O is for Onslaught

“Is this too much?” Nick twists and twirls a long strip of leather like a light saber; maybe half the length of a regular belt. I have a gut feeling, what it can be, but not till he brings it back to the stage.

“It’s a razor strop,” I bend the broken-in leather strip, attached to a wooden handle. “Either a real one that barbers use to sharpen razors.” I picture Aldous picking one at an antique shop. “Or a decent replica.” Ordered by the same Aldous online. 

“Is it bad?” 

“Not if you can control it.” I blurt out, looking sideways. Pointing out Nick’s lack of experience doesn’t feel good, but I can’t control my mouth, even in a dream. Especially in a dream. “I would prefer something shorter,” I huff at my own wrongdoing.

“And I would prefer, if you have more faith in me!” Nick points at the pillow, directing me to pile two of them in the middle of the bed, a standard position for belting. “You should be thankful,” he adds with more sternness. “I could’ve picked up that heavy kilt belt. I bet I control it just right.” He enunciates ‘control’ to confirm that my slip of the tongue didn’t go unnoticed.

“Thank you, sir!” I muffle into the sheets, with my ass already over the piled-up pillows. Don’t tease the man with the belt, I repeat to myself, or a strop, for that matter. Even if he only agreed to this scene to please you. He remains the man with the belt, and should be treated as such, with respect.

“The first ten will be for me to practice my control,” Nick announces. Fuck, he wouldn’t let it go. “After that, we will work on your cursing.”

He yanks another pillow and proceeds to smack it with the strop. I blink in disbelief: I was sure the practice would be on my ass. I cannot unsee that he hits the same spot with a perfect aim. 

“Now let’s practice on a live target, shall we? Count to ten.”

I cuss and pull the pillow over my head.

“What was that, more cursing?” Nick tugs the pillow away. My cheeks are the same red as my ass.

“No, sir. Admiring your perfect aim.”

Swish! Nick doesn’t buy my bullshit, not one little bit.

“Sweet Mary, Joseph, and donkey!” I yelp.

“Just the same old me.” He taps my thigh with the tip of the offending strop. “Count.” 

Whack! The second stroke lands on the same cheek, before I can respond. “Two!” I grab the sheets, just to grab into something, or I will reach back, trying to block. 

“Nope. That was one.” He’s calm as a millpond, but I can hear the smirk.

“Yes, sir, one.” I’m kind of glad he’s enjoying it. “Two!” After tonight’s ordeal. “Three!” He’s not hitting full swing. “Four!” But he hits the same spot. “Five!” What kind of onslaught did I sign up for?

Nicks pauses for a quick rub and switches the sides. “Do you want me to hold your hands?” 

Of course, he sees through me! I fold my hands on my lower back, ready for him to pin with his free hand.

“Oy! Ready?”