Page 8 of Caging Cessie (Submissives of Rawhide Ranch #20)

The first strike was gentle, a light tap that mostly landed on her inner thighs though a few tails touched the tender lips of her pussy. She gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound.

Then she spread her legs wider, reveling in the pleased noise he made.

Another, slightly harder strike, the tails landing with a soft thwap against her slick folds. The impact sent shudders through her, pleasure and pain tangling until she couldn’t tell one from the other.

Leon didn’t rush. He measured every movement, watching her, reading her. He struck again—gentle, precise—and Cessie’s tears returned. She was relieved, overwhelmed, and desperate for more.

Between strokes, he touched her, fingers stroking lightly over the heated skin of her inner thighs, grazing the sensitive flesh he’d just flogged.

"Please," she whispered.

“What do you need?”

“Pain.”

“Look at me.” He gripped her chin, forcing her face up. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“It’s been a while since you’ve had that.”

“Please, Master.”

Leon turned and kissed her softly. “Tonight is about giving you what you need so you can submit. But tomorrow you can beg all you want but it won’t change anything.”

She relaxed, totally content with the idea of having no control. “Yes, Master.”

He stepped back and surprised her with a quick, hard strike to her pussy. She cried out, her legs nearly buckling, but Leon was there, steadying her with a hand at her hip.

The room around them disappeared. The watching eyes, the low murmurs, the scent of leather and arousal—all faded. There was only the fire in her skin and the sound of his voice.

Cessie surrendered completely, the tears still slipping silently down her cheeks as her mouth curved into a soft, blissful smile.

“You’re sure you want this, Cessie?”

She opened her eyes to see he’d swapped out the flogger for a narrow slapper paddle. Made of black silicone, it looked almost like the thin straight-sided spatula though was much longer than the one she used to get all the almond butter out of the jar.

She whimpered, the sight of the slapper bringing up visceral memories of pain.

“Where are you?”

“Green.”

He studied her, as if assessing the truth of her words.

“Turn. Ass first.”

She turned back around and spread her legs once she was facing the wall.

Crack. Crack.

He delivered two precise, hard strikes, one on each ass cheek. The contact burned with a sharp pain that was totally at odds with the thud of the flogger. She danced up on her toes, crying out as her bottom burned.

He made her suffer for a moment, then rubbed away the sting.

“Turn,” he commanded.

This time when she turned around he reached up and unclipped the cuffs.

“Master, I’m sorry did I?—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, waiting for her to meet his gaze.

“Offer your breasts to me.”

Her eyes widened even as she caught her breath. Slowly she cupped her breasts, lifting them a little.

He flicked her nipples with the slapper, the smooth, hard edge causing bursts of sensation.

“Do you need the pain?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you need a reminder that your body is my property?”

The words were delicious, and the fact that they didn’t put her on edge was a sign of how deep into subspace she’d slipped. They never used words like property except for when she needed help getting into subspace.

“Yes, Master.”

“And what do I do with my property?”

“Whatever you want, Master.”

“Good girl. Now you’re going to hold still while I hurt those pretty nipples. If you need to, you can flinch and move if it helps you get through the pain, but you may not touch your nipples and I expect you back in this position, offering up your breasts, after each strike.”

“How many, Master?”

“As many as I want.”

The first strike hit her left nipple dead on.

Cessie screamed. There was a time when only after ten strikes would the pain of having her nipples paddled be enough to elicit a reaction.

But she was out of practice. She’d forgotten how sharp the burn was, how her first instinct would be to rub away the sting, but she couldn’t because she wasn’t allowed to touch her own nipples.

She’d forgotten how peaceful her mind became when the impact play hit this level of intensity.

He struck her left nipple a second time before switching to her right. They weren’t soft or gentle strikes. Her tits bounced and jiggled with each strike. Her nipples and areolas deepened in color to almost maroon after she’d had five on each nipple.

She hunched forward after the tenth, silent tears sliding down her face. Slowly she straightened, shoulders back to thrust her breasts out, hands still holding them up, offering them to him.

People were watching, concern on some faces, understanding on others. It was easy to spot the masochists.

Drake, the Dungeon Master was also watching carefully, so she smiled at him, even as her breath came in uneven starts and fits.

Then she looked at Leon. Her master. Her lover. He was the one place in the world she was safe.

Something passed between them, and the best term she could find for it was relief. Relief that they’d found their way back here.

Even if it was only for a night.

That thought took root and wouldn’t leave, a dark shadow trying to pull her out of the soft floaty place she currently inhabited.

This is just a repeat of what you used to have. Retreading the past, not the start of a future.

She made a keening sound of frustration, desperate to block out the voice in her head.

Leon seemed to understand, because he wrapped one arm around her, tugging her over to an unoccupied chair.

He sat and pulled her onto his lap, her back to his chest. He hooked her legs over his, then spread his own wide, forcing her legs open, her pussy lips parting too.

Exposing her most intimate flesh to the room of strangers.

“Lean back.”

She did, sliding her ass forward—moaning at the throb of her flogged ass forced to rest on his hard thighs. Then she leaned back, upper back against his chest, his chin hooked over her shoulder.

“Touch your clit. Three circles the way you like it.”

She did, hips bucking as she traced her middle finger around the swollen glans. The pleasure was instant—shocking in contrast with the pain.

“Now tuck your hands behind your back and keep your legs spread.”

Her thigh muscles were trembling in fear and anticipation as she tucked her hands between their bodies.

Then he raised the slapper and brought it down on her clit.

Cessie screamed, body arching until only her thighs and shoulders touched him. Her clit burned, the pain sharp and staggering.

But her mind was wonderfully, blessedly at peace.

She collapsed against him, limp and utterly submissive. In that moment she was willingly, eagerly his, body and soul.

He struck her clit again.

Again, she cried out, back arching, but that was a purely physical reaction to pain. Emotionally she was at peace. Maybe he’d hurt her clit until pain was all she knew. Maybe he’d use his fingers to bring her to orgasm.

She had no control over what happened next, and that was exactly what she needed.

He struck her clit a third time, the pain incandescent. It was the perfect mix of cruelty and caring because his other arm was wrapped around her, his hand tenderly cupping one breast.

A sob, that soul-deep, body-wracking kind of sob, shook her. Her tears were no longer silent, the last of that brittle wall she’d put around her emotions finally cracking away.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know if he understood the words, garbled as they were. “I’m so s-sorry.”

Maybe he could make sense of the noises she was making, or maybe he just knew her, but Leon understood that she’d taken all she could.

He tossed the slapper aside, tugging her until she was sideways on his lap. A second later a blanket was dropped over them.

He held her as she cried for everything that had happened, and everything that hadn’t.