By Jan McLaughlin

Later, he told me he'd fashioned his hand into the head of a swan, pecked, danced, pressed, gained sustenance, nudged, extracted, punched, pulled, forced; his arm throwing an indistinct long necked shadow across the hatch of red marks along the inside of my left thigh.

I looked in his eyes more thoroughly, to see if they flinched at all in a fib before saying casually, "I could have sworn you had your hand balled up in a fist."

"That wasn't until later, sweet," running the backs of his fingers casually down my cheek, "After you'd opened completely."


As he spoke, his hands drew geometric figures on my skin, tracing wide and narrow marks around and over my belly, breasts and thighs, making me feel as though I was an incredible sculpture he'd finished working the for the day. From time to time I convulsed involuntarily under his fingers.

I alternately examined the tracks left by his discipline and the unconscious small smiles and frowns of evaluation that played across his features in the half light of the candles.

"You know we need to work together to stretch you further, to allow easier access. Now, how about a drink?" With a flush of trepidation and excitement I tilted my head slightly to the side in unspoken query. His eyes twinkled as he lowered onto my body.

Unexpectedly, he grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so sharply my mouth was made open to his kiss. He took it.

"Who are you," he said into the cavity of my head, his breath joining with mine.

"I am a slave in training," I whispered as he tilted my head forward just enough that our eyes would meet again.

"And what is your only purpose as a slave?"

"My only purpose as a slave is to serve my Master's pleasure in any way he chooses."

"Now, about that drink." He giggled incongruously as he watched me gathered my wits from where they'd scattered on the floor around the bed. "You're magnificent, and make me very proud." I smiled. Yes.

During the course of our training session I'd taken ten more strokes from his huge collection of whips than the first time. One hundred six, plus countless more from a small flogger as he'd fucked me with a butt plug and huge dildo I'd indirectly asked for during the course of dinner conversation.

In addition, after I'd cum 3 or 4 times, he'd given me ten strokes with a cane. My first time for the cane, though I'd heard much about it in passing from other Dom/mes and submissives. One Dom I knew characterized the cane as "direct." And indeed it was, making contemporaneous electric connection between the buttocks and the brain.

When the ten from the cane were finished, he stood behind me, out of sight, and gave me several options, saying I might simply thank him and he'd stop. I might on the other hand ask for a specific number more strokes; or finally, allow him to cane me as long as he found pleasure in it.

After he posed the question, he left the room. Left me bound and splayed at the foot of his bed: kneeling forward, my head on a pillow, cuffed ankles out as far as the queen size bed allowed, wrists also cuffed--arms back, under, between my legs--to my ankles.

I knew exactly what the answer should be, but it would be incredibly difficult to say the words. It would not be possible to say them. Thoughts about the cane and how sharply and deeply it had bitten drifted cumulus through my head, tears still drying on my cheeks. I had no clue as to how long he would go on or how many strokes he was capable of giving before reaching the limits of his own pleasure.

Most importantly, could I trust him?

Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I realized he was on the phone in the next room. Voice calm. Laughter. Perhaps infinity could be defined by the time it took for him to return. Footsteps. Then no footsteps.

"Please, Sir, give me the cane as long as it gives you pleasure. But I'm frightened." But the sentence came out in one long breath, as if all the words were hyphenated:


As his hands made contact with the red and welted skin of my upturned buttocks I jumped involuntarily, even though he touched me with the utmost delicacy. I had already begun to cry again, and desperately tried to hold back the tears. His touch disappeared and rather than tense, it became my goal to relax against his bonds.

I decided it would be best not to count, and forced my mind to go blank. Air entered and exited my lungs in slow, deep breaths. Despite my wishes to the contrary, my body grew tight. At the height of the third breath, the first stroke came down hard. And then a second and a third, harder still.

It came as a surprise when he then caressed me again tenderly. I knew immediately it was finished. A pressure flowed from my body in a flood.

I don't know how I managed to hold position until the cuffs were completely disconnected from the eye hooks, but I did, and then began a slow collapse onto the soft sheets, laughing and crying.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . . " I must have said it twenty times as I stretched, and began to ease.

He hugged me tightly, caressing and stroking with strength and pride, then after a time whispered in my ear, "About that drink."

Sir John's personal drink service ritual included a certain costume: No. 5 nipple clamps with a 5 ounce weight attached to the chain. I looked to see if he wished to dress me. His gaze led me to the clamps and weight on the bedside table. For dressing, I would apparently be on my own. He was understandably exhausted. I left a kiss of appreciation and honor on his neck as I passed by.

As I poured the thick brandy into a lovely cut glass snifter, I remembered a Dom having asked me if I'd cried yet. Now I knew why the question had been so important to him, and to me. The knowledge made me smile. So many lessons to learn.

Jan McLaughlin aspires to a state of perpetual bliss through personal anarchy and makes her living moving things around from place to place.

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