He wanted to make her cry.
He wasn’t sure why, not exactly, he just knew that it was something that he needed to bring out of her.
When the cane came down across her breasts and a cry spilled loose from her lips, deep and raw, he felt that within himself. He felt that as much as he felt the residue of pain around his fist that clenched the wooden cane.
It was a sense that came to him crackling across his body like electricity. He needed to push her into a different place and space, in order for her to feel, to purge.
Was he abusing her? Taking advantage of her emotional state?
A thousand voices cried out in protest in his head as he brought the cane down upon her flesh, but not once, in her strangled cries, did she utter her safe word.
Was it, then, HIS responsibility to gauge her limits and decide? Or did he trust that she’d meet him half way. Did he have to let go as much as she was?
Something about that was thrilling.
Something about the way her cries squeezed out of her chest as the cane struck her turned him on. Made him hard. He had never heard that in someone – a desperate cry. He wanted more of it. He hit her harder and the rush came, for both of them it seemed. She tilted her head back and inhaled as if breathing for the first time in months.
He laced every strike with a slice of degradation intended to cut, intended to play upon her mind. She was a fool, she had made a mistake, she was a pathetic little horny bitch.
The words sliced at him just as much, feeling coarse on his tongue, yet seeing her body tense, her breasts rising as she took in a shuddering breath, made the act worth it.
He was addicted, some part of him knew, to her darkness and his own. He felt it tearing at his soul, pulling him under with every strike. He wanted to go, wanted to drown beneath the waves. He was tired of fighting back, of being good, of worrying if he was a monster or a man.
More importantly, he wanted to see welts rise across her breasts.
‘I am an idiot. Yes, Master.’
She recited back to him what he spoke to her.
‘I am such a goddamned idiot, Master.’
Somewhere in his daze, he must’ve told her to repeat after him.
Was he in control? Was he really?
He watched her turn, facing her back to him. His eyes fell upon her ass, her beautiful pale ass, so perfectly shaped, freckles sporadically lined across each cheek.
When he strikes her, she grunts shrilly, in a way he’s never heard her before.
His cock is fully hard, aching to the point of pain to take her. As if he will go mad any moment now if he doesn’t.
He stills his impulse to fuck, and strikes her right cheek.
She falls forward, not expecting it.
He pauses, waiting. Listening for the safe word, but she gathers herself. She straightens her back as she’s on her knees.
When he strikes her again, she is composed.
When he strikes her again, she makes no sound.
When he strikes her again, she begins to sniffs.
He listens for the word.
It never comes.