She trembled from head to toe. Her teeth even chattered. She was already on the verge of losing her mind, and he hadn’t even done anything to her yet. The anxiety, the fear, the excitement and anticipation. It was like a witch’s brew roiling inside her head, bubbling over the rim of the cauldron and frothing like a rabid dog.
She had read about this during her research. The mental torment a submissive put herself through was what heightened her pleasure. Battling and breaking through all the what-ifs, doubts, and inner panic was what ultimately took a submissive to nirvana. Did she really want to rob herself of the opportunity to experience that?
“I d-don’t want to use my s-safeword.” Her lips and chin trembled from the overstimulation.
She flinched as he took hold of her labia and pulled it to the side. A moment later, a clamp closed over her flesh. It pinched, making her wince, but it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would.
“How’s that?” he asked. “Too much?”
She shook her head, relaxing a little.
He did something to the clamp, making it tighter. “What about now?”
It hurt a little more, but it was still tolerable.
“Tell me when it’s too much,” he said, continuing to make the clamp bite into her already swollen labia more forcefully.
The grip squeezed tighter and tighter, until finally, “Ah! Too much, too much.”
He quickly released the pressure, then attached a second clamp lower, tightening it in the same manner as he had the first, allowing her to guide him to how much pain she could tolerate.
So, this was how trust was built between a Dom and his sub. He took his time and checked in with her along the way. He didn’t just come at her with a full-court press, pulling out all the whips and hardcore tools of the trade during the first session. It was a mutual give-and-take. She gave him her body, but he took it with respect. He gave her pain, but she took only what she could withstand. Communication filled the spaces in between to identify where the boundaries were, giving them a starting point where the Dom could work from in future sessions, pushing those boundaries, expanding them, breaking her open to her fullest potential.
He clamped her other labia the same way he had the first, then shifted on the bed, away from her. “How does that feel?”
She gingerly wiggled her hips, waiting for a shock of pain to bolt through her. Nothing. No pain. A little discomfort from the way the clamps pulled at her skin, but otherwise genital clamps were proving to be a big letdown.
“Is that it? Are you done?”
“Yes.”
She frowned, rocking her hips back and forth more vigorously. This was it? Where was all the pain? Where was all the ouch?
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
The bed shook lightly as he scooted away from her.
“Now what?” she said.
In all her research, she had never read about genital clamps, and she most certainly had never written them into any of her books. Maybe she was missing something. Surely, there had to be more to them than this.
“Now I get to have a little fun while we wait.” He rose from the bed.
“Wait? For what?”
“You’ll see.”
That sounded ominous.
The door to the armoire opened, and after he rummaged through whatever was inside, he returned to the bed.
“What’s your safeword?” he said, standing over her.
“Red.” He had wanted to keep it simple, and she had agreed. Maybe later—if she decided she wanted to explore BDSM long term with him—they would come up with a more unique safeword. Something that held meaning for her.
“And what’s the safeword if you want to let me know you don’t want to stop but that I need to ease off?”
“Yellow.”
So cliché, but if her stoplight safewords clearly conveyed what she wanted or needed, that was all that mattered.
“Good.”
A few seconds later, she heard a soft rustle, like something was flying through the air. Leather tails slapped lightly on her stomach.
She gasped, her torso contracting. The flogger hadn’t hurt, but it had startled her.
The leather slapped her stomach again, a little harder this time, stinging a bit, but it wasn’t bad.
The next strike fell over one breast, the next against the other, each more aggressive than the last. For several minutes, he continued around her body, swinging the leather tails against her arms, her thighs, shins, feet, and back to her stomach.
As the same expanse of flesh took repeated lashings, the more it hurt, her skin growing raw.
“You should see yourself,” he said, his voice harsh, tight, and a bit ragged, like he had just finished a heavy set of bench presses.
She was breathing hard too. It wasn’t that the pain was arousing, but it was stimulating. Every inch of her body had come alive. Her skin burned, her ears buzzed, and she felt like she’d been through a thirty-minute Pilates workout.
What felt like a feather caressed her face, down her neck, between her breasts, and down the center of her stomach. The soft sensation was such a stark contrast to the harshness of the leather.
“Your skin is rosy and flushed and slashed with red streaks.” He sounded almost proud as he trailed the feather down one thigh and up the other as he circled the bed.
When he reached her face again, he palmed her breast, making her suck in her breath at the resulting sting of such a rough caress against her traumatized flesh.
“What if I told you that you’re being watched right now, Jenna?” he whispered. “What if I told you that you’ve got an audience.”
She panted, arching into his palm, her body responding agreeably to the idea before her mind had a chance to. Was he serious? Had he allowed others into his room to
