Even when I squinted against the pain, I kept my eyes on the reflection of Tom, drinking in his flexing forearm, his white-knuckle grip on the rod, the zeal in his eyes, the determination in his face. He wielded the crop with the grace of a dancer. His movements were precise, and so economical that the pain, when it flared, was surprising in its magnitude. He only had to flick the whip to make me gasp.
He kept the strokes slowly and evenly paced, waiting for me to regain my breath before laying on another.
After six, he paused.
‘Are you learning your lesson?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
He lifted my skirt so that my bottom was fully uncovered.
‘Is it a painful lesson?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I repeated.
‘Good. There’s plenty more to come.’ He put the flat leather tip of the crop between my thighs and rubbed it slowly back and forth, making me aware of how much juice had gathered there. The leather was slick and cold as it caressed my pussy lips. If he pushed it just a little bit harder, they would open and the crop would touch my clit. But he kept the pressure just below that longed-for level, teasing me for a few moments more.
I held back the sigh that threatened to betray me when he withdrew it, but he was perfectly well aware of the effect his manipulations had had on me. I watched him raise the leather to his nose and give it a sniff.
‘This appears to be wet, Miss Cox,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea why?’
‘I…don’t know.’
‘Oh, dear. Five more for lying.’
‘Nooo,’ I protested, but he smacked them down, fast and sharp, before my voice had even died away.
‘Do you want to tell me now?’ he demanded, holding the crop against my stinging cheeks.
‘Because I…because I’m wet,’ I admitted painfully.
‘You’re wet? You’re telling me that getting thrashed excites you…sexually?’
The hammy way he said it made me huff with laughter.
‘Looks like it,’ I said.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I may have to be harder on you. Can’t have you enjoying your punishment, can we? Brace yourself.’
Six more slow and heavy strokes followed and,
as promised, they hurt more than the first half-dozen. The dampness on the crop’s tip made it sting more, and I could see from the mirror that he was using more of his arm. I could also see the stain of red, spreading inexorably across my outthrust rear, contrasting with the white lacy skirts rucked over my hips.
I held my breath and clung hard to the metal bars, swimming through the sting.
Twelve down.
He stopped again and put a hand against my skin.
‘Heating up nicely,’ he purred. ‘How about here, though?’
Again, the crop snaked between my legs and collected a sheen of my own juices. There was more now, it was coated within seconds, but Tom kept sliding it, getting it right up against my clit. I couldn’t help myself; I began to grind on it, shutting my eyes so I didn’t have to see the spectacle I was making of myself in the mirror. I knew what Tom could see, all the same – a bright red bottom swaying and pumping, begging to be brought to a shameful orgasm by the rod of its own correction. The thought was dizzyingly arousing. I felt everything tighten inside me, ready to open for the flood.
Tom felt it too, and he laid a smart smack right on my pussy, making me yelp and jolt into an upright position, wheeling round to stare at him in shocked dismay.
He laughed and drew the tip of his crop slowly over my face, smearing my lips with my own outpourings.
‘Do you taste nice?’ he teased. ‘Not that I need to ask. I already know.’