“Condoms,” he said, and I stifled back a groan.
“If you insist.”
“How do you feel about humiliation?” he asked, releasing my ear and flicking where he’d just pinched.
“I used to hate it,” I admitted.
“And now?”
“Love it.”
There had been a time when I thought verbal humiliation was a line too far, but as I’d gotten older, I’d learned the error of my ways. I loved when my partner told me the things he was doing or going to do. When he used explicit detail and descriptive words about the things he was going to make me feel. Some people probably thought that was demeaning. I know Colton would hate it. But I loved it. The anticipation, the embarrassment, the fair use.
“Do you consider watersports humiliation?” Ronan asked.
I shivered with want and shook my head.
“Alright.” Ronan stepped back. “Take off your clothes. Fold them nearly in the corner by the door and then climb onto the bench.”
He pointed in the far corner of the room toward a black leather and wood spanking bench. My blood boiled in anticipation, and I disrobed quickly, making a haphazard pile of clothes by the door.
The room was big, smaller than my bedroom, but with enough room to be adequately
equipped. There was a cage in one corner, clearly designed for a human, a spanking bench in the other, with an array of toys on the wall between them. Eyebolts peppered the walls and a spreader bar hung from the ceiling. I paused beneath it, staring up at the way it gently swung from the rafters.
“See something you like?” Ronan asked, a long and thin bamboo cane in his hand.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Duly noted,” he said, voice rough. “Now do what you’ve been told.”
“Yes.” I shook my head and closed the space between us, climbing onto the bench. “Sorry, Ronan.”
I folded myself down over the cool padded leather, my dick pressing hot against my stomach. The temperature difference was drastic between the leather and the air and my body. There was no way the room itself was warmer than 66 degrees and I shivered involuntarily as I settled.
“I’m not a fan of safewords,” Ronan said, laying the cane along the length of my spine. “Just say stop if you want me to stop.”
I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek against the leather. I wanted to play where stop didn’t mean stop, but I knew this wasn’t the place for it. “Okay.”
“Are canes all right?” he asked.
“Please,” I whimpered, closing my eyes.
“You have beautiful skin.” Ronan rubbed circles on my ass with his palms. His skin warmed, my skin warmed, and he started to touch me rougher. He kneaded my ass against his palms until groans made their way out of my throat unbidden.
“You have scars,” he observed, tracing his fingers over marks from the past.
“I like pain,” I reiterated. “I like reminders.”
“Did you want some new ones?”
I thought I was going to pop off on the spot and end the night before it had even gotten started. “Please, Ronan.”
He dragged the cane over my heated skin like the bow of a cello, and then he struck me. As it often did, the sharp sting of the bamboo startled me. A soft noise fell out of my mouth, but I didn’t shy away from the pain. Instead, I arched toward it.
“Hungry slut,” Ronan murmured and I practically purred at him.
He moved to the side of me, pressing a big hand against my head, smashing my face into the bench, and with his other hand, he swung the cane. The sharp thwack of bamboo against tender flesh echoed around the room, and then another, and another. Blood raced to the points of contact, and I felt my skin prickle with it after one of his more brutal swings.
