“I just want you to hurt me. I don’t want to grovel or be humiliated.” When he tilted his head to look at her, there was defiance in his eyes. Defiance? He wasn’t a submissive? Then why was he here? What in the hell did he need her for?
She watched him struggle to repress his defiance and decided that he did want to submit. He just needed more encouragement than most. Her typical clients would already be crawling around on their hands and knees, begging for pain, and then crying for mercy.
“If you want me to hurt you, you’ll do as I say,” she said in a dangerous growl. She slid her hand over his lower back, and he tensed. She tried to ignore the thrill of excitement that trembled in her belly when she touched him. “And if you think you can talk to me without addressing me properly, I’m going to fucking gag you. You will always address me with respect. As Mistress V.” She grabbed his nipple and twisted. What she really wanted to do was knock him off his feet and drive his massive cock into her pussy for about an hour. It was the look in his eye. The strength. So unlike what she was used to. It made it difficult for her to stay in her dominant character. Made her want to submit to him. And that was entirely unacceptable. Without even trying, he had managed to throw her off her game, and she didn’t appreciate it. It pissed her off.
She gritted her teeth. “Don’t look at me like that, Jace.”
The defiance never left his eyes, but he lowered his gaze. To hide it. When she released his nipple, he took several deep breaths. “I apologize, Mistress V.”
His unusual mix of strength and weakness drove her crazy.
“If you want to feel the bite of my whip, Jace, you’ll get down on your knees.”
Struggling with his pride, he dropped to his knees at her feet. He didn’t look at her. Kept his eyes downcast. No doubt he was still hiding his defiance from her. She’d relieve him of it soon enough. She lifted her foot and pressed her spiked heel into his chest. “Kiss it.”
Again he hesitated. This one would be so fun to break. She couldn’t wait to get started.
She waited patiently. The minutes ticked by slowly. Her leg was getting tired by the time he pecked the sole of her boot. “Forgive me, Mistress V.”
“Stand, Jace.”
He stood. No hesitation there.
She grabbed a thick, red rope that was hooked to a ring in the wall. She pulled it out straight and handed it to him. He wrapped it around his left wrist and gripped the taut rope with a bruised left hand. She handed him a second rope affixed to the opposite wall. He wrapped that one around the black leather cuff on his right wrist and gripped the rope with his right hand. With his arms extended to the sides, it left his back exposed for her work, and gave her a wonderful view of his hot body. He wasn’t tall, but had a perfect physique. Especially that tight little ass of his. Damn, her one major weakness when it came to men. A perfect ass. And it couldn’t get any better than his. A gentle curve. Tender cheek. Slight indentation on the lateral sides. She could write sonnets about that ass, but he hadn’t paid her to ogle his gorgeous naked body. She had work to do.
Aggie would start light and increase the intensity until she found his happy place. She didn’t know his tolerance for pain and had to seek his threshold before she could do her real work. Finding his edge and driving him just beyond it. Not too far. Never too far. But taking him exactly where he wanted to be. Beyond pain. Where euphoria ruled.
Selecting a smooth, round, wooden paddle from her table, she moved to stand beside him. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“Have you been naughty, Jace? Do you need a spanking?” The musky scent of his excitement engulfed her, and her nipples tightened.
“Yes, Mistress V,” he said breathlessly.
She dropped the Mistress V act for a moment to whisper to him. “Yell all you want, Jace. The room is soundproof. No one will hear you. I will hit you until you say, ‘Mercy, Mistress V.’ Do you understand?” She slapped his ass with the paddle, careful to make it sting, but not leave a bruise.
He didn’t even flinch, much less yell.
“What do you say to get me to stop?” she prompted.
When he didn’t respond, she rubbed her hand over his ass, his hip, his thigh. The firm muscle of his flank quivered beneath her touch. “Tell me, Jace, or I’m finished.”
“I don’t need a safe word.”
She dropped her hand and stepped away. “Then I’m done. Put your clothes on.”
“Mercy, Mistress V,” he said.
She smiled to herself. She was starting to understand how this one ticked. She touched her paddle to his ass. “That’s good. Say it again so you don’t forget.”
“Mercy, Mistress V,” he whispered.
“Now don’t say it unless you mean it. The second you say it, I promise to stop no matter how much I’m enjoying your agony.”
He swallowed hard and nodded.
She struck his ass with her paddle, watching his reaction to determine when he was near his limit. Harder. In the same place. Again. Again. She knew the sweet spot. That tender place on the buttocks that stung like the dickens when swatted. He glanced at her as if to ask her when she was going to start.
“You’ve been very naughty, haven’t you?” she said, rubbing his ass with her bare hand. She usually did that to ease the sting so her client could take more pain, but in his case, she just really wanted to touch him.
“Hurt me, Mistress V. Please, hurt me.”
She moved to something more vicious. She skipped the riding crop and selected the three short whips attached to a handle. She struck his back with a loud crack. Most guys would have cried out. Jace didn’t even twitch. In the mirror, she saw his eyes were glazed with pain. Not physical pain. Emotional pain. Deep and scarring. Why did she have the sudden, ridiculous urge to hug him? She struck him harder. Harder. Harder than she normally would, watching the welts rise in threes on his skin. She didn’t usually take a man this close to bloodletting. Why did he refuse to cry out or beg for mercy? Could he even feel pain?
Feeling twinges of frustration, she tossed the short whips aside and grabbed her bullwhip from the table. It cracked loudly as the tip snapped and left a red stripe along his side. A second strike wrapped around his body and left a welt on his belly. His thigh. His chest. His back again. He didn’t react. Not once. The only indication that he felt anything was the occasional twitch above his left eye. He wasn’t even gripping the ropes very tightly.
Where the fuck was this guy’s threshold? She wasn’t sure how much harder she could hit him. And the usual signs she recognized to help her locate a man’s limit were all missing.
“Am I hurting you at all?”
“Not enough,” he whispered. “Make me bleed.”
She refused to make him bleed, but there were other things she could do to break him. And that’s what he needed. He needed to be broken. She would drive him to his knees. Make him beg her to stop. He would submit to her, even if it took all night.
Mistress V tossed her whip aside and returned to the table. She blew out a candle. Tested the melted wax with her fingertips and jerked them back. Hot! She stared him in the face and splashed the wax up his chest and neck. “How’s that?” she sputtered. “Did that hurt?”
“Do I make you angry, Mistress V?”
She’d never met a man she couldn’t break, and yes, his silent suffering—his stoicism—angered her. He had to be in a lot of pain, but for all he showed, she might as well be tickling him with a feather.
“I’m not angry. I’m trying to figure out how to make you submit.”
“No one ever has before,” he told her, “but you’re doing a fine job trying. Don’t stop now.”
“Don’t patronize me.”