“Ready, pet?”
She tested her grip on the curtain rod and then nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me your safe words.”
“‘Crow’ to stop, ‘raven’ to slow down, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
I struck, using an overhand motion to bring the leather down across her back.
She barely even moved as the red lines formed on her pale skin. “One. Thank you, Sir.”
Something nudged me in the back of my mind, and my eyes narrowed. I repeated, “Tell me your safe words, pet.”
“‘Crow’ to stop, ‘raven’ to slow down, Sir.”
Her voice was steady and was showing no signs of distress. “Do you wish to use either one?”
“No, Sir.”
I twirled the flogger a moment, making it snap in the air without touching her. She did not flinch, nor did she show any signs of fear at the leather cracking. “And you wish to continue?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I nodded. I wasn’t one to ignore my instincts, but I couldn’t find cause in them. She was giving me the green light, and I trusted that she knew what she wanted.
I struck again, slightly lighter to ensure that I was not making a mistake.
This time her back arched and she took a deep breath as she accepted the blow. “Two. Thank you, Sir.”
Her reaction seemed more normal this time. That was good. “Harder or softer, pet?”
“Harder, please, Sir.”
I eyed her grip on the bar above her head and noted that it was steady. I was careful not to strike her over the same lines I’d previously made.
She gasped. “Three. Thank you, Sir.”
“I’m going to pick up the pace, Little Owl. Keep up your counting, but you do not need to thank me after each one.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I started off with quick, snapping motions, covering from her upper back down to her upper thighs. Her skin pinkenedand reddened beautifully, and I had half a mind to call the photographer again to capture this moment.
She was around the count of thirty-three when I realized what it was that felt off, and had felt off since the start. My little owl was notaroused. She was saying the right things, moving the way one would expect, but it was like a parent watching their child do a cartwheel for the hundredth time.
There were no gasps of pleasure, no moans of delight, no squeezing of her thighs to try to quell the ache… Her hands weren’t even gripping the bar tightly.
I stopped immediately. Her skin was a bright shade of red, dozens upon dozens of lines crisscrossing over her flesh like a work of art. Ithadto be painful. I’d been flogged numerous times under Mistress Charleen’s tutelage. Even a soft touch held some bite.
Yet my little owl stood there like it was nothing.
She wasn’t a masochist. I knew that from our safety talk, but there was a difference between craving pain and appreciating pain. I liked a little pain with my passion. It heightened my awareness, as it did with many submissives. But, despite common misconception, BDSM was not about beating someone to a pulp before fucking them.
You didn’t have to be in pain to get off.
Noticing that I’d stopped, she glanced over her shoulder. “Sir?”
