Page 46 of At Her Pleasure

A million emotions were tumbling inside her.

Though most people focused on the end result of her sessions, the physical evidence of what she inflicted and how he absorbed it, the greatest energy expenditure was what went on in her head and how she monitored what was provoked in his, the man under her control. A vital effort to ensure she didn’t kill him. Physically or mentally.

She’d learned a lot about herself in ten years. Learned to appreciate life and love, friendship and family. Learned to balance her darkness with those things.

She wasn’t sure he had.

She was looking at a man who took too much and was asking for far more, wanting her to let that maelstrom have them both. If she ended up killing him, she had the disturbing thought he’d cross that threshold, turn around and give her a thumbs up and that mysterious smile. It would hold things about himself he’d kicked into a personal void until a session with her brought them back to the light.

No. Mick wouldn’t do that to her. She stepped back from the drama. This was edge play. His behavior was a warning flag, yes, helping her identify treacherous areas for him. All subs had them. But once she was aware, it was under her control. He’d left her a tempting environment around those edges, and she didn’t have to go that deep into his personal shit to play there. Even though the desire to do so was far stronger than it normally was.

Another warning flag.

He’d given himself to her just for now. This session. That was the most important boundary to remember.

Retrieving the single tail, she coiled it over and under her hands, several times. As the silence drew out, him waiting on her, she found her center.

She dropped the coil, shook it out, then threw the whip, snapping it over his back. The popper hit the most angry-looking hashtag. She wanted it to deliver a hefty sting, a bee stabbing a large bore needle into skin.

Since she was well-practiced with it, it did.

Mick jerked, head dropping forward. That ripple traveled from his shoulders down his back, over his buttocks, creating more delectable quivers. Ones that became rhythmic flexing as she started forcing that reaction with the whip. It was as if he was fucking a woman while she watched.

She could cut with the fall of the single tail. She thought of what she’d considered, cutting an M on his back. Like a Domme Zorro.

The black humor helped center her further. She adjusted her technique and landed the first cut. About an inch from where she intended, but if she needed to do a couple practice Ms, that wouldn’t bother her.

Especially if she earned the reaction the first cut did. A grunt was wrested from him, his body bucking hard right after he made the sound, as if he was admonishing himself for the weakness. She increased her strikes, the targeting, so he couldn’t stop the sounds of pain. She made sure she drew them out after every strike. A gift to her.

“Your pain belongs to me, Mick,” she said.

She had a passable M, the four marks darker than the other practice ones. His fists were clenched, powerful thighs trembling. She wanted to leave teeth marks all over his ass.

Instead, she picked up the second full gallon jug and strolled in front of him. When he understood her intent, the tension in his jaw suggested maybe, for an instant, he thought of safewording. But he bit his lips instead. The bottom one was still bleeding.

“Stay still.” Leaning in, she sucked on it, flicking her tongue over the cut. He closed his eyes, and another sound came from him, a muted one of such need she felt the pull of it in her own womb. He was still hard, though the flag’s angle had gone down a few degrees.

She eyed him critically. “If your cock is fully hard after I pour this over your back, Mick, I will fuck you.”

“Fuck my ass…or fuck me?”

“If either one pleases me, does it matter?”

His lips tugged in that rueful expression, an astonishing feat when he was shaking the way he was. But the pain she inflicted didn’t do permanent harm, and if he sought this kind of session routinely, he knew it.

She had to know the difference if she wanted to keep her regulars in a condition to serve her. When this was done, she would instruct him on follow up care to ensure those cuts would heal fine. His muscles and joints would be sore tomorrow, mainly because of how he braced himself to take the mental and physical stress load, but maybe one of those little bird subs had a masseuse license. He could prevail upon her good will.

“Do what pleases you, Mistress.”

“I always do.”

She moved behind him. He steeled himself for it, getting ready. So instead of pouring the water on him, she leaned in and put her mouth on the M.

She traced the first line with her tongue, her lips. She’d made the strike closer to a welt than a cut, though she could taste the light smear of blood that had broken through. She moved to an area she hadn’t struck with cane or whip, marking that skin with the suction of her mouth. When she adjusted and sank her teeth into the flesh around the center V of the M, he stiffened, hands curling in his bonds.

So far he’d avoided the involuntary digging that could result in splinters. Where his palms rested, the wood had been worn smooth by other sweaty and clutching fingers.

She’d drawn out splinters using her tweezers and a needle, while her bound sub breathed hard, head down, fighting the clash of sensations that came from inflicting pain for vastly different reasons.

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