Nick proceeds with my other cheek in the same manner, the only difference being that he restrains my hands, crossed at the wrists. Which is a good thing: it prevents me from reaching back and interfering with the heavy strop. Another good thing, none of my silent reactions go unnoticed by Nick.
I am silent at first, only count to ten for his so-called practice. Cannot call it practice; Nick’s strokes are quick, stingy, biting, like he’s in a hurry to finish. Mistress Kat was in it for a long evening of torture. Nick’s hurried style throws me off the loop, that’s not what I need. With Nick’s mind-reading skills being flaky, I hesitate to speak up. Nick’s taking a tiny break before the lecture on cursing and part two, and it could be my last chance to intervene before things go wrong. At this speed, things are bound to go wrong. I will not get to meet the pretty fairies, Nick will get upset for doing it wrong. He will blame me for not using my safeword and telling him the truth, I will blame him for not reading my mood.
Even within the dream, I’m anxious and psychoanalyze every step. But then again, how can you dissect what’s going on in real life, during a real spanking, when a heavy piece of leather swings and lands on your bare and swollen skin, resetting your brain every few seconds, flushing out the thoughts, reducing all the emotions to one: how to absorb and survive the pain, how to conquer it.
This evening needs a peaceful ending; I gather all my courage and tug on my wrist to draw Nick’s attention before it’s too late. And add one word. “Nicky?”
“Yes, my love,” he exhales, startled by the use of his name instead of the usual honorifics. “Guide me, it’s an order.”
“Imagine a wooden spoon or even a hairbrush.” I start from afar. “They sting and hurt, but you need a myriad of small or not so small strikes to get there, dozens upon dozens, uncountable.”
“This strop can do the same, if I lighten up,” Nick picks up on the metaphor.
“Yes,” I nod into the sheets without looking up. “It all adds up. I will wriggle and fight and beg you to stop and forgive me all the same.”
“I love when you wriggle and beg.” Without letting go of my wrists, Nick climbs onto the bed and presses against my sore ass, for me to feel how hard and ready he is for the next part, but I need to sweet torture him and myself just a bit longer.
“But I must earn your forgiveness and beg for it. Because I cursed so many times today,” now I’m just milking my make-believe wrongdoings to get Nick back in the game. “And cannot be forgiven too quickly, right?”
“Uh-huh,” murmurs Nick, not too eager to separate his body from mine. “You need to beg for me to stop, in your sweet little voice, pretty please please please.”
“But you will not stop.”
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