Spoils of Victory

The icy fingers of fear gripped her throat as she jumped to her feet. Her heart pumped faster, spurring her feet to move as she ran. Her stomach swirled as she sought an escape, knowing she may not make it to safety.

As she neared the exit, a hand grabbed her, pulling her down. The air was knocked from her lungs as she hit the ground. She strained to breathe, strained to escape the arms holding her as they crawled up her body. “Fuck.”

“Now, little Miss, swearing will only increase the pain.”

“I was closer this time,” she whispered.

He picked her up and carried her inside, dropping her on her knees on the floor. He took a seat at the sofa and caressed her face. “You were, but I still caught you.”

She hung her head, awaiting her punishment. He hauled her over his lap and pulled up her skirt. “Such a lovely ass.”

Her fear gave way to excitement and she smiled at the floor. “And now it’s yours for the evening, since you won.”

“Victory is so sweet with you. Sometimes I wonder if you let me win on purpose.”

“No, if I won, I’d choose the flogger, not the paddle or cane.” He challenged her to escape him, and the winner was in charge for the evening. So far he’d won six times and every time was more painful than the last. She always enjoyed the pain, but not his methods of getting her there.

He slapped her ass to punctuate each word as he spoke. “No complaining, my little pain slut.”

She wanted to whine that it wasn’t fair. He was taller and stronger than she was. She needed a bigger head start, she needed… but he kept slapping her and the pain sunk in deeper. She groaned as she relaxed, enjoying it.

He switched to kneading her flesh and muscle, twisting and pulling, hurting her worse. Worse than the slam into the ground outside, and much less than he would later.

“Still with me, Little Miss?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Ready for the paddle then?”

“Never, but I’m not using my safe word either.”

“You were smiling earlier, but I don’t think you are now.” The wood of the paddle dragged over her skin. This tool of pain was one he’d built himself in the shed, he’d smoothed the surfaces until they shined. He slapped against her so it cracked sharply.

“I’m not smiling.”

“Shall I go until you scream?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”

“You agreed to my rules.” For the night, for the game, and for life.

“I agreed.”

He emphasized her submission with another slap. They spoke no further words while he turned her to mush, a quivering lump, her skin red with sweet pain. She moaned and squirmed and shouted, but she did not scream.

He helped her to the floor again, setting her so she was kneeling at his feet. She spread her legs apart so nothing touched her tender bottom. His fingers trailed down her cheek. “Sore?”

“Very.”

“But you didn’t scream.”

“I didn’t scream.” She tipped her chin up. His promise to make her scream was a challenge she couldn't resist. He knew it when he said it. He wanted to make her push her limits, but also wanted to see where they were.

“Next level then?” He stood, looking down at her, as he adjusted his pants, and she noted the movement, evidence of his arousal.

“What else will you do for me?”

“You know what I do to make you scream.”

The hairs on her arms stood as her skin pebbled with goosebumps. She knew. And she swallowed hard, but followed. She wanted to scream, wanted bruises, wanted to please him.

“Panties off. Hands and knees on the bed,” he commanded.

She assumed the position and focused on her breath, the staccato of her heartbeat rushing through her ears. The more she focused on the impending pain, the more worked up she’d get, the more likely panic was. He’d taught her to control her breathing, her thoughts and thus her body, her reactions.

He stroked her back with the edge of the cane. The soft bamboo one, if there was such a thing as a gentle implement used for torture. She was sore enough as it was, but this could take her so much deeper.

“I’m ready.”

“What if I’m not?” he mocked. He tapped her ass with the thin rod and she recoiled as the movement sent sparks through her inflamed skin. God, she’d be on fire.

“Ready when you are. Sir.” She said through clenched teeth.

“So easy to set you on edge. How many?”

“Three?” She held her breath.

“Do you think three will make you scream?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

He slapped the cane against her ass. She whimpered and squirmed on the soft mattress, the sheets moving as she twisted them. It smacked a second time, harder, and she knew there’d be a mark. Third time I was panting. Four and five, she screamed. The cane dropped to the bed beside her and he had her in his arms before she fell to the bed.

He caught her twice tonight, but she didn’t feel like she’d lost the contest. She’d won more than she ever hoped.

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