She stands immediately, with her feet and ankles together and her arms at her sides. Her back is straight, and she’s staring straight ahead—not at me, but at the top of the chair.
“Undress.”
She takes her clothes off, folds them neatly, and holds them on her forearms, awaiting further instructions. Being nude is something Sophie is comfortable with during scenes. It makes her more vulnerable, which is something I know she craves. This is a safe space for her to act out her fantasies. All the Doms at The Library are forbidden from having sex with our clients. Not that I’ve ever wanted to.
I flick my gaze to a stool in the corner of the room. Without hesitation, Sophie walks to it and puts her clothes on it.
“Attention.”
She returns to the mat and stands exactly as she was before. I let her stand there for a few minutes. Let her feel the warmth of the air on her bare skin. Let her get to the point where she might be starting to feel self-conscious about being nude while I’m fully dressed.
“At your service.”
She crossed her hands over her abdomen.
“Tell me about your week.”
She obeys, telling me the highs and lows without letting me know anything confidential. I let her talk until she runs out of words. It’s part of her process of relaxing. She needs to get the things that have made her happy or stressed out in the open. I don’t give her any feedback at all. I’m not here to give her advice or even lend a sympathetic ear. She dips her chin to let me know she’s finished. Already I can see that there’s less stiffness in her body.
I stand and select a riding crop from the wall. I test it against my hand, letting her hear it thwack on my palm. I put it back, choose another, and test that against my palm. It’s all part of the game. Each time I test a crop, I see her flinch from the corner of my eyes, but I also see her lips tremble into a smile. I see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes. I like the feel of the soft leather smacking against my skin, but more than anything, I adore the anticipation on my submissive’s face.
Finally satisfied with the crop I’ve chosen, I turn to face her. “Expose.”
She drops to her shins, toes braced against the floor, knees spread wide. She puts her hands on the back of her head, her fingers locked together. I tap the crop over my hand as I walk around her.
“Punishment.”
This is what she’s here for. She uses her hands to lower her chest to the floor and then folds her arms and rests her forehead upon them. Then she angles her arse up and lifts her shins, ankles, and feet off the floor. I stand behind her, out of her field of vision, and lightly tap the crop against her arse cheek. I lift the crop and bring it down harder. It hisses through the air and thwacks as it strikes her, leaving a beautiful red mark. There’s a soft squeak as she inhales. I watch as every muscle in her body tenses and then relaxes.
I smack her on the other arse cheek and then across each thigh, pausing between each blow to give her time to safeword. Her tolerance has built up over several play sessions with me, so I doubt she will. Even so, I use the time to check on her physical reaction to the painful stimuli. It’s empowering to know she’s trembling because of me.
I strike her harder, never quite in the same place as before. I keep all my blows to the fleshiest parts of her arse, thighs, back, and shoulders, and I avoid the kidney area. I listen to every squeak and moan she makes and watch her physical reactions so I’ll know when to slow down or stop, regardless of whether she has the sense to safeword or not. It’s my job to know her limits better than she does.
After a dozen smacks, I walk around her, grab a fistful of her hair, and tug her head up. “You like being whipped?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you want more?”
Sophie groans. “Yes, Master.”
“Then beg.”
She runs the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Please, Master, I want you to whip me. I need you to whip me. Harder.” She gasps. “Please whip me harder.”
I let go of her hair and step back. She immediately puts her head down. I return to her arse and smack her with the crop again, harder, just like she asked for, creating criss-crossing welts across her skin.
When I stop a second time, she whimpers and sobs.
“Master—”
“Did I give you permission to speak?” My voice snaps through the air between us, making her flinch.
She shakes her head and sobs again.
I grasp her hair and lift her head. “You may speak.” I don’t soften my voice. I don’t want her to think I’m being nice.
“Thank you, Master. You’re so kind.”
