Rich Tapestry (11 page)

Ah, not entirely incoherent then.

“So, now that we’ve unleashed your inner submissive, let’s see how she responds to a decent spanking.”

Chapter Six

“Go over to the spanking bench and bend over it, please.”

I glance across the room in the direction indicated by Dan’s outstretched hand. The bench looks not unlike the vaulting horses we used to use in gym lessons at school, though not as high. It’s made of smooth wood—the top is padded with soft, buttery suede. It looks warm, comfortable. I spotted this piece of equipment the moment I entered the room. It terrified me then. Now, it seems rather less daunting, a perfect example of how my perceptions are shifting, realigning as the unthinkable takes form in my head.

This could happen. I could do this. I will do this.

My default mode of thinking re-asserts itself, just for a moment
. Why? How? Where does this fit in my carefully arranged world? Where’s the order in this?

Nowhere. Everywhere. What does it matter? I’m doing it anyway.

I quash the internal chirruping, or perhaps that’s my inner submissive, confident, reckless, now unleashed and asserting herself. Whatever, I simply get to my feet and walk to the bench. The time for questions and soul-searching is later. Now, I have other matters to consider.

“I’ll want you to remain still for the entire fifteen strokes. You can make as much noise as you like, but you’ll stay on that bench until I tell you to get up. If you move, I’ll add on an extra five strikes for each time you disobey me. Is that clear?”

I turn to look at him, uncertain. Surely no one could just lie there and keep quite still while they were spanked—especially not by an expert in the art of pain. I’ve been treated to a demonstration of Dan Riche’s sensual skills. I have no doubt at all he can deliver a very effective spanking too. I chew my lower lip, wondering if I should protest. Plead even. What to say?

“You look worried. If you think you might struggle to obey me, you can always ask for the restraints. I can fasten your wrists and ankles to prevent you moving. Would that help?”

“You’d tie me to the bench?” I’m not sure what sounds worse, being spanked or being helpless while it’s happening.

“Only if you ask me to. It’s one certain way you can ensure you get through this quickly without it escalating.”

“But I’d be… I mean, I wouldn’t be able to get away. What if it’s too much and I…” I break off as my somewhat fragile hold on courage falters.

Dan Riche just smiles. “You can get away any time you want. That’s what your safe words are for. You say red at any point, and I’ll stop immediately—no questions, no argument. I’ll release you and we’re done. Amber, and I’ll take a time out, check how you’re doing. I’d do those things anyway if I felt you were struggling. But the safe words mean you can keep control.”

He pauses as I consider this new twist, as I ponder the power of the safe word. He doesn’t rush me, and I appreciate that. At last I turn to him again.

“I’d like the restraints, please. Sir.”

“Good call.” He gestures toward the bench again, and I move to stand beside it.

“Do I just…?”

“Lean over it. I’ll adjust the height to suit you. Your feet should be on the floor on this side, and your hands stretching as far down as you can reach on the other side. The top tilts sideways to help shove your bottom up.”

He flicks a lever and one side of the bench seat lifts up, the padded surface now raised at the side closest to me, the lowest edge facing away from me.

I can see how my bum will be perfectly positioned for his hand. If he does intend to use his hand, that is. I haven’t missed the dizzying selection of paddles, whips, and canes displayed on shelves around the room. He could choose anything from there, I suppose. Maybe I should ask.

I remember the pep talk he gave me earlier. He hasn’t yet told me to only speak when I’m asked a question, but I really don’t want to take any risks—not now that the consequences are so imminent.

“May I ask a question, Sir?”

He raises one eyebrow, and I think perhaps he looks impressed that I remembered my manners. That gives me a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. Pleasing him pleases me. Another first for this evening. Another new experience to file away and ponder over later.

“Go ahead.”

“Will you use your hand? Or something else?” I cast my glance around the room at all the alternatives surrounding us. He’ll be spoiled for choice.

“Yes. Bare hand, bare bottom. So much more intimate, I think, especially for your first time.”

I let out a breath, only now realizing I was holding it. His decision comes as a relief. I do prefer his hand for this. I definitely do. I just nod my acceptance and lean across the bench obligingly. Dan crouches alongside, tinkering with some part of the structure to raise the height by lengthening the legs.

“The sub in here before you must have been tiny. We need this a good few inches higher for you. Just stand up a moment while I sort it out.”

Again I obey, feeling distinctly lanky and ungainly in comparison to the indubitably petite submissive who last graced this bench. I fold my arms across my chest, the action sub-conscious until Dan draws attention to it.

“What’s wrong, Summer?”

“Nothing.” The response is automatic, but of course he’s not buying that.

“Okay. Five extra strokes for not being honest with me—and perhaps yourself too. And a further five for forgetting your manners. Now, do I ask you again?”

Ten extra strokes! Christ, how did that happen?
I cringe. “I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just, I think… I’m not sure.”

“Well take your time. Be sure. But I want an answer. And ‘nothing’ isn’t it.”

He continues to adjust the height while I grapple with my insecurities, finding the words to say what’s on my mind. When he’s satisfied the bench is just right for me, he straightens.

“So, Summer…?”

“I’m too tall. Lanky. Gangly. I feel awkward.” There, it’s out. I’ve said it.

Dan’s expression doesn’t alter. He stands back, rakes his eyes up and down me, from the top of my head to the tips of my now bare toes then back to meet my gaze again.

“Slender is more how I’d describe you. Willowy, perhaps.”

“But…my tits are too small,” I blurt out my biggest body self-image issue before I have a chance to stifle it. Perhaps just as well, as he doesn’t take kindly to filtered responses as far as I can see.

His attention is immediately riveted on the tits in question. “Too small for what?” His tone is polite, enquiring.

“What?”

“What is it that you think your tits are too small for? This?”

He reaches for me, cupping my right breast in his warm hand. He kneads the soft mound, caressing my not exactly ample curves. It feels good even so, and my impulse is to lean in and arch my back, offering my breast to him.

“This one seems to fit my hand perfectly. Let’s try something else.” Still stroking my right breast he takes my left nipple between the fingers of his other hand, tracing the outline slowly.

I gasp at the featherlight, almost ticklish, sensation. He responds by firming his grip, squeezing the sensitive tip, pulling on it just a little. I hiss as the pain starts to bite, and he releases me.

“Your breasts are pretty, curvy, exceptionally sensitive. In fact, Miss Jones, I think we may need to come back to these when your spanking is out of the way, just to demonstrate to you how absolutely perfect your breasts are—or your tits, if you prefer. Now, over the bench again please.”

“But, I…”

“Still fishing for compliments, Miss Jones? And did I catch a ‘Sir’ just then?

“Sorry,
Sir.
” I waste no time in leaning over the bench, before my mouth gets me in more trouble.

Dan fastens the leather straps, securing my wrists to the feet of the apparatus, but he decides to leave my ankles free. It makes no difference. I’m not going anywhere.

I ponder how he can manage to make me feel both vulnerable and safe at the same time. And this is yet more untidiness which my dangerously out of control inner submissive manages to consign to the ‘not just now’ pile.

“So, we’re at twenty-five strokes. Agreed.”

“Yes, Sir.” No point objecting. Even in my limited experience, I realize this is not negotiable. I just hope he gets it done with quickly and isn’t too heavy-handed. I brace myself for the first slap.

When his palm does connect with my now upturned and conveniently placed buttock, it’s to massage my soft flesh. I tense under his hand, expecting a sudden burst of pain. It doesn’t come. Instead, he continues to caress me, paying particular attention to the swallows delicately etched into my skin.

“These really are beautiful. How long have you had them?”

“Two years, Sir.”

“What made you decide to get tattooed? It doesn’t seem ‘you’, somehow.”

I start to tell him I’m not sure, but manage to stop myself in time. Automatic responses won’t do and right at this moment, in this position, naked and draped over a spanking bench, I have no intention of exacerbating matters if I can help it. So I stop and I think, and I try to remember what was in my head the day I wandered into the body art salon in Bristol, soon after I arrived there to start work at the library.

“I was tired of being bland. I wanted to make a statement—something personal, something about me. My identity. So it was about my name. Summer. In my mind that linked to swallows, as I said earlier, so I chose them. A sort of symbol for me or for what I wanted to become.”

“They’re in a straight line, perfectly symmetrical. Is that intentional too?”

The question, so casual, so artlessly dropped into the conversation, but so crucial. His accuracy is unerring. He continues to stroke my buttocks as I battle with myself over what, how much, to say. In the end, though, I know I have no alternative but to tell him the truth.

“Yes. I like things to be in straight lines, symmetrical. Tidy and ordered.”

“Does that go for you too, Summer? You said these birds symbolize you. Or at least that’s what I thought you were saying.”

“Yes. I did. They do. Usually.”

“Usually?”

“Well, not now, obviously.”

“Oh?”

He wants more, expects more. And there is a whole lot more. But I can’t. I really can’t share my innermost fears and insecurities when I’m poised over a spanking bench.

“Please, Sir. I will explain—I promise. I want to, really I do, But not here, not now, like this. It’s too…personal.”

“A spanking is personal. Or at least, this one will be.”

“Please, Sir, I just can’t. Don’t…”

He chuckles, the sound warm though, not in the least unkind. “It never fails to amaze me, Miss Jones, how forthcoming submissives tend to become when their arse is on the line. Literally. Okay, we’ll come back to this. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sir. I think I am.” My relief is enormous. I seem to be getting let off the hook. For now, at least.

“We’ll soon know. Do you remember your safe word?”

“Yes. Red means stop.”

“Red means stop,
Sir.
I can appreciate you’re under stress right now, so I won’t add any extra slaps for that, but be careful. I’m not known for my leniency. Count the slaps, please. I’ll spank, you count. You stop counting, I stop. That way, if you faint, I’ll know.”

I’m still processing that possibility when the first blow lands, hard and sharp on my right buttock, as far as I can tell right on top of my third swallow. Pain explodes, radiates across my bottom. I scream, jerking hard against the restraints. Without doubt they’ve already saved me from further punishment.

“Christ, bloody hell, that hurt. Sir.”

“Count, please.”

“One. Sir.”

He adjusts his stance slightly then lands the next blow, this time on my left buttock. I scream, but manage to count without further prompting.

“Two. Sir.”

Slap.

“Three, Sir.” I gasp out the words, my eyes now tight shut.

Slap
.

“Four.” I’m grinding my teeth but manage to force out the word, only remembering afterwards that I forgot to say Sir. He appears ready to overlook my lapse.

Slap.

“Five.” I tug against the straps holding me in place, tears starting to form behind my eyelids.

Slap.

I’m gasping between sobs now, and miss the next count. True to his word, he waits, allows me time to recover my wits. A few seconds pass, then I resume.

“Six, Sir.”

Slap
.

“Seven.”
Christ! Only seven?

Slap.

“Eight.”

Slap.

“Nine.” Tears are streaming down my face, as it seems to me my bottom must be in flames. The pain sizzles everywhere, my skin burning.

Slap.

“Oh, God. Please stop. It’s too much.” I’m writhing against the restraints holding me in place, sobbing uncontrollably. Any fondness I might have been developing for the rewards of submission is thoroughly dispelled now under this sustained onslaught. The relentless spanking stops.

He lays his palm against my smarting skin, stroking my abused bottom.

“Time out, Summer? Or do you want to use your safe word?”

“I don’t know. It’s just, I mean… It hurts.” I pause, drag in several rejuvenating breaths. “I think I’d like a time out please. Sir.”

“No problem. Would you like a drink of water?”

“Yes, please. Sir.”

A few moments later he’s crouching close to me, combing my hair away from my eyes with his fingers. His smile is gentle as he surveys at my tear-ravaged face.

“Not easy, I know. Especially the first time. Here, wet your lips.”

He holds an opened bottle of mineral water to my mouth and I sip a few drops. It’s refreshing, cool. I lick my lips, closing my eyes to savor the chilled liquid.

“More?”

I nod, and turn my head to the side to catch the water as he pours a few more drops into my mouth.

“How many was that so far, Summer?”

“Nine, Sir. Out of twenty-five.” I groan inwardly at the prospect of sixteen more spanks. My bottom feels to be on fire already.