She is on the wooden table in my dining room. There is rope around her knees and elbows, holding her in a crouch. Rope around her ankles and wrists pulls her apart, spreads her open. She is naked, exposed, vulnerable. Yet in spite of this restraint she hold herself up, arching her back to present her backside, holding her head high and proud.
“This is what you want?” I ask her.
There is a pause before she replies, “Yes, sir. More than anything.”
Her head lifts to look at me. I see the fear in her eyes, not fear of me, but of the unknown. It is there in the slight shiver that runs through her body and the slightly clamminess of her skin.
“Very well,” I tell her.
I walk behind her, taking the position. There is no drama. No swishing the bamboo through the air for added effect or atmosphere. This is sadism and masochism stripped back to their soul.
My aim is taken. I rest the cane above her bare buttocks to judge my action, raise my arm and then …
… the snapping of cane on bottom is followed by the sweet sound of a gasp escaping her lips and the shock wave rushing outwards through her flesh.
“One, sir,” she manages to say through the pain.
I raise the cane. A red stripe has formed on her skin, rising upwards as the welt makes itself known. I cannot help but smile.
The second lands a little harder. The gasp comes again.
“Two, sir,” she says a little slower. Her head drops slightly, then comes back to its place of pride.
The third. This is too much for her. The gasp is replaced by a moan of pain and she lowers herself, taking the arch out of her back and letting her head drop. She is shaking.
My instinct is to touch her, to hold her, to reassure her. I fight it and instead wait for her to recover her composure.
I strike again. The fourth seems much louder and harder, the snap of the cane echoing round the room before her cry of pain overtakes it. She drops to the table, sobbing, convulsing, the pain too much for her. I watch her, an observer to the personal battle she is fighting against agony. Perhaps this is too much for her.
Bravely she forces herself up. She pushes her bottom out further than before, showing me the bright red welts that mark her skin like the stripes of a tiger.
“Four, sir,” she says through gritted teeth.
Can she take more, I wonder. I raise the cane and bring it down swiftly.
There is a silence from her so deafening it fills me with dread. I see every muscle in her body tense as she fights the pain and forces herself to hold her position.
“Five! Sir!” she shouts through gritted teeth.
I strike her again. Much harder, determined now to find the point at which she will break. The whole of her hind quarters shakes and shudders, but she refuses to cry out, refuses to yield.
“Six! Sir!” she shouts again, voice edged with tears.
“Seven! Sir!” Panting.
Another. Harder still.
“Eight! Sir!” Struggling to maintain control.
Another. Harder again.
And this time she can hold herself up no longer. Her head falls, the arch in her back vanishes and she collapses as best she can into a heap of tears and crying.
Her limit has been reached and passed. The burning in her backside is now too painful for her, too much to bear.
I look at her and, for a moment, consider taking pity on her and releasing her from her bondage. Holding her. Comforting her. That passes.
Instead I place the cane in front of her on the table and walk silently out of the room. I leave her there to suffer alone and in silence. Although, if she knows me as well as she thinks she does, she will know I am proud of her.
Tagged: Male Dominant Erotica
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