flinch.
Then the leather tongue, warmer now that it has tasted so much of my tender flesh, taps against the delicate soles of my feet. I wait, every muscle tensed in anticipation, until he raises the crop again and it strikes in earnest. The pain is astonishing. But it’s also exhilarating. As it rises and falls against my feet I feel a surge of euphoria. I have crossed a line where pain becomes pleasure and all sensation is welcome.
As though sensing the change in me, my master returns to stand in front of me. He caresses my face, cups my chin and slips his thumb into my mouth, teasing my tongue with it like the promise of a kiss. Through it all I remain perfectly still although every nerve in my body is screaming for release.
He steps back and presses the end of the crop between my legs again. My nether lips are burning and swollen from the punishment they have taken but they still want more. I want more.
He doesn’t make me wait long. I feel the crop tap gently against my inner thighs, peppering them with light little smacks before returning for a more vigorous assault on my sex. The leather strikes me hard, harder, harder, and the wave begins to build inside me. He adjusts the angle just enough to catch my clit and each sharp stroke drives me closer and closer. When the rush overtakes me I lose all sense of control, crying out with complete abandon as a pleasure more intense than I ever thought possible threatens to consume me.
He catches me before I can fall and my body assaults me from within as I gasp and pant and tremble in his arms.
After a while he releases me and it takes some effort to stand upright after what I’ve just endured. I blush fiercely as he forces me to meet his eyes. He is smiling.
‘Hello, Galatea,’ he says.
I try to return his smile but, although I’m buzzing with pleasure at what he’s done to me, I still can’t help but feel terrible for my earlier failure. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, not sure what else to say.
His
