Page 34 of Hurts So Good
The flaunting and flashing is next. I contort my body into various cheesecake poses—lying on my belly with legs flexing, lying on my back with legs kicking.
I rise to my feet, pucker my lips, smack them together, blowing invisible kisses to the camera. I am cheeky and coquettish, wholesome yet wanton.
I begin to wriggle. I swivel and shimmy and sashay, my body undulating like a Slinky. When I dance, I dance for Mae and Mae alone. I watch her watch me from behind the tripod. She slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose, revealing her eyes, sienna swirls of desire.
In the next moment, Mistress Mae enters the frame, switch clenched in her grip, scowl tugging at her lips. Mistress deplores dancing. Mae’s gloved hand wraps around my arm, her fingers singeing my flesh. I pout, I whimper, I grovel. But to no avail. Mistress drags me to the settee, flings my flailing body onto her lap. My resistance is a ruse. In reality, the thought of the forthcoming flogging kindles my arousal. I can feel a puddle forming inside my panties, the sticky cream clinging to the fabric.
Mae’s palm connects with my backside. I yelp, thrashing my legs in a semblance of suffering. Mistress makes contact again. My feet and fists pummel the air in fictitious agony. I writhe against her lap, the material between my legs smearing nectar onto my mound. It feels warm and waxy, like butterscotch.
Mae yanks my panties from my bottom, exposing the cheeks and cleavage of my rump. I twist my head to look at her. She winks at me, the corners of her mouth pointed upwards. So smug, so sultry. Mae’s fingers graze my flesh. She is tender at first, stroking me the way a guitarist strums the strings of her instrument, lulling me into a false sense of security.
The blow stings, like a slap across the face, only not so unpleasant.
Then harder. But not hard enough. The honey hue of my skin camouflages the strawberry shade of the marks, and she has to hit me harder for them to be visible.
The next strike is hard enough to brand me with her hand, to leave an indelible imprint on my flesh. I wait for more, expect it, thirst for it. But it doesn’t come. I mewl, craning my neck to see why she has stopped. Mistress raises the riding crop, swishes it in front of my face. The punishment isn’t over; it is merely entering the next phase. I wince, displaying a façade of fear.
Mae’s tongue touches the tip of the whip, tracing, stroking, the way she licks the frosting off a cupcake. My hips buck, betraying the illusion. Mistress shoves my head back down, her fingers tangling in my hair, her nails scratching my scalp. I hiss at the sensations, clenching my eyes shut.
Three whops land in quick succession. The pleasure zips from my posterior to my pussy, the way a spark surges along the fuse of a stick of dynamite. My panties are saturated, the juices creeping along the edges, soaking the chiffon trim, en route to Mae’s thighs. She shifts, lifts her leg slightly, pressing it into my cunt.
The switch sears my bottom. Pangs of pleasure whisk through my body, overwhelming my senses. Another twinge, another twitch. My muscles ache, but I disregard the pain. I can feel a rectangular welt beginning to take shape, a welcome complement to the impressions of Mae’s hands.
I have lost count of the number of times the crop has made contact with my rump. I no longer have the energy to engage in such useless tasks as tallying thrashings. Instead, I invest my energy into relieving the unceasing ache between my legs.
Lids screwed shut, lashes scraping the skin beneath my eyes, I flail my limbs at full throttle. Gyrate my pelvis, grind against Mae’s thigh, smearing my juices on the alabaster skin.
To all outward appearances, I am a woman ensnared in the throes of agony. Yet while my convulsions convey misery, Mistress knows better. Mistress cannot be fooled. Mistress knows when I come.
Soon after, Mae taps my bottom with her hand, indicating that the whipping is over. I rise to my feet, bringing my hands to my backside, a pretense of protection. Mae brandishes the whip in my face, a threat of future floggings if I’m naughty again. I bow my head in deference and pout, the corners of my mouth sagging like wilted violets. Mistress smiles, pleased with the effect of the punishment. Gently, she tugs my panties back into place, concealing my bruised bottom.
I watch as she exits, no longer visible in the frame. She retreats behind the camera, deactivates the device, and returns to my side. Smiling, she reaches behind me, squeezes my cheeks. I flinch, teeth nearly puncturing my lip. The flesh is throbbing now, but the pleasure is worth the pain, the pain worth the pleasure. Mae slides a hand inside the elastic band of my panties. Her fingers soothe the soreness, her touch tender and hesitant, as if I am made of glass.
“Next time, I’ll handle you with kid gloves,” Mae teases, pressing her lips to mine.
“Then you’ll have to find a new costar,” I threaten, reciprocating the kiss.
“Picture you upon my knee,” Mae croons. “Just tease for two and two for tease.”
“Actually, Mae,” I say, and snatch the whip from her grip, “I’ve already been upon your knee. You, however, have not yet been upon mine.”
Mae glances at the camera.
“Is there enough film?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers, tracing the outline of the welt on my backside. “Let’s not do a sequel, though. Let’s just pick up where we left off.”
I nod, contemplating Mistress’ comeuppance, deliberating where to stand since sitting is out of the question.
“What should we call this film?” Mae inquires, brow furrowed in thought.
I remove her hands from my body, stroll toward the vanity, deposit the riding crop between the perfume bottle and the lotion dispenser. I scan the table, surveying the various accoutrements. The hairbrush catches my eye. It is the paddle kind, its square head large and expansive. “We should call it,” I begin, curling my fingers around the handle, “Bottoms Up.”
EQUILIBRIUM
Anna Black
Helen Carter slowly sipped her cup of hot white tea. Wrapped securely in a blanket, she was re-reading one of her favorite erotic novels. This was how she spent nearly all of her nights. At home. Alone. Lost in the fantasy of a life she’d never have. She wondered sometimes if people could sense the longings in her. The desire to balance the dark cravings she had in bed with the persona she presented to the outside world. To find a sense of equilibrium.