The second time Clara spanked him, it was at Malcolm’s request. He told her he wanted it, then he found his glass of sparkling water completely fascinating. Clara waited him out, then leaned toward him over the restaurant table. She asked him why. Fuck him, she wanted to know. It still made him uncomfortable to talk about his feelings like this, but she had made it clear to him that it was a requirement of their arrangement. He fumbled and searched for the words, for the courage to say the words. Words, words. He lived by words, but tonight they stuck in his throat and came out all husky and choked. Too much emotion behind them. This was far too much emotion for a relationship with a woman who liked him only because they liked the same things in bed. Far too much emotion for an experience that had made him cry. Well, maybe not: his prick had liked it too, had stood to attention every fucking time he’d thought about it. He feared it was madness, but he wanted it so much. He’d been unable to stop thinking about the first time, about the utter surrender he’d felt when he’d finally stopped struggling and accepted it, the strange things he’d felt afterward, floating in her arms.
The conversation sputtered on through dinner in the noisy restaurant, through the Tube trip to his neighborhood, through the walk arm-in-arm to his front door.
He tried to tell her about that floating feeling, that peace despite his tears, or because of his tears, the satisfaction despite his desperate arousal, or because of it. She smiled at him when she understood him at last, and he felt proud of himself. He’d earned the hand slipped into his, squeezing him, the touch of Clara’s shoulder against his. He’d done something her way properly at last.
Inside, door shut, locked. He was alone with her now. Malcolm thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets to hide the trembling.
“Okay,” Clara said, “I’ll spank you tonight.”
Malcolm breathed out in relief, but his heart had sped up. It was going to hurt. It had hurt last time. He’d cried. He’d felt helpless and humiliated and she hadn’t despised him for it, somehow. She was going to do it again. Jesus.
“Do you want to be bound?” she said.
God, his heart and his cock jumped when she asked him that. He needed that in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Would you like me to use my bare hand or a paddle?”
“A paddle? I don’t–no fucking clue. Didn’t know it was a thing.”
“I’ve got one here, if you would like me to use it.”
She had a drawer with things in it. He never looked inside, mostly because he didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but also because he was a little afraid of what she might do if she found he had. She had a paddle in it. Rope, yeah, plugs, those fucking devilish clamps, and apparently a paddle.
“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s try it.” Shit.
“Okay. What I’ll do is warm you up with my hand and then we’ll try the paddle a little bit. See what you think. Is this okay?”
See what he thought, God, what a way to phrase it. He wouldn’t be thinking. He’d be feeling. He’d be crying, probably. His breath was coming short as he thought about it. God, he was terrified. What the fuck was wrong with him, that he’d asked for this?
He found his courage and said, “Yeah. Sounds good. I can-- I’d like it.”
Clara seemed to understand he was terrified without him needing to tell her. She petted him and helped him undress almost tenderly. She ran her hands through his hair, stroked him tenderly, held him and reassured him. He went down to his knees for her feeling almost confident. He was hard, of course, and he’d stay hard because she’d wrapped a cock ring around him. That was a new sensation too, and one he’d already learned to crave. So strange, this feeling, such sweet torment. He’d stay hard for her, because she liked seeing him erect, because she liked making him wait for it. She made him wait days for it. God, she was brutal with him about it, and miserable as it was to go to sleep with aching balls, the orgasms afterward were fantastic.
Malcolm held up his wrists for her: cuffs on, buckled snug. Ankle cuffs.
“Not rope?” he said.
“Want to be able to free you instantly if it’s too much.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Makes sense.”
Then, to his surprise, a collar. Neither of them were into that shite. It came clear to him when she clipped his wrists to a ring at the back of his neck. He tugged gently. Bound. Helpless. Hands clasped behind his head, because what else could he do with them? Now it would happen and he wouldn’t have a choice. He was committed.
She arranged him kneeling on the bed with his arse in the air propped up on a pillow, collar chained to the headboard. She clipped his ankles together. And then she left him there, kneeling, arse up, feeling ridiculous and exposed. He was starting to go out of his mind with anticipation. All this fucking preparation. All this care and fussing and consent. Why didn’t she just do it to him? Why make him stew in his own juices like this? He was well hard and well bound and well ready to jump out of his own skin.
She came back. He craned around to look; she was as naked as he was, and he couldn’t touch her because he was trussed up. He swore under his breath. Fucking gorgeous woman. Fit, absolutely confident, perfect tits. He wanted to kiss them, and he fucking couldn’t.
She laid a hand on his back and he flinched.
“Doing okay, Malcolm?” she said.
“Are you ready?”
“Fucking get on with it.”
“Manners,” Clara said, and her hand came down on his backside, hard. Malcolm yanked hard at the chain without thinking. Shit, it had him by the throat. He couldn’t flinch away. She’d hit him. This was going to hurt. Her bare hand. She’d given him no warning and it stung like fuck and he was bound and helpless and he’d asked her to spank him.
“Shit,” he said.
“Mmmm,” Clara said, and her hand came down again. Loud, so loud in his bedroom, and his gasp was just as loud and it burned. Where was the floating? She gave him no time to think about that, no time to complain. She hit him again, square across his backside. Then hard, twice on each thigh. He was struggling and he hadn’t even realized he was struggling and if he wasn’t careful he’d leave bruises on his own throat. He caught himself and made himself hold still. Clara wanted him to feel this. Clara demanded this of him. He was doing it for Clara.
Her hand came down on the underside of his buttocks and he held still for it. He breathed out and in again. Pain. His mistress. Clara. Clara’s hand. Another blow and he whimpered but didn’t flinch away. He was hers. He’d asked her to do this to him. This was how he proved it to her: by his surrender to this. To her will, her hand, the pain. Surrender was easier this time because he already knew he wanted it. Surrender: giving himself over to it, to her hand on him, to whimpering as it built and built, the burn, the sweat on his sides. He tried to count the blows but lost track almost immediately. He was a backside and a cock, kneeling there waiting for her touch. An eternal now of sensation, his world narrowed down to his skin and her hand, nothing more.
“Please,” he said, and her hand came down again.
Then a pause, and her arms around him, a damp cloth on his face. Malcolm caught his breath. He felt strange. There it was, that floating feeling. He hurt and he didn’t hurt and he was hers and she knew it. He was Clara’s toy. She was fondling his skinny arse, playing with it, spreading his burning buttocks apart and stroking him from arsehole to balls. His balls, oh God, she’d squeezed them once and he’d have done anything she asked it had hurt so much. He didn’t like the pain, he knew that now. He liked belonging to her. He liked the floating. He liked the way she kissed his temple and asked him how he was doing.
“Yours,” he said. “I’m yours. Please.”
“You sure? You sure you wouldn’t rather have this?”
Her hand was on his cock, fondling him, teasing him. A fucking temptation, to fink out and beg her to toss him off. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his courage.
“No. Please keep spanking me.” Then he remembered his manners. “If it pleases you. Clara. Fuck. Please.”
“You’re so pretty when you cry,” was all she said.
She was gone for a few seconds, not touching him, and that made him whimper and tug at the chain, trying to see. But she was back straight away, laying her hand on his arse again, anchoring him.
“Remember that you can tell me to stop or slow down.”
“Yeah. I remember.” Though fucked if he would. He was hers. Hers. Her will was his.
“Do you still want this?”
“I want it.”
He waited. No idea how long he waited, shaking with anticipation. And then a sound and something came down on his thighs and this was pain, this was him struggling against his bonds. The paddle, she was using the paddle. Again, and he had burst into tears even as he was asking her to keep going, do what she wanted with him, Malcolm her servant, helpless for her, helpless and free, bound and floating.
“I’m yours,” he said, over and over. And then she’d stopped, and he was weeping, begging her to come back to him.
His hands came free, and then his ankles. The cuffs were gone, then the cock ring. Malcolm collapsed onto the bed and stretched his legs and shuddered. He wiped at his face. Tears. Where was she? Oh, there she was again, sitting on the bed next to him, helping him shift so his head was in her lap. She held a water bottle for him. He sucked at it. Lucozade, diluted, nectar of the fucking gods. She wrapped a blanket over his shoulders. He was wet with cooling sweat underneath it, but he felt no urge to get up and move.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Good,” was all he could manage to say, and it was completely inadequate. He was in his body and not in it right now. His arse hurt and it didn’t hurt and he’d been crying but he felt happy. Yeah, this was it, this was what he’d felt. She’d done it to him again and it was as if he hadn’t lived before now. He’d been wanting this since the first moment he’d been Malcolm. Hers. He belonged to her. Did she know it? He’d asked her to make him hers. He knew now that she’d done it.
So tender, Clara was, keeping him warm, wiping the tears from his face, propping him up to drink from the bottle again. This part was good. Malcolm liked this. She was fussing over him, saying sweet things to him. She liked this part, she’d said. It was important to her.
Her hand slid down his back to his buttock. Malcolm whimpered and then almost felt ashamed. “How much-- I mean, how many? I lost count.”
“Four with the paddle. Twenty with my hand.”
“My palm is going to be bruised,” she said.
“It’s okay. It’s good. It won’t be as bruised as your arse. You might have trouble sitting tomorrow.”
“Fucking worth it.”
“Going to rub some arnica into you, avoid the worst of it.”
Having Clara rub lotion into him had been one of his favorite parts last time, so he was happy to lie still while she pulled the blankets away from his legs and exposed him. God, his arse was throbbing. The paddle had been beyond his expectations.
“God,” Clara said.
“My hand. I can see where my hand came down on you.”
And then she made a sound that made Malcolm lift his head and look at her. She was touching herself, two fingers on her clit and the other hand pinching her own nipple. Malcolm felt his cock twitch, but he didn’t dare move. She was looking at his arse and thighs, at the handprints she’d left on him, and he’d be damned if he denied her the view that was exciting her so much. Fucking gorgeous sight, Clara masturbating over him, bringing herself off hard and fast, yeah, there she went, face red, eyes closed, shuddering.
“Clara,” he said, and sat up then, reached up to her, and tugged her down to lie next to him. He sprawled across her, buried his face in her neck, and held her tight. Fucking magical, what she’d done to him. Brutal magic. How had he been so lucky? Because fuck knew he didn’t deserve it.