I moan helplessly as I watch him cross the room to the cabinet where I know the canes and crops and other implements are, and I watch him choose two, striding back towards me. “Cane or flogger?” he asks Jaxon, and another shiver runs through me, remembering the cane against my clit and Jaxon’s cum on my thighs.
Jaxon hesitates. “Flogger,” he says finally, and I wince, because I know that Cayde with the cane is the most expert, blistering pain that I’ll experience, followed by pleasure.
“You first, then,” Cayde says, almost disappointedly, and I let out a sigh of relief. I can’t imagine both Jaxon and Dean following the cane.
I can feel myself tense with anticipation as I hear the swish of the flogger through the air. Cayde is standing to one side, angled so that I can see him slowly stroking himself, watching as the first lash of the flogger hits my ass. Jaxon didn’t ask me to count, so I don’t. I just dig my nails into the wood, bracing myself as the heat blooms over my skin, the strips of leather catching and snapping. Jaxon isn’t as practiced with it as the others are, but he still knows how to strike, spreading out the lashes so that they go across each cheek, landing from top to bottom, down to where the curve of my thighs meets my ass. The leather snaps against the folds of my pussy then, grazing it, and I cry out as pain and pleasure together burst over my skin, sending me shuddering with a convulsion that’s close to an orgasm.
“Don’t you dare fucking come, little Saint,” Cayde says warningly, his hand squeezing his cock as he thrusts his hips into his hand, lazily fucking his fist the way I know he wants to be fucking me right now. “Not until we tell you that you can.”
I don’t know how many lashes Jaxon gives me, or how many he planned for me to have. I’m not sure if he even knows—I don’t think Jaxon is the type to plan out a specific count in his head. No, Jaxon is the type to just watch me as he does it, enjoying the reddening of my flesh, waiting until it turns the shade that he wants to look at as he squeezes me between his hands while he slips his cock inside of me.
Just the thought sends another brilliant shudder of pleasure through me.
I’m not sure how much longer Jaxon’s flogging goes on. At some point it stops being pain, each strike of the leather against my heated skin sending pure pleasure over me. When it finally stops and full seconds pass without anything grazing my skin, I see Cayde let go of his cock, and I know what comes next.
“Ordinarily I would let Dean go next,” Cayde says, his voice a deep, anticipatory growl as he circles behind me, his movements almost predatory. “The cane should really be saved for last. But since we’re making him wait, I suppose that makes it my turn.”
He takes up his spot behind me, and I can hear the appreciative noise that he makes deep in his throat as he looks at the landscape that Jaxon left him. “Twenty strokes with the cane, Athena. I expect you to count these. And five of them are going between your legs. God help you if you come,” he adds, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I know how much you love the cane on your clit.”
Fuck. My head drops forwards, my forehead pressing against the wood. I don’t know how I’ll make it through this without coming. My body is trembling with both fear and anticipation, and I force myself to breathe, my hips already arching with the desperate need to feelsomethingagainst my aching, pulsing clit. It’s the most maddening, delicious, agonizing, sweetest torture, and I both want more of it and to beg for them to stop.
There’s no tapping out, either. No safe word in here with them. When I step inside that door, it means I’m trusting them to know me well enough not to push me too far, and that in and of itself is part of the release for me, not having to decide whether or not to call it. Knowing that once I step inside this room, my surrender is complete. Whatever happens outside of it stays there, and in here, there’s only clinging to my sanity until the boys—myboys—decide I’ve had enough of the pain and decide to give me all the pleasure I can take.
“You know the drill, little Saint,” Cayde growls from behind me. “Count them. Oh, and Dean?” he calls across the room. “Start thinking about what you want to use on her. You’re on deck.”
I hear the rustling of clothes, and I know Dean is finally stripping, but I don’t look. I can’t. It’s all I can do to focus on what’s happening now, on the first strike of the cane across my already burning ass, on calling it out so that it counts, and the tally doesn’t go higher. Twenty is at the absolute limit of what I think I can take from the cane, and Cayde knows that.
“Fuck, your ass looks gorgeous when it’s red,” Cayde groans, bringing down the cane a second time across my other cheek. “You’ve learned to take it so well, little Saint.” He brings it down again, this time across the base of my ass, and I cry out.
“Three!” I exclaim, a sobbing moan bursting from my lips as I jerk in the straps. “Fuck, Cayde!”
“Only counting, little Saint,” he warns. “Or I’ll start over.”
Oh god no.At five, my ass is already smarting, the pain starting to radiate down my thighs, and if he starts over I think I’ll die.Six, seven—I don’t think I’ll be sitting down for a day or two. But with each stroke, the pain of it blossoms across my skin and then warms into something else, a pleasurable heat that makes everything between my legs feel swollen and heavy and needy, my clit throbbing as I twitch and jerk in the straps, gasping as I call out each stroke.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Jaxon, his face taut as he slowly runs his fingers up and down his shaft, occasionally stopping to toy with his piercing, rubbing his palm over his cockhead as he watches me. When Cayde hits ten, he moves towards me, and I can see from the look on his face that he’s reached the point where he wants me so badly that it’s nearly unbearable.
The feeling is mutual, I think dryly, crying out the eleventh stroke as my back arches, another sobbing moan spilling from my lips. I feel hollow, aching, needing to be filled, fucked, and I can see from the look in Jaxon’s eyes that he wants desperately to give me exactly that.
He reaches up, his long fingers grasping my chin and turning my head so that my cheek is pressed against the wood, my eyes focused on his. Between strokes, he presses his lips to mine, pulling back quickly enough for me to call out my count, and then bringing his mouth back down.
I gasp, the sweetness of the caress at direct odds with the ferocity of the cane on my ass, and the two different sensations push my body even higher, until it feels as if I’m almost floating, suspended in an endless push and pull without relief, without satisfaction, my body on the edge of an orgasm that I’m constantly being denied. I’m terrified that I’ll come when Cayde starts to cane me between my thighs, that I won’t be able to stop myself, and I don’t know what the punishment is after that. I know that holding my pleasure back is part of my submission to them, part of the game, and Iwantto, deep down. I want to wait, to feel that explosion that makes my body feel as if it’s coming apart at the seams when I’m finally allowed to come.
But in this moment, I just think I’d give anything in the world to come.
Jaxon’s fingers caress the side of my breast, down my rib cage, teasing me as he strokes my skin in small, swift touches that make my skin twitch and shiver, his fingers occasionally trailing down all the way to my hips, the flat plane of my abdomen, and that sends deeper shudders through me, because he’s soclose.
Fifteen. I moan out the number, gasping when I realize that this means the next strike will land between my thighs. I jerk in the straps, on the verge of begging Cayde to stop, telling him that I can’t take it anymore, when Jaxon’s hand tightens on my chin.
“You’re so close to being done,” he whispers, his lips brushing over mine again. “You can do it, Athena. I believe in you. You’re doing so well.”
I open my eyes, startled at the way he phrased it, but I can see in his face that he meant it, that he’s proud of me. That my ability to take their punishment, to submit to them and take what they need to give me, to give them their release by allowing them the use of my body, is something that they see as astrength, not a weakness. My boys don’t see me as weak because I’m strapped to this frame, taking the lashes and shuddering from pain and pleasure and need.
They see me as strong, as strong as they are. They respect me.
I’m not their pet anymore. Not even their toy.
Theyneedme. Because the same way they’ve tapped into a dark part of me that I never knew I needed to have satisfied, I’ve given them the ultimate outlet for their fantasies. I’m as perfect for them as they’ve turned out to be for me.