***all works of erotica are fictional. We NEVER condone anything that is not consensual
***This work takes place in a fictional world where slavery is legal (sort of like Gor). This work is for fantasy purposes only and is not an accurate portrayal of a BDSM relationship.
What surprised him was the feel of cold metal around his wrist. Shackled. She was chaining him. This was going to be bad. He gripped the headboard more tightly. When she closed the second cuff he buried his head in the goose down pillow. He would bite it if he had to. Punishment should be suffered with grace, dignity and humility. What exactly he was being punished for he couldn’t hazard a guess.
By the fifth stroke he was biting the pillow – to keep from laughing with relief. It was not the club, but a leather riding crop. Yes, it stung; he would have marks, but it was so much better than the club. He would gladly kneel for her after this and kiss her tiny feet for this small gesture of mercy.
She stopped abruptly. He thought maybe it was over. She came up beside him. Jessie ran her hand lightly over his back, over the red marks and welts. She slipped her hand under him and pulled at the fastening of his jeans. He lifted himself to assist her. The sturdy denim was not the defense against the lash that she must assume it to be, but if she insisted on whipping him naked, it was not his place to refuse. He saw no purpose in her removing his underwear as well, except perhaps to humiliate him. His face was burning almost as much as his back; he thanked Them for the small mercy of being able to hide in the pillow.
The strokes fell faster. They stung and he could feel welts rising. Perhaps the jeans were more protection than he had realized. He let his breathing fall into sync with the lashes. The familiar heady feeling found him. Blessed endorphins, adrenaline and other chemicals that put a soft haze over the pain and turned it into pleasure. If her goal was to make him suffer, she was failing. He could endure this for at least an hour. She varied the strokes and the area inflicted. It had melted into a warm tingling from the bottom of his thighs to just below his hips. He would probably feel it for a day or two, he hoped. A little reminder from a proper beating kept a slave humble, obedient. He still couldn’t imagine what he had done to offend her. Perhaps nothing. There had been guards like that, and Instructors. Those who would summon you to kneel under their lash purely to amuse them. Granted, his friendship with Brutus had protected him, from the guards at least.
It was the silence in the room that let him know that the beating was over. He could no longer tell if the blows were falling, nerves fired randomly and pain signals collided off one another in the race to his brain. john drifted in the familiar post beating delirium. He was ready to beg and thank her for his punishment, but he was cognizant enough to await her orders.
He felt the mattress move and realized she had climbed onto the bed with him. Her leg pressed against his and the touch of her skirt fabric reminded him of his nakedness. She straddled him. Perhaps she was going to inspect his marks, or unchain him, although it seemed an awkward position to accomplish either of these tasks.
“Spread your legs.”
Noting to himself that this would be easier to do if she were not on top of him, john struggled to obey. He could not brag of any great flexibility. He realized she was probably going to whip the insides of his thighs, and he prayed that his lack of physical dexterity would not be interpreted as disobedience or a refusal to submit to discipline. He pushed his legs a little farther.
“Good. Very nice.”
A compliment? And she actually sounded pleased. He cursed his rigid muscular body, that the first task he had struggled with would be one apparently important to her. Perhaps she was pleased by his overall submission to the beating. It did seem to make her happy to beat him. It would be nice if she derived such enjoyment from his duties about the house, but he would endeavor to please her where he could.
“You were very good. Very good.” She gently stroked his hair and allowed him to kiss her hand.
“Mistress, thank you, Mistress.” He awaited a command or permission to beg her forgiveness.
She petted his hair and lightly rubbed his shoulders. It was the most gentle touch he’d ever received from her. She had rolled to the side and was lying next to him. He felt her lips press against his shoulder. She continued to kiss along his shoulders and his back. john lay quietly, perplexed and uncertain. He almost opened his mouth to speak to ask what this meant and what behavior would be appropriate on his part. No. It was better to remain silent. If she gave a command he would obey. If she permitted him to beg, he would confess his wrong-doing- probably misaddress- and hope that his acceptance of his punishment had pleased her.
“You may speak.”
“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for your correction and guiding me in my service to you. I sincerely beg your pardon for my continual misaddress, Mistress. I have been disrespectful and disobedient. I was greatly in need of your correction and am indebted to you for such. I can only hope that my submission to my punishment has pleased you and beg your mercy that you might forgive me.”
Jessie gave a noticeable shiver beside him. She made a small moan and he expected her to speak. More precisely to lecture him on his misconduct and detail what punishment future disobedience would bring. Her knowledge of at least some slave etiquette was comforting. Not that he relished being punished, but he had deserved it. She had told him repeatedly to address her as ‘Mistress” and he had disobeyed. His reasons were irrelevant. She gave orders and she punished; she had acted more like a Master than his Master had. She had earned his respect.
“You want me to forgive you?” Jessie ran her fingers lightly over john’s welted ass and thighs.
“Mistress, yes Mistress. This slave understands that more punishment may be required to satisfy forgiveness. This slave will suffer as silently as possible and endure whatever discipline Mistress deems appropriate.”
His Mistress shuddered again. Was she getting ill? The room was not cold and she was still fully clothed.
“I forgive you. I am even going to reward you.”
“I am hardly deserving of any reward, Mistress.”
“But you are going to lay there and let me do anything I want to you, aren’t you?”
“Mistress, I submit myself to your hand, Mistress.”
“And you won’t mention this to Steven?”
“Mistress, punishment is generally considered private, Mistress. If you have forgiven me there is no need to discuss it further with my Master.”
“Just to be clear, you are forgiven. This is not punishment. This is just something I’ve wanted to do to you for a while, simply because I will enjoy it.”
“I submit myself to your hand, Mistress.” The rush of endorphins was starting to ebb and sleepiness pulled at him. His ass and thighs were warm and ached from clenching them. The welts stung. Punished and forgiven. He hoped she would be finished with him soon so he could retreat downstairs to his couch and sleep.
She laughed softly. “Funny you should phrase it that way.” She caressed his thigh and ran her nails over the reddened flesh.
john writhed. It wasn’t exactly pain, but he did not have a word for the sensation. Her fingernails felt like knives on his tender skin. Submit. Submit. Be still. Be silent. He sighed and forced himself to be rigid under her hands.
“It’s all right, john. I told you. This is not punishment. I don’t mind if you move around or make a little noise. I enjoy it. Now, I’m going to rub some lotion on you. This should feel nice.”
It stung a little at first, the lotion finding the numerous abrasions on his skin. But then it cooled, it soothed his skin. They had used something like this at school, though he hadn’t had anyone else rub it on him since he was a child. Brutus had always cleaned any lash marks that drew blood, but this was different. He had no frame of reference for the sensations this stirred in him. john was painfully aware of his nakedness and his involuntary reaction to the gentle caress of his Mistress.
He shuddered this time. With that, some quiet tears flowed. As hard as john fought to be perfect he never felt so at peace as when he had failed, was truly punished and truly forgiven. To be accepted, to be called good even when he had disobeyed. He thought he was quiet, but she must have heard him. She stopped caressing his thighs and put her hands back on his shoulders.
“Shh, shh, ssshhh. It’s all right. You’re good, john. You’re a very good slave. Shh, shh, shh.” She massaged his shoulders, stroked his hair and finally turned his head so that she could kiss his cheek. And then she found his mouth.
When they finally parted lips they were breathless. john averted his eyes, certain that this had not been proper. And yet, it felt so assuredly right. He fought the urge to force his mouth back onto hers. While he struggled to make sense of everything, she leaned back into him. Her mouth found his lips; she grabbed a fist full of his hair with her left hand and she slid her right hand down to cup his ass.
Her fingers were invading the most private part of him. Everything tensed. Muscles deep inside him fought to push the intruder out, but they could not. He felt her slide her fingers further inside of him. He tried to pull free of the kiss and free of her prying fingers. She tightened her grip on his hair, pulling painfully.
“Shh. I’m not hurting you. Be good. Just be good. Be still, relax. This won’t hurt if you relax. I promise, this will feel nice.”
“Mistress, please. Mistress, I don’t understand.”
“Shh. Don’t think. Just feel. Just lay there and focus on what you feel.”
“This is the remainder of my punishment, Mistress?”
She kissed his lips, softly. “No. This is simply how I chose to use you. You would not question your Mistress’s use of you, would you?”
“Mistress, no Mistress.”
“Good. Good slave. Now, just relax. You may speak or scream or cry or express any feelings you may have.”
His Master never would have thought to grant him such permission. He wanted to thank her, but she crushed his mouth into another kiss and he was swept under. Her tongue explored his mouth and her fingers explored a more intimate cavity. The life of a slave is an exercise in vulnerability, but john experienced a previously undiscovered level of submission. No one had ever owned inside of him before. Vulnerable. Owned. These were feelings he understood. In this unfamiliar context he took comfort in those feelings. She was his Mistress. She was using him as she wished. He was a good slave; he would submit.
Submission was his core, his essence. After each trial, each punishment, each moment of redemption or forgiveness he felt his core grow, expand, brighten. It brightened now. His very soul expounded and glowed, until it was a white-hot sun. The warmth inside of him spread until it matched and surpassed the warmth of his welted skin. The warmth and pressure built until all that was left of him was the glowing hot sun of submission burning inside him. And then the sun exploded. He screamed, but it was drowned in her kiss.
She pulled away. He was panting, gasping for air. She was smiling at him.
“Good. Good slave.” She stroked his hair.
To Be Continued…
Mira O’Hart credits her life long love of words, books and language to her Mom, who read to her every day. “Bookie” was one of her first words and publishing her own novel became a goal by age 10. Mira studied Journalism and Psychology at Penn State and later returned for a Master’s Degree in Education. Her varied career has included journalism, community mental health and school counseling.
Her passions include reading, writing, animals and travel. Italy and Greece are two of her favorite places visited so far. Her love of the written word has inspired her to study ancient languages including Latin, Egyptian Hieroglyphs and Summarian. She lives in North Eastern Pa with her cats, Tilly and Chloe.