It’s more unnerving even than the prospect of eight more of Mistress Nasty’s worst shots.
I revise this opinion after the next one, which makes me shout, ‘Fuck!’ really loudly into Lloyd’s adoring face.
‘That’s not your safe word,’ he points out. ‘Use it, if you can’t bear it.’
‘I can,’ I insist through gritted teeth. ‘I can bear it.’
‘You’re not going to let her get away with that language, are you?’ asks Mistress Nasty. I watch Lloyd’s eyes flick upwards to her.
‘Sophie never gets away with anything,’ he says. ‘I see to that.’
‘I should think so too.’
Another swingeing smack knocks the breath from my body. I moan, my voice cracking, horribly near tears.
Lloyd puts both palms flat on my cheeks – not the ones undergoing the ordeal, the other cheeks – and lays his forehead against mine.
‘Halfway there,’ he says, which makes me moan even more. Only halfway!
‘Let yourself go,’ he says, then, taking me by panicked surprise, he fastens his lips to mine.
I try to shake away at first, but he holds me.
Is he serious? Kissing me while I am being strapped? Is this even possible?
But the tawse falls again and the burn drives me into a kind of hot, sensual fog where anything becomes possible. Lloyd’s ravenous mouth and probing tongue carry me out of my tense self-consciousness, even though I keep on whimpering and snuffling each time the leather falls. It is soft and lush at one end, hard and fierce at the other, or sometimes interchangeable. A murmur of heartfelt aws from the onlookers laps against my ears. I feel like I’m drowning, but that the vortex will lead somewhere good, better than life.
Lloyd, leather, pain, warmth, luxury, shock, lips, teeth, tongue, bite, lust, need, want. These things float in and out, up and down.
It takes me a while to work out that the twelve strokes have been given.
Regretfully, Lloyd breaks lip contact, stroking along my cheekbone with a butter-soft fingertip. ‘You did it,’ he says. He kisses my forehead then stands to shake hands with the domme. ‘A fine job,’ he says. ‘Exemplary. Thank you very much.’
‘Pleasure was all mine,’ she says, laying a hand on my burning buttocks. ‘Well, maybe not all mine. I think you might find her quite … receptive … to whatever needs you might have.’
They can all see how wet I am. I wish I could clamp my thighs together, but it just isn’t possible.
Mistress Nasty departs, with a brusque, ‘Daniel! Heel!’
Lloyd uncuffs me and helps me to my tottering feet. The room swoops and blurs around me. There seems to be a lot of fire and shadows.
When the skirt falls back down, he clicks his tongue with disapproval and takes it off. Everyone is to see what has been done to me. I am not to hide it.
I let him pull me into his arms for a tight embrace. I don’t know what to feel. Am I angry with him? Am I grateful to him? Am I happy or am I traumatised? Something about this experience has thrown me into confusion; its power lingers, seeping into every move, every thought. I wonder if this is what he wanted.
But I don’t have to ask what Lloyd wants. I know what he wants. I just don’t know if I can give it.
‘Where shall we go?’ he asks, holding me close.
‘Somewhere private.’ I hide my face in the whispery silk of his shirt.
‘I’m not sure there is anywhere private here.’
‘I want to be alone with you.’
‘OK. I’ll see what I can do.’
He leads me out of the dungeon, not on the leash this time, just hand in hand. I imagine the number of double takes from people turning to check out my bright red bottom, and the thought makes me realise how very much I would like to come soon. I need to find a private place with Lloyd and have him screw the wits out of me – not that I have many left.