Chapter 330: A Brand Spanking New ChapterAlexandra Erin on September 16, 2016 in Volume 2 Book 10: Lucky Thing, Volume 2: Sophomore Effort
In Which Amaranth Reaches Into Sub Space
I obeyed, of course.
I still didn’t see how Amaranth intended to pull off her attempted coup. The fact that I chose to obey her as part of our relationship dynamic… even longed to do so… wasn’t exactly the same thing as being in some sort of post-hypnotic trance.
She could tell me to bend over and take a spanking or similar punishment, she could tell me to pleasure her, she could tell me to fall to the floor and grovel before her, and I would do it… of course I would. I would enjoy it. It would be hot, and on some level, close to automatic.
But anything I did for her was something I could do for myself, with the right prompting. For it could work for her to just tell me to remember what I’d forgotten as well as it worked for her to tell me to fall to my knees before her, I’d have to be able to choose to remember it myself.
Still and all, I did choose to obey. It cost nothing, and despite her chiding about it hurting, I knew she both intended me no harm and would do none. On top of all that and in no particular order: it reaffirmed our relationship, and it was, as previously mentioned, hot.
“Brace yourself,” she said, and I did.
I braced myself for a barehanded spanking, but what hit the soft, plushy curve of my narrow little ass was the leather paddle we’d purchased together during my freshman year. It hadn’t made an appearance in our sessions for a while, and the unexpected shock of force made me yelp far more than I moaned, though in truth the sound that came from my lips was pretty close to equal parts both.
The desk moved more from my own reaction than the force of the blow; Amaranth was skilled with the paddle, but not that strong.
“That won’t do at all,” she clucked. “You have to hold still, baby. This isn’t target practice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Put yourself and the desk back in position,” she said. “I don’t like my things getting all higgledy-piggledy, after all.”
“Now… I believe I told you to brace yourself.”
This time, with a better idea of what was coming, I did… I well and truly did.
It wasn’t just a physical act, but a mental and emotional one, one of surrender. Some people make the mistake of thinking that masochism is a kind of synesthesia, that masochists like me just experience as pleasure, or that we like pain in the exact same way that others like pleasure.
It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.
As introspective as I am, I was still too new to sexual awareness to be overly philosophical about it, but for me the truth of masochism was somewhere in the overlapping portion of the Venn Diagram of able to derive emotional affirmation from suffering and able to derive sexual pleasure from extremes of physical stimulation.
Probably most masochists had some similar blend, if in differing proportions. Maybe the latter end of the spectrum reflected a touch healthier of a psyche than the former end, but if some part of you believed that you deserved punishment, there were worse ways to go about scratching that particular itch than a bit of mutually-enjoyable, consensual activity with an enthusiastic partner.
In other words: I knew that I was still more than a little fucked in the head, but fortunately, the head was among the places it was possible to enjoy being fucked.
The leather paddle and its spike-like metal rivets slammed into the soft flesh of my ass again and again, making a thoroughly, deep-down, soul-satisfying succession of smack, thwack, crack sounds as it hit.
I cried out, my back arching and my head thrown back, my eyes rolling back in my head, but I did not move, as I had been ordered not to.
Amaranth was a nymph, guided by perceptions and senses that no mortal had when it came to sexual interactions. She had a subtle genius for finding the rhythm of her partners, for knowing just what they wanted, just what they needed, and giving it to them. She could guide me to orgasm with a spanking, bring me off by precisely shaping and timing her blows the peaks and valleys of my passion.
She could give me exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it.
Or she could, as she chose this night, to give me not quite that, to bring me ever and always closer to the brink, to the cusp, to the very edge, and then falter at just exactly the right wrong moment, miss a step in the rhythm and then start again, as though she were whipping a horse right up to the finish line and then yanking the reins sharply to the side.
Then, just when I started to catch my breath, just as I started to come down, we were off to the races again, just like that.
Her rhythm became steadier, even slower, and somewhat softer as she edged me further and further into the straits of pure sexual desperation.
My eyes were closed and I was facing away from her, but I could see her in my mind and she was divine, a glowing goddess of passion, compassion, and fury.
“You like that, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I moaned.
“You want more.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I breathed.
“But you won’t get it unless I give it to you,” she said. “And if I don’t want to? Then I won’t. This is right, isn’t it?”
She gave me one last, good, hard THWACK! right across the center of both cheeks, with such firm finality that I knew it was the end, even though I wasn’t finished.
Her hand grabbed the hair on the back of my head and she yanked me upright, turning me around and pressing her face to mine. If I say that I kissed her, it’s because kissing… real kissing, mouth-on-mouth kissing… is a mutual act, always.
But in truth, I opened my mouth to receive her kiss. She poured herself into me and I drank her down. I yielded myself up to her and she breathed me in.
It went on and on, and I couldn’t think of when I’d felt closer to her, until suddenly I could: Veil, two years ago, fall of my freshman semester. We’d put on a performance together in an underground (though legal, just, you know, built below street level) S&M club.
It’s not that we hadn’t been close since then, though our relationship had gone up and down in intensity as other things and people took up our attention.
But that night, it felt like we’d forged a connection that was… almost spiritual. It had almost hurt.
It almost hurt now. I almost ached. I did ache, though not physically… okay, I also and separately physically ached, where she had beat me what would have been black and blue if a non-magical implement could bruise my backside, but the almost-ache was inside, and it was almost too much.
She didn’t exactly throw me to the ground, but pushed me with enough physical force and more than enough emotional force for me to collapse in front of her. There we were, her looking down over her glasses, wavy amber hair streaming down her back like a cloak of authority, like a mantle of power, like an aura of divinity, looking down like a goddess and the daughter of a goddess, like a holy thing…
…and me, small and broken and more than a little damned, half-mortal, all-fallible, and overwhelmed with arousal and love and desperate, desperate need.
I was so hot, so horny, so… hers.
“Welcome to sub space: population you,” she said. “Now, let’s just see if we can find what we’re looking for, shall we?”