Everybody is here, all of them gathered around to see me hurt and to watch me scream. The tops are seated in the armchairs around the oak table, and the subs are crowded against the bookshelves and kneeling on the floor. I whimper and fall back, but Skinner pushes me forward again.
"If I want to hurt you, I will," he whispers, his voice hard, but surprisingly gentle. "Will you be hurt for me, Fox?" He stands behind me, his arms wrapped around my chest, and I have that sensation of falling again. I don't want him to ever let me go.
"Yes," I reply, no longer sure what I'm agreeing to.
"Will you go to the limits of your pain for me?" he asks, whispering again.
"Yes." I can't see anybody else now. I can just feel the heat and hardness of his body against mine.
"And if I want to hurt you more than you can endure, will you let me do that, too?" he wants to know, his thigh moving against my buttocks rhythmically, caressing me. I arch my neck, feeling the sweat starting to pour off me.
"Yes," I nod. "Yes, Master. Anything." There is such a sweet pleasure in giving him this, in giving up everything to him and letting him take over.
"You'll let me do that just because you're mine and I want to?" His hands are on my wrists, holding them tightly, pressed against my abdomen. I'm limp in his arms.
"Yes." I hang there, totally in his thrall.
"Good. Kneel down," he orders and I obey instantly, staring up at him as he moves around to face me. He looks into my eyes. "There is only me and you here, Fox. Just me and you."
My eyes flicker, knowing that we are being watched by dozens of pairs of prying eyes.
"No!" his voice barks out, drawing my gaze back to him. "There is only me and you. Do you understand?"
I allow my eyes to drown in his once more, keeping him in sight all the time, not letting my gaze drop for a second.
"Yes," I nod.
"Good. You've disobeyed me."
"Yes." I nod again.
"But that's not why I want to punish you." His eyes are boring into me.
"No?" I wipe away some of the sweat that is soaking into my hair.
"No. I'm going to punish you because you are mine, and because I can. I'm going to punish you without requiring anything from you. Your submission I already have. Your body I certainly have. You lose nothing by capitulating to me. You can scream, you can beg, and you can cry. I give you permission to do all these. I want you to do all these. This is between us; a sign of your devotion to me, your willingness to serve and accept, and mine to you, a demonstration of my power over you."
Shit. Those words give me a hard-on. Once more he's playing me like a violin. It's like he's stroking me with what he's saying, and it's working. I think I'd eat shit if he asked me to right now. He puts his hand under my chin and makes me stand, then kisses my forehead gently.
"Go and get the whip and bring it to me," he says softly, and I wrench myself away from him, and stumble over to where one of the tops is standing by the post, holding a whip. I bring it back to him, feeling myself starting to tremble again. I hand it to him, and he accepts it, examines it thoughtfully, and then gives it straight back. "Look at it. Touch it. Feel it."
He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I do as he says. It's black, leather, and heavy. It's not a display whip, or an item of erotic fun. It means business. He puts his hand over mine, and strokes both our hands along it. This reminds me of somewhere I'd prefer to be stroking and my hard-on gets worse, pressing against my tight jeans.
"It will hurt. But not more than you can bear. And you will bear it, for me. And afterwards, I will reward you, as I promised." He plucks the whip from my nerveless fingers. "Go to the post," he whispers, and I'm not sure I can breathe as I turn away from him and walk over to the post. I can hear somebody clearing his throat, and then Saunders speaks.
"The slave will be naked. The punishment is thirty strokes."
"Shut the fuck up!" Skinner snaps. "He's mine. I will say how, and how many."
I can't see what is happening, but I don't hear so much as a murmur from Saunders, or anyone else for that matter. You could hear a pin drop in the library.
Skinner comes up behind me again, and his hands move around my waist, unbutton my jeans and push them down to my ankles. I step out of them, aware of my erection and flushing furiously. This should not be a turn-on. This should most definitely not be a turn-on. Skinner's cheek is against mine as he rubs his hand along my cock, gently, not hard enough to make me come.
"Good," he whispers and I don't feel like such an ass for having a hard-on at such an embarrassing moment. He picks up some leather cuffs from the table, and fastens one to each of my wrists, keeping his gaze locked with mine. "Remember what I said. Screaming, begging and weeping would honor me, so you shouldn't feel ashamed of any of these things."
I nod, and he pushes me against the post and clips the cuffs into place, stretching me up. His lips are against my neck and he bestows a tender kiss on me that makes my hair stand up on end. Then he moves away, and I close my eyes, still able to smell the scent of him.
The first stroke is like being kissed by a streak of pure flame. It burns itself over my buttocks like a caress, and I can hear this primal scream escaping from my body. I can't stop it or control it. I hang there, whimpering, suddenly aware that this is just the first stroke, that there are 29 more to be endured, and I know, with an icy fear deep inside, that I can't bear it.
"One," Skinner says, and my whole body is tense waiting for the next. The whip makes a hissing sound in the air as it comes towards me. A split second later it strikes, like the sting of a scorpion, or the scratch of a lion's claw, raking a line of pure pain down my back and ending over my left buttock.
"Please!" I gasp, bouncing against the post.
"Two." His voice makes contact with me again, bringing me back down from the threshold of pain where I have been left stranded. I don't even notice the next few strokes—everything is rolled into one, a muddled mix of torture and exquisite, burning, teasingly erotic agony. All I can do is scream, and I sure as hell do that, loudly, over and over again.
"Ten." He cuts through my screams, and then I hear him move towards me. His lips are on my neck again, kissing me gently, and I lie my head back on his shoulder. "You can keep going, can't you?" he whispers.
"No. No, I can't. I can't do it. You have to stop this; you have to stop now," I gibber frantically.
"Shh," he soothes, his hand sweeping back my sweaty hair from my forehead. "You can keep going because I want you to," he whispers. "And you want to please me. You're mine, aren't you?"
"Yes, but I can't..."
"Fox." His tone is patient, understanding, and utterly implacable. "I'll keep reminding you for as long as it takes. Who do you belong to?"
"You, but I..."
"And what can I do to you?"
I hang there limply, being drawn back down into that place where he intends to make me go. "Whatever you want." I can feel my arms going limp in the cuffs, which are strong enough to hold my weight.
"Good. You're pleasing me. I'm proud of you." He kisses me again, and then leaves me.
The next few blows are a dizzying whorl of pain, but I can feel a new sensation now. A warmth and heat and an almost delicious sense of helplessness, of belonging to him. His creature, to hurt, to love. His. I just repeat that in my head as the blows fall, and, after another ten, he comes to talk to me again in that low, intense voice. I've lost touch with reality altogether now—I can't see anybody, or hear anybody else. It's just him, making me endure, and me, eagerly accepting whatever he wants me to. I'm still screaming—and begging and weeping just as he told me that I could, but I don't have any control over this. He's taken it all away. Finally, just when I'm sure that I cannot endure another single flash of that fire along my back and buttocks, leaping and kissing its tormenting, flaming caress through my body, it's over.
I hear a breathless sigh pass around the room, and someone steps forward to undo my cuffs.
"Don't touch him," Skinner snarls, and then his hands are on my body, holding me up as he undoes the cuffs. I immediately drop to the floor like a stone weight in a pond, but he catches me up in his arms and swings me up close to his chest, carrying me.
"Don't fucking come near us," Skinner growls, and I see Saunders out of the corner of my eye. "You've got what you wanted," my master snaps.
Saunders raises an eyebrow, but his gaze rakes over my body as I lie in Skinner's arms. Even exhausted and in pain as I am, I recognize some new emotion in Saunders's expression. He has never looked at me like this before.
"You two are a constant source of delight," Saunders murmurs. "Such a scene you played, Mr. Skinner. What a fine show you put on for us here."
"Get out of my way. I'm taking him back to our room, if you have no objection."
I think the whole room knows that it wouldn't be wise to object to anything he says at this moment. Saunders gives another urbane smile and nods, but his eyes never leave my face and I feel a shiver of foreboding at the expression in them. He moves back, and the crowd parts to let us through.
