Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,29
I cry out.
“Count,” he demands.
But the breath has left me for a moment. “T-twenty-eight,” I manage when I catch my breath again.
“Good girl.”
This praise irrationally pleases me. I should be angry. What is this man doing to my suddenly fragile mind?
Before I can think about that, the cane falls again, just below the first strike. I shriek. I know he's holding back. He's not trying to actually harm me, but still it's an intense screaming sort of pain. “Twenty-nine,” I say, tears coming faster.
After the next one, I beg him to stop. But he is implacable.
“Two more.”
I count the thirty-first and beg again. “Please... please... I can't take anymore... please...” I'm sobbing now. Even though I know it's just one more, one more is still too many and seems impossible.
The cane falls again, this final sting feeling as though it grips me and shakes me and breaks me apart.
“T-thirty-two,” I gasp out.
“Good girl.” He sits beside me, pulls me into his arms, holds me, strokes my hair and my back, runs his fingertips lightly over the welts he left, and just lets me cry it out. A hand slips between my legs, his finger pressing into me.
“You are so fucking wet. So perfect,” he growls against my ear.
I cling to him, my hips moving in answer to his exploring fingers. He presses his lips to my forehead, then tilts my chin up, claiming my mouth in a searing kiss.
Yes, my mind sighs.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.” And I am. The cane hurt. It was intense, but I know he hasn't damaged me. And he wasn't angry. This wasn't anger. This was controlled. I can feel his erection through his pants. What just happened was as stimulating to him as it was to me.
He stands with me in his arms and carries me a few feet, then he gently lays me down on the dance tarp. The vinyl material is cool against my warm back and ass.
He leaves me for a moment. I'm dimly aware that the piano music is still playing. He returns and spreads my legs wide. I feel my face flame, knowing he will get a close-up visual of just how aroused I am. But he makes no comment about this.
He just quietly waxes me. I've had this done so many times that I just lie there, soaking up the warmth of the wax. I'm so used to waxing that the pain of it doesn't bother me. It's kind of soothing in a strange way. It's usually a huge endorphin rush, though I can already feel the endorphins flooding me from the flogger and the cane.
If he had started by waxing me, I would probably be more self-conscious, but after what just happened, something has shifted deep within me. I’m so completely his in this moment that although vulnerable and exposed to him, I don't feel what I expected to feel. It's as though my body truly is his, to punish, to pleasure, to groom in whatever way pleases him.
When he's finished, he cleans me off with a wet rag. It's cool. I have no idea where he got the water—maybe one of the water bottles that seem to appear by magic. I hear a jar open and smell the distinct scent of coconut oil. He massages the oil into my freshly waxed skin.
There is no possible way I can dance after this. I'll only mess up. I'll only earn more punishment. I'm about to say this, to beg for whatever small amount of mercy this man may have. But before I can give voice to these thoughts, he lifts me up and carries me to the table. He sits me in the chair and gives me water. Then he hand feeds me a ham and cheese sandwich. I'm not hungry, but I'm grateful for the food. It helps me return to myself after such an intense experience.
“Stay,” he commands.
I sit in this darkness behind the blindfold, waiting, straining to hear whatever he’s doing. I do hear things, like something being dragged across the floor. Something soft and thuddy more than hard and scrapey. But I have no idea what it is. I'm so tired. I just want to rest.
He returns to me, picks me up, and carries me a few feet. He lays me down gently on a mattress with soft silky sheets and a pillow my head sinks into. He covers my naked body with a blanket and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Wait