Page 4 of Isle of Pain

I almost safe-worded her when her hand glided against my scalp as I knelt at her feet, head bowed. I recoiled and stopped giving her my submission. My face must have said what I didn’t.

It pissed her off and now she’s dragging me across the hard unyielding floor of the club while soft red light dances from the silver metal sconces on the dark walls and illuminates the hungry stares of our audience.

That’s all I wanted anyway. As we near the St Andrews’ cross, my mouth salivates with anticipation.

I rejected her and she’s going to take it out on my body.

Finally, the voices that remind me that my father died because of my carelessness will be silenced. There won’t be societal pressure to be anything but the monstrous killer that I am.

To be punished for it is the only way that will actually save me.

We pass a few people on our way to the dais. Leering faces and bodies in different states of undress. Some kneel at the heels of their dominants, others are getting fucked but still turn their curious and lustful gaze to the spectacle about to happen. I recognise all of them including previous partners.

Damian, one of my favourites and my business partner, winks as I crawl but my eyes remain focused on my goal.

“Go on, sweet thing, get up.” Even her voice grates on my nerves, nasal and high in pitch.

I roll my eyes at the pet name as I stand up and click my tongue. “I’m not sweet,Mistress,” I say, her title coming out as an insult in my mouth.

Her ears turn red before her face does and she slaps me. I press my lips together to hold the smile that wants to take over my face.

I’m usually not a brat.

I like order and consistency and I have impeccable control of myself.

I’m pushing her to safe-wordmeso she can be replaced by someone else. Someone who can actually handle me. She doesn’t. After I remove my jeans and boxers, she fastens my arms to the cross. My legs follow. I hold my breath, ants crawling up my skin at the perspective that she might cop a feel as she ties me up but thankfully, she doesn’t.

My naked body is on display. All eyes turn to us and my cock hardens and leaks at the tip. My current mistress uses her thumb to gather the drop of pre-cum.

“Orange,” I hiss, loud enough for everyone to hear and frown at the colour system we use to keep each other safe. Green for ‘continue’, orange for ‘slow down’, red for ‘stop’, a secondary safe-word everyone knows on the spot. I lower my voice, just for her, and add, “touching is a hard limit.”

She smirks and brings her red-nailed thumb to her mouth. “With me, it won’t be,” she whispers.

The only reason I don’t stop this charade here and there is the promise of the whip.

The dominatrix takes the riding crop from where it hangs on the silver display wall and without a warning, she brings it down to my right thigh with a resounding smack. I revel in it, goosebumps rising on my skin from where she hit.

I exhale heavily. This is what I need. This is my absolution. This is what will help.

Over and over, she brings the torture device on my flesh. My thighs heat with the burn of her blows, covered in angry red marks. But this is just an appetiser.

Soon, the sting almost disappears to give way to a fuzzy feeling that spreads from the place of the red marks down to my toes and up to my groin. But it’s not enough. And she knows it.

With a smile, she replaces the crop with a braided leather flogger. Sleek black, it looks elegant and tantalising in her hands. But I only have eyes for the thirty tails, not the wielder.

“Count, slut,” she spits, forcefully dragging my attention back to her as she whips the flogger on my thighs again, dangerously close to my cock and balls. Her aim is unfocused and unsteady, and I clench my jaw shut, refusing to give her what she wants most.

I moan when the whip swings across a place where the burn of the crop was already vivid. My partner moves up to my belly and sides. A true novice if I ever saw one. Or someone who wants to hurt for the sake of hurting, not give pleasure in an exchange of power we both chose.

“Orange,” I groan as the end of the tails swoosh against my crotch again, tingling but not hurting. Yet.

She pants, red with anger, her make-up starting to run where sweat gathers at her hairline. Dropping the tool to the floor, herblonde hair escapes my peripheral vision but I hear the ruffling in one of the drawers behind us.

The sombre classical music I couldn’t hear before gets louder as I refocus on the scene before me. Writhing bodies coated with fluids of all kinds move before me in a tableau I would usually indulge in with delight. But my companion hasn’t reappeared and she didn’t communicate her intentions.

My cock deflates and I turn my head to see her and stop the scene.

When I can’t find her near, I look forward again. My eyes lock with Damian, who’s frowning. His dark blue eyes are riveted to what’s happening behind me, concern etched on his clean-shaven face. Before they widen and he steps forward in a hurried movement, so unlike his very controlled self.

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