BDSM meant sex, but most of the time, it was purely about the power exchange and the fine line between pleasure and pain.
Allowing a sub that immense pleasure was my gratification.
“May I?” I gestured at the play collar.
“Yes, Sir.” He lifted his head, the slender neck begging to be collared.
“You will call me Master,” I instructed him.
“Yes, Master.”
“And you shall be my slave tonight.” I stroked his delicate cheekbone. “Tell me, boy. What are you looking for tonight?”
He tripped over his words as he explained his need to be caned. He specifically wanted to be caned, he said. Not flogged nor spanked. He wanted the bruises to stay on his body for a while.
“And your safe word?”
“Lincoln.”
I raised my eyes at the choice but didn’t ask him to elaborate. What did I care why he chose his safe word as long as he had one?
We spent about half an hour negotiating his scene. Some Doms didn’t go over expectations and rushed right into play once they had a safe word, but I liked getting to know my sub before engaging in play. For one, I refused to play with subs who I thought didn’t have the mental capacity to engage in safe play.
Even worse than having a reckless Dom was having a reckless sub. Heath had already handed one to me, and I wouldn’t make that mistake again. As a Dom, I needed to have complete faith that my sub would communicate honestly with me.
Heath only allowed a few Doms in his dungeon to cane subs because of the level of mastery needed to carry out the task. It usually involved bruising and could even break the skin. Only a skilled Dom could make the impact as minimal as possible for the sub while still leaving the impression of being caned.
When I was satisfied that we both had the same vision of what we wanted for the evening, it was time to begin. He was a compliant little thing, crawling several steps behind me on his hands and knees. He didn’t have a leash, but I’d used my belt to create one and led him away from the main room to the private playrooms.
Heath was never far from my sight and opened the room where he had suspensions from the ceilings. He gave me a hand with tying up my plaything. He was completely naked, his arms and legs stretched wide.
I walked around his body, moving slowly, touching him here or there to reassure him of my presence. But I needed the time as well to get into the right headspace. The more I stalked him like a prey, not saying anything to him, the more he slipped into that place where I needed him to be.
My slave’s nostrils flared, his breathing became shallow, and his eyes begged me to hurt him. To make him feel good.
I trailed the cane over his skin, prolonging the moment for as long as I wanted and daring him to utter even a protest. I was his Dom, and he followed my lead. He felt pain when I chose to give it and not a moment sooner.
In my peripheral vision, I noted a few had come to watch. Heath generally used these scenes as teachable moments, so I didn’t mind. I kept my eyes on my sub and his needs.
The rattan made a whooshing sound as I let it fly on his bare ass. He didn’t gasp immediately, but as the cane settled against his skin and the area absorbed the full impact of the strike, he let out a groan. I considered the pressure I’d used for the strike and his groan. His pain threshold was lower than I might’ve liked.
I continued applying that same force for the next few strikes, giving him time in between to recover. As the welts appeared on his body, I used my nail to draw a line along them, and his cries grew in intensity.
Those familiar cries of pain, the grunts and groans, became the world in which only the two of us existed. It was all about what the sub required and what I could provide.
And then it happened. His skin broke, and a thin trail of blood dotted his flesh. My hand turned heavy, and my chest tightened. I felt myself drifting, gasping for air, that thin trail of blood all I could see as I lost the connection with the sub. Panic rose in my chest.