“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?” He growled from in front of me.
I had cuffs on both wrists, bound to a St. Andrew’s Cross, and a heavy chain attached to a steel collar around my neck. My hands had enough slack to stretch from the restraint point to the top of the cross, alleviating the pressure from the metal on my wrists. My neck didn’t have it so easy. The weight of the chain caused the collar to pinch my neck if I moved too quickly. And I was naked.
The room was dim and He’d taken my glasses. All I could see was a man, tall with dark hair and gleaming eyes. Then I realized that He had a knife. It pressed against my throat just as I identified the danger it posed. This man was fast, and I was helpless. Still, I wouldn’t cave. He had no idea what kind of masochist He was dealing with. At the very least, I’d go out with a bang.
I flinched, but I didn’t break eye contact. I watched the fire blaze in His eyes.
“I can smell your pussy, you sick bitch.”
“Then I guess you better bring it.”
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Still not telling you,” I taunted.
I heard Him laugh. Now that He wasn’t standing in front of me, I let the fear flood my body and face. I knew what He was going to do. When I thought the anticipation would kill me, I heard the whistle of a whip next to my head. My body tingled with need and heat. The near-misses continued and my body stopped trembling, growing complacent in what it thought was safety.
“If you take your hands off the cross, I’ll know you’re ready to talk.”
I barely had time to acknowledge His statement.
I gasped. The sting increased, and my body shook, trying desperately to absorb the pain. The thing about impact tools that are thin, like canes, single tails, etc, is that it is such a small surface area that takes the hit. It’s not big enough to be soothed by stretching or contracting muscles, and there is nothing around that will soothe the surface pain. It’s excruciating until it fades.
More strikes landed amongst the intentional misses, where He threw the whip right by my head.
Then He was in front of me again, the knife dragging across my side. I flinched, and the tip of the blade pressed into my skin. I waited for the give and trickle of blood, but it never came.
“You gonna talk?” He asked.
“You wish.” I replied.
He shook His head and walked away. The next lash of the whip sunk into the flesh of my back. I screamed a blood curdling scream.
I let my arms hang loosely from the cuffs. Within seconds, He had returned, the knife blade again caressing my skin.
This continued. By the third or fourth time, I stopped speaking when He asked me questions. He reminded me that He would stop if I lowered my hands.
I don’t know how much time passed. The alternating cool smoothness of the knife was oddly calming after the single tail strikes. Or maybe it was His touch.
The first time I felt His fingers, they were tentative and soft, as He caressed the area around a welt. His fingertips were rough and calloused, but warm and soft at the same time.
That’s what broke me. Not the whip or the knife, or even His hard and unyielding gaze. When He touched me, it was with fascination and tenderness.
“I’ll talk,” I whispered. “Just please don’t stop touching me.”
He smiled. He had me now.