Page 45 of At Her Pleasure

Warm-ups were for subs who received a sexual charge as pain built from lower to higher levels. As a sadist, that didn’t interest her.

She closed in and struck, that short snap of the wrist that delivered a small stroke but brought a sharp, concentrated slice of pain. It hit the bitable curve of his ass. Without any warning that it was about to happen, his flinch was immediate, his body tightening.

The impact rippled across his skin, the pain spreading out. That song in her head would set the tempo. The beats she counted out between strikes would make the subsequent ones hurt even more.

The man was battle-scarred and gorgeous, top to toe. No tattoos. Nothing to mar her canvas except her.

She brought the cane down again. And again. She was skilled enough to land the strikes where she wanted them, experienced enough to evaluate him without breaking the rhythm. She could multitask.

He’d braced his feet, fingers flexing in the cuffs, an invitation for more. She didn’t require an invitation. By the time she was done, every sub knew how much pleasure she derived from beating the hell out of him.

They were there because they needed that knowledge, as much as they needed the pain itself.

Physical tools could break a man open, rouse his most violent impulses and difficult emotions. That was when the pain’s impact would escalate. Having the soul stripped turned catharsis into real torture.

Though she aimed for that goal post, it was why she preferred the ones who would safeword before they went past it. She didn’t want them crying, baring their souls to her, expecting her to put them back together.

She wanted a man who could take the fight. He might admit he was beaten, but just for this round. She wanted him to walk proud the next day, because he’d held onto his core, who he was, no matter what.

Just as she had.

What she wanted to see in their eyes was the knowledge of how far she’d taken them, what she’d seen and accepted, because the same existed in her woman’s soul. They weren’t alone.

She changed the rhythm, the spacing, and he started to move in reaction to the building pain. Writhing, jerking, grunting, cursing under his breath. Sweat built in the valleys formed by bunched muscles. When she stopped, red lines hashtagged his ass and upper back. She was quivering with her own reaction, palms creased with moisture.

She steadied herself before ambling around him, letting him see her. She tapped her palm with the cane like a disapproving schoolmistress.

Mick’s fevered gaze told her he was still with her, but the haze was threatening at the edges. “More,” he rasped.

“I’m not here to take orders from you,” she said. “You need a reminder of that.”

She returned to the table. Two filled gallon jugs were beneath it. After she put down the cane, she picked up one and came back to him. Without hesitation, she uncapped and upended it over his flesh. Harsh grunts tore from him as the saltwater bathed the raw cane marks. The sounds tickled her flesh like his tongue, his mouth. She wanted them on her.

She tossed the plastic jug to the side. It rolled across the concrete with a hollow series of taps. Circling to his front again, she put her hand up, showing the damp creases in her palm, his effect on her. “Taste my salt, Mick. Just like the salt I poured over your skin.”

He was still twitching from the effects, but it didn’t stop him from reaching for her, pushing against his bonds. His blue eyes transformed from that haze to sharp need in a blink, hungry for what she was offering. She closed her eyes as his tongue followed her lifeline. Goddamn, he was as precise and targeted as if he was licking her cunt. She had no doubt that was what he was imagining.

She braced herself against the cross with her other hand. It put it near his bound one, and he overlapped her fingers, holding on as he continued to tease her. She moved the hand away from his mouth to his hair, threading her fingers through the strands that had been neatly brushed. Not anymore. They fell forward over his wild eyes and bearded face, increasing the animal look of him. But as she stroked him, slow, easy, taking the moment, they changed.

She saw the despair come back. “More,” he said, a rasp like a hiss.

She covered her uneasiness with an indifferent tone. “I don’t care what you want. Remember? Telling me what you want just tells me what to deny you.”

She’d had subs get really pissed at her in these moments, start cursing at her, calling her names. Their emotions unfettered from manners or rules.

Instead, that switch flipped behind Mick’s eyes again. A resignation, acceptance. An unexpected spark of humor.

“You are a total bitch.” A compliment.

He was pulling himself back together. How much would it take for him to safeword? The rational part of her, the responsible Domme she’d learned to be, thought sooner rather than later would be better. The part of her that was far less untamed and way more unpredictable hoped he wouldn’t.

Ever.

“‘If you do not teach me, I shall not learn.’” He licked his lips. She noted he’d bitten the bottom one, probably when she’d poured the saltwater over him. “That’s a line from one of Samuel Beckett’s poems. 1936,” he added hoarsely. “He knew his shit, at least in that moment. That’s when you usually know stuff. For just a moment. It stays if you hold onto it. Like I held onto you. You have to hold onto things. Or they’re gone. Gone…gone…gone.”

Had she been humming it? He met her gaze. “Teach me, Mistress. So I can learn.”

She moved behind him, so he couldn’t look at her and she could study him, this naked man bound to a cross marked with the blood and sweat of other men.