Safeword: Davenport(27)

Her nipples were on fire, her tongue felt huge—the pain swiftly approaching the point she'd need to safeword. She didn't want to stop him, especially during punishment, and she wanted him to get on with it, already.

The first two strokes came one after the other—left, right. The inner thighs are one of the most painful places to be flogged, and she cursed the author of The Story of O for letting that particular cat out of the bag. The first strikes were bad, but felt more like a broken in flogger than a new rawhide one. However, the second set left no doubt it was rawhide.

The third set felt as if it ripped skin away from muscle, and though she knew on an intellectual level he wouldn't draw blood, nothing could stop the screams coming out of her throat and around the clover clamp. The knowledge she'd made it past the halfway point was the only thing that kept her from safewording.

On the fourth set, the pain was so intense her head instinctively tried to pull up, jerking her tongue and nipples and making her scream in agony again, without having a chance to gasp in more air. He was immediately beside her, the compassion showing in his eyes as he rubbed her face, encouraged her to take deep breaths, and helped her deal with the pain. When she could breathe normally he said, “Last two,” and returned to the foot of the table.

He looked grim as his eyes met hers. “These are going to be rough. When I take the clamps off you'll have permission to speak freely, just be sure to use the proper respect."

She watched his arm come up and swing down. Once. Twice. She heard herself screaming, desperately struggling against the strap across her hips as she tried to move, her insides writhing, her muscles trying to find a way to answer the fight or flight response coursing through her veins. She felt the stirrups around her calves and ankles as her legs attempted to break free, the cuffs on her wrists as her shoulders and elbows fought to move.

He was immediately at her side, releasing all three clamps, and she screamed and jerked frantically when they came off, still fighting her restraints, frantic with the pain. His firm but gentle hands provided reassuring warmth, soothing her as he kept repeating it was over in a calm voice.

As soon as she stopped thrashing he used the washcloth to wipe the tears, sweat, and drool from her face, chest, and neck. He released the strap over her ribcage and disconnected her wrist cuffs, saying, “You don't have permission to rub.” Stifling a groan, she pulled her arms down and placed them on the table to her side, desperately wanting to rub her inner thighs, and the base of her breasts.

He unfastened the remaining bonds and gently set her heels on the table beside her bottom. His strong arms lifted her, cradling her like a baby, and he carried her to the big overstuffed chair, situating her in his lap as he sat. She buried her face in his shoulder and let him hold her.

Dana wasn't sure how long she lay in the secure cocoon of his arms, but was certain he'd allow her all the time she needed, or even wanted. Once her brain started working again, it wandered back and forth over the things he'd done since she'd stepped into his kitchen. A peek at the window told her it was still daylight, nowhere near evening.

Eventually, she spoke. Something she'd seen in his eyes nagging at her. “You didn't enjoy punishing me, Sir."

His hand rubbed across the top of her head, down the back, his fingers stroking her hair, coming to rest between her shoulder blades. “No, pet. I don't like causing you real pain. It's necessary—if the punishments aren't genuine, neither is the power exchange. I know there're couples who disagree, but to my way of thinking, if you can't enforce your authority, it doesn't exist. I very much enjoy giving you erotic pain, seeing how far I can take you... but punishments are a different animal entirely. And since I dislike giving them, and I'm not fond of having to change my plans to dole them out, I tend to devise consequences that'll make you think twice before you commit the same infraction again."

She finally raised her head, looking him in the eye to ask, “What plans did I mess up? Sir?"

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischievousness as he said, “Since we'll be doing it later, I'll have to wait to tell you.” He twirled a piece of her hair around his finger, spiraling the curl and letting it go, watching it bounce. “Our dinner will be delivered in about an hour, and we need a breather—I recall you telling me you enjoy a good game of poker?"

Dana wrinkled her brow, but answered quickly. “Yes, Sir."

He stopped fiddling with her hair, his smile warm and playful. “How about this. We each start out with fifteen chips, and we play until one of us is out, or our food arrives—whichever comes first. If you win all the chips you'll have thirty, and that'll mean thirty minutes of my giving you pleasure. If I collect them all I'll have thirty minutes to give you pain. If we each have fifteen when the food's delivered, it's a draw. If I have twenty and you have ten, we subtract the ten from the twenty and I give you ten minutes of pain. If you have more, we'll subtract it and you get pleasure."