He removed my glasses, and the world went fuzzy.

Normally in a crowded club like Paddles, I’m spotting for overeager spectators with one eye and watching the whip with the other. But this time the room was a blur. I suppose blinding me is one way to get my undivided attention.

Crack! The first pop made me flinch. I shook my head, wondering idly where I had acquired this death wish, and whether it would ever cease to terrify me.

He wielded the whip with a casual ease. First, little nips at my thighs, ass, my back. Hot welts splashed across my skin. Tense at first, I let out yips of pain that opened to feral growls as he hit harder. He spun me: now he was hitting the fronts of thighs, my stomach, my chest. He pulled me away from the padded table and shoved me up against the wall.

“Put up your arms,” he ordered.

It’s hard to argue with a man holding a signal whip. I glared at him suspiciously as he took aim for my flank. “What is this, corn-cob singletailing? You’ll just keep taking bites until you’re full?”

He flicked it, laying a pink line down my ribs. “Pretty much, yeah.” Another weal. “Unless you’d rather I tickled your armpit.”

I yelped, screamed and growled; but I stood there. Stamping and punching the wall seemed to help the urge to run.

He slammed me bodily against the wall, put his hand over my face, and wrenched my chin up. My bare chest was arched out and the length of my neck exposed. I stared at the tilted mirror-ceiling that began inches above my face, my vision blurred beyond use.

“Don’t. Move.”

He backed up and the gunshot crack of the whip sounded again, not inches from my face. There was wind on my throat. I breathed in shallow hitching gasps, trying not to move so much as my chest might rise and fall. The whip snapped merrily on, making a sound like the devil’s popcorn, and I could feel the whisker-kisses of it: on the sensitive planes underneath the jaw where a lover might linger, down the sides, above the hollow in my throat where my pulse hammered.

The man was a fucking surgeon.

I started laughing. It was a low sound; I didn’t dare move to take more air.

In a moment, he tired of his game and returned to drawing furrows down my chest. I took that breath I’d been waiting to take, and screamed.

Posted in submission (or the lack thereof), tasty whips, masochism, Paddles, pain