Dirty Bad Savage
Prologue
Sophie
A deep breath, fists clenched tight against the leather padding of the flogging bench. I arch my back.
Cain’s voice, practised and gravelly, “Get ready.”
I’ve been ready all week, craving the bite of the cat o’nine against my skin, craving the hot sting of palm against my thighs. Craving a hard fucking pounding of cock with a side of tongue, and the intrusion of his thick meaty thumb in my asshole. Craving the release he used to give me. Used to.
“Count for me, Missy,” he says.
I splay my hands flat on the bench. “Just hit me, will you? I don’t want to count.”
A swat at my ass. Hard enough to sting, but not hard enough. “You’ll count for me, Missy, and you’ll be grateful.”
I choke back a sigh through gritted teeth, forcing myself into the zone. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s my girl.”
I’m not his fucking girl.
He lands the tails hard between my shoulder blades. Yes! Thank Christ.
“You fucking love that, don’t you, baby?”
“Yes, sir,” I manage, but already my nerves are on fire, demanding more. I hear the flogger whirring in the air like a helicopter.
I stay silent until I realise he’s still waiting. “One.”
“Good girl.”
He lands another, but this one is weak, nothing but a tickle. “One point five.”
“Cheeky.”
A heavier blow nips at the soft skin of my hip. “Fuck, yes, two.”
This is it... why I’m here... what I crave... The beautiful rhythm of pain is the only beat that consumes me. My only release. I need this.
I urge Cain on without words, baring myself wide for everything he has to give. If he notices, he doesn’t respond. His movements, as always, are steady and composed. His breathing even. He strikes, then waits, repeating on loop. Waiting too long, performing too hard. Like an actor. A professional. Like someone who’s played the game too many times.
We’ve played this game too many times.
The inevitable line, “Fuck, yes, Missy. Are you ready for me?”
I know my part—what I’m supposed to say. I’m supposed to be in the zone, endorphin-high and floating on air. Supposed to need more, need cock, need him. But I don’t.
“Answer me.”
“I’m...”
“You need cock, don’t you, baby? I know. I know just what you need.”
I need to feel alive... out of control... possessed... consumed... out of my fucking mind.
I wrench my head around, knowing exactly how I’ll find him. His dick is already in his hand, flogger discarded, his eyes on the spectators outside. They know the drill too. Club Explicit, BDSM haven for dirty freaks like us. We come to play and we come to watch, and that’s all great fun, until you realise you’re playing the same movie on repeat, all of us, over and over. And suddenly I’m angry, angry beyond all rationale. Angry with Cain for not being the dom I need him to be, angry that he’s not the man I knew before him—the man who could turn my insides to jelly with one single command—angry with myself for needing everything I need from this place.
“No. I’m not ready.”
Cain shuffles, surprised. He shoves his dick back in his jeans and goes for the flogger.
“Oh, ok, um, sure. You want more of this, then? Is that what you want?” he approaches my head, leaning in close enough to whisper. “You took fifty, I thought that would do you. How about another twenty?”
And that’s it. Done. Over.
I’m so far out of the zone I may as well be at the office discussing housing benefit claims.
“Surely you should tell me how much more I should have? You’re the dom, aren’t you?”
His cheeks flush pink as he turns to the window, checking out the faces as he considers they may well have heard my criticism.
“I’m a dom, Missy, not a psycho. You normally take fifty.”
“I normally take whatever you dish out. I’ve got a safeword, Cain, and a tongue. I’m capable of using them.”
He retreats, and I hear the flogger whirring. I dare to hope, dare to believe he’ll put me back in my place and give me what I need.
“Count for me,” he says again, and this time I’m really done. I’m already up, slipping through shackles that are too loose on my wrists, another oversight on his part. “Hey!” he says. “Get back into position! I didn’t give you permission to move!”
“It’s over,” I sigh. “I’m just not feeling it.”
“I’ll make you feel it,” he barks. “Just get back in position.” Again his eyes flit to the window and the shocked observers. It’s then I know for certain. He’s scared of losing face, more concerned with what they think than what I need.
Sophie
A deep breath, fists clenched tight against the leather padding of the flogging bench. I arch my back.
Cain’s voice, practised and gravelly, “Get ready.”
I’ve been ready all week, craving the bite of the cat o’nine against my skin, craving the hot sting of palm against my thighs. Craving a hard fucking pounding of cock with a side of tongue, and the intrusion of his thick meaty thumb in my asshole. Craving the release he used to give me. Used to.
“Count for me, Missy,” he says.
I splay my hands flat on the bench. “Just hit me, will you? I don’t want to count.”
A swat at my ass. Hard enough to sting, but not hard enough. “You’ll count for me, Missy, and you’ll be grateful.”
I choke back a sigh through gritted teeth, forcing myself into the zone. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s my girl.”
I’m not his fucking girl.
He lands the tails hard between my shoulder blades. Yes! Thank Christ.
“You fucking love that, don’t you, baby?”
“Yes, sir,” I manage, but already my nerves are on fire, demanding more. I hear the flogger whirring in the air like a helicopter.
I stay silent until I realise he’s still waiting. “One.”
“Good girl.”
He lands another, but this one is weak, nothing but a tickle. “One point five.”
“Cheeky.”
A heavier blow nips at the soft skin of my hip. “Fuck, yes, two.”
This is it... why I’m here... what I crave... The beautiful rhythm of pain is the only beat that consumes me. My only release. I need this.
I urge Cain on without words, baring myself wide for everything he has to give. If he notices, he doesn’t respond. His movements, as always, are steady and composed. His breathing even. He strikes, then waits, repeating on loop. Waiting too long, performing too hard. Like an actor. A professional. Like someone who’s played the game too many times.
We’ve played this game too many times.
The inevitable line, “Fuck, yes, Missy. Are you ready for me?”
I know my part—what I’m supposed to say. I’m supposed to be in the zone, endorphin-high and floating on air. Supposed to need more, need cock, need him. But I don’t.
“Answer me.”
“I’m...”
“You need cock, don’t you, baby? I know. I know just what you need.”
I need to feel alive... out of control... possessed... consumed... out of my fucking mind.
I wrench my head around, knowing exactly how I’ll find him. His dick is already in his hand, flogger discarded, his eyes on the spectators outside. They know the drill too. Club Explicit, BDSM haven for dirty freaks like us. We come to play and we come to watch, and that’s all great fun, until you realise you’re playing the same movie on repeat, all of us, over and over. And suddenly I’m angry, angry beyond all rationale. Angry with Cain for not being the dom I need him to be, angry that he’s not the man I knew before him—the man who could turn my insides to jelly with one single command—angry with myself for needing everything I need from this place.
“No. I’m not ready.”
Cain shuffles, surprised. He shoves his dick back in his jeans and goes for the flogger.
“Oh, ok, um, sure. You want more of this, then? Is that what you want?” he approaches my head, leaning in close enough to whisper. “You took fifty, I thought that would do you. How about another twenty?”
And that’s it. Done. Over.
I’m so far out of the zone I may as well be at the office discussing housing benefit claims.
“Surely you should tell me how much more I should have? You’re the dom, aren’t you?”
His cheeks flush pink as he turns to the window, checking out the faces as he considers they may well have heard my criticism.
“I’m a dom, Missy, not a psycho. You normally take fifty.”
“I normally take whatever you dish out. I’ve got a safeword, Cain, and a tongue. I’m capable of using them.”
He retreats, and I hear the flogger whirring. I dare to hope, dare to believe he’ll put me back in my place and give me what I need.
“Count for me,” he says again, and this time I’m really done. I’m already up, slipping through shackles that are too loose on my wrists, another oversight on his part. “Hey!” he says. “Get back into position! I didn’t give you permission to move!”
“It’s over,” I sigh. “I’m just not feeling it.”
“I’ll make you feel it,” he barks. “Just get back in position.” Again his eyes flit to the window and the shocked observers. It’s then I know for certain. He’s scared of losing face, more concerned with what they think than what I need.