Note: this is obviously fantasy/fiction (and a fragment of an old novella-size story), not a play manual. I do hope we all know that nobody should attempt to use a whip on another human being without mastering the skill first. This piece is a direct follow-on from a little scene which left us here:
You sit down on the sand by my feet, look up, follow the line of my sight, look at me again, a mixture of disbelief and realisation in your eyes.
There are two just above the sand, about three feet apart, next two roughly at the waist level, closer together, two more at six feet high and four feet apart.
“Later, though. Make a fire, boy.”
We are standing by the wall with the eyelets. The light is falling onto the higher parts of it, specks of fool's gold bursting out of the almost-anthracite blackness of the rock. The toys on the sand, in the rock's shade.
“There, J. Take your shoes and socks off and get in position. Hands up first.”
You obey without a word, standing close to the stones, your arms spread. I know my way around these cuffs and carbines now, how to fasten them just tight enough to make sure your hands won't pull out, but with enough space for my finger to just about slip between your wrist and the leather, your pulse heavy on my skin as I check that the blood flow won't be restricted. The short lengths of rope between the cuffs and the eyelets get fastened next, then the same process is repeated on your ankles while the belt goes just below your waist, more to support than to restrain. My black silk scarf around your eyes, to start with.
“Yes, M. Please.”
My fingers are on the back of your neck, just above the collar, rubbing down to the hollows of the clavicles, feeling that thumping pulse again. I take the knife out of its sheath, gently placing the blunt side of the blade just under your hairline. Normally you'd know what it is, but the coldness of the steel and your covered eyes magnify the sensation and you groan, your shoulders jerking, your head shifting sideways as if you were trying to get away.
I put my left hand on your shoulder.
“Stay still, J. I don't want to hurt you. Not yet.”
I cut the clothes open, at first carefully, then faster as my hands gain confidence, switching between the knife and scissors. I can feel your body flinching and tensing when the blades, their edges blunt as they are, momentarily touch your skin. The shirt is hanging in rags off your upper body and all it takes me is a strong tug to strip it off completely.
The jeans are harder, especially in the tighter places and I get impatient hacking around the back seam, the tools suddenly less than adequate, the temptation to just slash through it from the outside tightening my throat, folding me in half there on the sand, the sickfucksickfucksickfucksickfuck mantra deafeningly loud in my skull just behind my eyeballs. I blink and my hands are gloved in blood, a mute thick scream forced down my lungs; I blink again and my fingers are doing their thing, carefully pulling the fabric away from your skin before I cut, and it doesn't take that long after all, the remains of the jeans fall onto the sand over your feet, the boxers just need a small nick before I rip them off and the misaligned St Andrew's cross of your naked body appears on the dark background of the rock.
I wait, allowing your breathing to slow down to semi-normal, your tense muscles to relax as much as they can in the spread-out position your are in.
I get up and walk closer, take the blindfold off and, pick up the riding crop, slowly run the end along your spine, down the crack of your ass, lower down and forward to my cock.
“Now. Tell me how you want it, J. Tell me what a greedy painslut you are.”
The flapper of the crop rubbing against your balls, ticklish on your inner thighs, resting on the left upper curve of the buttocks.
“Please. M. Please. I want it bad. I want your best pain, M.”
I move the crop up, slide it softly along your temple and jaw, to your lips. You kiss the leather just before I pull it away; a swing, the first light strike on your ass. You twitch against the restraints and I hit you again, the swish of the crop in the air and the sudden dry slap when it lands, a split second before the groan. I aim for the prescribed areas, the fleshier ones where the muscles that underlay the skin make the pain more bearable and safer.
Your ass is getting covered with a pattern of pink splodges, the sharp sting of the flapper must be getting to you now because you're are starting to whimper, your body tensing against the cuffs and the belt before each swat lands. I unleash a series of brisk ones, then stop.
I let the crop dangle from my wrist and get closer, my hands resting on your hips just under the belt that holds you across your waist. You are moaning, I don't quite know if it's pleasure or pain, or that quite irresistible mixture of both that I'm addicted to. Your skin feels hot under my fingers, the welts swelling tender and lovely, a flinch when I stroke them and a yelp when I suddenly smack your ass with an open palm, a yelp that makes me want to moan too, a moan that turns to a hissed 'Fuck' as I slap you again, and then once more.
I am reluctant – no, more than that, I am actually scared - to do what comes next, but I also know that I want to do it perhaps more than anything I've done so far, that this is what I might have came here for. It hits me dizzy for a second or two when I step away and kneel by the rucksack to get what I need from the side pocket, my hands and shoulders shaking, in fear and in anticipation.
It's a medium-length whip of plaited leather with a wider, pointy, flat, arrow-head shaped end, and when I grip it, the handle fits perfectly.
I remember that feeling from when I bought it, the almost irresistible urge to use it there and then in the black-and-purple decorated, almost ridiculously Gothy looking fetish gear shop, the experimental swing or two against my own thigh, then quite a few more at home at more suitable practice targets. And the weird energy, now instantly back, creeping in little tingly bursts of a flame along a fuse wire, from my fingers to my spine at the chest level, up to my head and down to my cunt, as I raise my arm, as I swing it against your barely touched upper back.
It strikes with a different sound, much less of a swish, and less of a slap, quieter; partially because I'm slow and very much learning how to use it, these first swings more of a test of my aim, of the way the leather curves and falls as it lands between your shoulder blades, the point making its first mark, much different from the crop ones, sharper even at this practice stage. You flinch again, a deep 'ooohhh' and a hissy, muffled sigh, as if you understood something that I am myself not yet quite clear about, something that's happening in me, to me, just now.
And yes, we are getting there, even if I don't know where the fuck "there" is and how many veils there are to flay off and if I even really want them to rip, and if it matters at all what's behind them.
And then I know that it doesn't, I know that what matters is herenow, and there is nothing else but that thing that was your body, but is not yours anymore, given to me, given to me as truly as it's possible; and my hand, steady, my breathing slower and deeper, my back straight, my head clear, in perfect focus, my body and mind one, all in that hand.
And so I hit you again, harder this time, the whip snaking against the shivering, shimmering curve of your back. I can see the marks appearing, and I can see myself, standing there on the damp sand in my walking boots, jeans and t-shirt, strands of my hair being pulled out of the band I tied it with, getting tangled by the breeze into its usual mess; my legs apart and my arm raising and falling, gaining a rhythm, letting myself breathe between the strikes.
I see you struggle against the restraints, hear the pleas and yelps, delirious laughs and then moans, see the marks appearing on your skin, welts like strokes of a paintbrush dipped in pain, I see you shake and shiver when I hit you, a mixture of avoidance and asking for more despite the pleas to the contrary. All this makes my skin crawl with electric currents of power and desire, takes me to that exhilarating, scary, heady place high up there.
The time slows even more, slows right down to the ground, each blink a minute, each strike smooth and flowing, the whip slithering between the suddenly visible molecules of air. I'm counting, not aloud, to the soundtrack playing in my head.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
“More, more... MORE...”
I can hear it, low and faint, from behind the music playing in my head, and I oh god I'll give you more, more than you bargained for.
A foam topped crest of arousal breaks in my lungs, pulls my face up to the sky, makes my teeth clench on my lower lip; spills out in the spaces between my fingers, makes me grip the handle harder, a flash of a shadow of a doubt just under the surface, heavy and dizzying enhancing it as much as making my throat tight.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three. Twenty four.
And we are back in what feels like real time again, and the music is over, and you are screaming, the voice rising to a feminine pitch, “No no no Stop Stop please no more I can’t take any more noooo...” but the safeword isn't there, and so I don't stop, even tough the doubts are rising in my mind.
What if consent is not necessary? What if it's just a rationalisation of the ethical mind and all this would feel just as good without it? Am I simply playing a game we agreed on, or is every 'nooo' and 'stop, please' becoming real now? What if this rationalisation isn't enough to stop me when I must stop even if I don't want to?
I want you to safeword now, not even for your sake but my own, so I can check it, so I can test myself, so I can be sure that I will stop. To make sure I don't fall from that ridge I'm on.
Twenty five. Twenty six. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty. Slower, with longer gaps.
Less than five minutes must have passed in real time, and your back is bloodied where the end of the whip has bitten; red, damp droplets gathering together. My left hand is clenched into a fist, the plaster damp with sweat although I can't feel any pain, I'm too high up to feel anything but the way the whip flows through the thick air, the way it strikes you.
You are whimpering, little sounds and gasps, quieter and lower, rising higher into screaming 'no's' only when I hit you; but still not safewording, still taking it.
I keep going. I keep thinking ''safeword, you obstinate bastard, I want you to scream that fucking safeword now'' and at times it feels like it becomes another struggle between us, as if I was trying to whip the ultimate surrender out of you.
And then the power itself disappears. There is no struggle anymore. Not in my mind, and not between us. We are somewhere else, in that place where all the power is illusion, that place where it disappears, where the difference between the one that's holding and the one being held, the whip and the skin, the palm and the face stop meaning anything at all.
All there is is your body, given to me, because you wanted to give it, and because I wanted to take it; given and taken willingly; responding to each lash, the pain flowing between us in bluewhitesilver flashes every time I touch your back with the point of leather.
And then I stop, not for any other reason but because I want to stop, because it's the time to stop, because I do.
The whip falls on the sand and I move close to you, hanging somehow limply from the cuffs, supported by the belt, blood seeping into the welts on your back, your head lolling, your eyes opening slowly when you feel me near.
I move my face next to your skin, you shiver under my breath; my mouth touches the marks, my tongue teases a low, long moan that doesn't even sound human, out of somewhere deep in your throat. My hand slides between your legs to find my cock, hard and hot; grips it, strokes slowly, in synch with my tongue sliding along your battered skin.
“Wherever else you go, you're never leaving here, J.”
I grip harder, move my hand faster, twisting at the base and the top, my fingers occasionally trailing to your balls on the downstroke.
Your repeated, mumbling, semi-articulate “Yes, M, yes, yes, yes… yours, M, yours, yours...” come out through another growl.
A moan as metallic as the taste of your pain on my lips; as thick and sticky as the precum oozing onto my fingers, rubbing dry as I stroke; as choked as your stifled, higher pitched whimper when you get to the edge; as low as my own “Yes, J, now” just before your back arches, your hips buck and come shoots out of my twitching cock; as long as the gasping intake of air and the long exhale when my hand stops.
My semen-covered fingers slither up along your side and to your back, brush across to pick up a yelping smear of sweat and blood; slide wet and sticky between your lips for just one taste, I move down to lean against the rockside, my head almost touching your side, the fingers of my left hand wrapped around the belt that runs across your body; the right hand down my cunt, rubbing the cum and blood and sweat and saliva on myself, rubbing you onto myself, the filthy slut, the beautiful boy, that you are that I am that we are, and I'm panting, moaning, screaming, flying off that ridge, coming into herenow, then coming to, down on my knees on dampening sand.
I unclip the lower restraints and rub your ankles until you are able to support your weight on your feet, cut the midsection belt with a Stanley knife. You lean against the rock when I uncuff your hands, slumping slowly to your knees, then turning towards me. I hold you under your arms, slowing that movement as much as I can, drop down to the ground again, this time with you.
My hands, suddenly terrified of even brushing the lash marks, are looking for a patch of skin that hasn't been violated, end up on your neck and in your hair, not pulling or grabbing but just there, holding you as your head slides down my front, your shoulders shaking, and I am shaking too.
I'm not sure if it's convulsive sobbing or delirious laughter, or both, or something else yet again, spilling out of you to fill my lap, past my clothes, past my skin and flesh and bones, down my spine, onto the ground and into the rocks I'm leaning against, and underground all the way to where the sea grinds the shingle relentlessly down to fine white sand.
Read the whole story and find out what happened before:
Read the whole story and find out what happened before: