I suppose I am still waiting to hear about funding for the other project. Let’s just say it’s on hold, shall we? And in the meantime, you need to rehearse. Twenty strokes, hard ones, you know the drill.’
Yes, I did. Take the stroke, keep position, count it, thank him, ask for the next. So straightforward in theory, so easy to get wrong in practice. But twenty was manageable. It was when it went over thirty I started to struggle.
The strap fell with a thud then a sting, ringing and cracking through the air. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on anticipating the pain, it always came as a shock to me. I had thought that might change one day, but apparently not yet.
All the same, I was able to keep my bottom up, avoiding the shaming crumpling of knees that had accompanied our earlier scenes.
‘One, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
Four more strokes, each as hard as the last, but I stuck heroically to my brief, never so much as wriggling a hip in an effort to protect my bottom from the line of fire.
Six months of submission and at last I felt I was beginning to earn my stripes.
Literally.
I earned five more but these were harder to endure and I could feel the stress in my thigh muscles as they recovered from each blow. They were beginning to weaken and tremble.
I kept the count but it was less easy to think in the red fog of pain. Asking for another was the easy part. It came out of my lips, sing-song, mechanical.
Now I was feeling the burn, which I liked. The glow seeped into my skin and juiced me up. It didn’t stop me dreading the next stroke, though.
Eleven shook through me and I almost broke position – just a quiver, really, but Jasper saw it.
‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get five more added if you move.’
It was enough to focus me. I had done this before, numerous times. I knew I was capable of it. I just had to grit my teeth and breathe through it.
I gave the count and kept myself still for the twelfth. Ah, here it was, just in time – the moment when it all became easy. When extra strokes just kept the delicious heat sealed in and satisfied my craving.
Now I was able to push my bottom up high again and purr instead of yelping. The strap was a gift like that – it never happened this way with the cane, which bit cruelly from start to end, or the paddle, which was a feat of endurance. But the strap had a kind heart, which it would show you if you put up with its nasty streak for long enough. Oh, how I revelled in those final strokes, sighing into the burn.
‘Twenty, sir, thank you, sir, please may I have another?’
‘Do you really want one?’
He flicked the end of the strap between my thighs. He hadn’t struck there in the end, nor against my pussy in its lacy bag.
‘If it pleases you, sir,’ I said, hoping I had put enough longing in the formulaic phrase to show I meant it.
Apparently I had. He smacked at my thighs in turn, quick snappy strokes that made me gasp continuously and jolt from side to side on the mattress. My gasps couldn’t keep pace with his hand and it occurred to me in my haze that I would have to keep gasping long after he finished in order to match response with provocation. But it didn’t matter. The grand finale was one loud, hard smack against my pussy, then my thong was at my knees before I could draw breath.
He took hold of my thighs, keeping me in position, and buried his face in my hot, sticky core. I felt steaming breath then the wet, sweet intrusion of his tongue. He rubbed himself into me, prickling my thighs with his stubble, raising one hand to smack again at my bottom, ensuring it lost none of its heat while he licked me with gourmet delicacy and thoroughness.
I began to whimper, overloaded with sensations, stuck between them, unable to alight on one in particular. My bottom was sore and tight and my pussy was wet and my clit was bursting into vivid life. I wanted it all and more, I wanted him inside me, I wanted all of myself filled with all of him.
He tongued an orgasm out of me with ease, then withdrew his mouth and continued spanking me until his free hand had dealt with the inconvenience of trousers and underpants. I loved the way his pelvis slapped against me, keeping me aware of the state of my bottom while my pussy was filled and thrust into.
He reached under to pull my breasts out of the basque cups and hold them as he banged into me, feeling and fumbling and plundering the soft flesh, flicking and pinching at my nipples. All of me was all of his and I knew he liked me to know it.
‘I suppose you’d like to come, would you?’ he asked between thrusts. There was no telling from his voice whether this question would lead to ecstasy or agony.
‘Yes, please, sir.’
‘Ah, well, you’ve been a good girl,’ he said. One hand quit my breasts and replaced itself over my clit, the fingertips pressing down in the way that always guaranteed a messy, wet-eyed, hot-cheeked orgasm from me.
This was no different. I bumped and ground on his fingers while he fucked hard. I fell into a chasm, a blind place of intense sensation. I was only aware of the noise I was making a few seconds after I started making it.
He took up the cry, lower and shakier, as if a part of him had been torn out with the orgasm. We collapsed, kissing damp brows, hugging each other’s bones.
A phone rang.
Jasper swore and yawned and seemed set on ignoring it, but at the last moment he reached down to the floor for his trousers and retrieved his phone from the pocket.
As soon as he got it, it stopped ringing. But he had seen the caller ID, because his eyes widened and he returned the call with a jabbing, urgent finger.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, pulling the sheet over me. ‘Is it the call you’ve been waiting for?’
He nodded, then spoke into the receiver.
‘Jim, hi, how’s it going?’
He got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, leaving me to claw the air with frustrated curiosity.
He had been waiting weeks to find out if he could get funding for his next film project. I have to admit, a part of me was hoping that the answer would be no. There were things about this film that were awkward for me – especially since that stupid newspaper story. But he was set on the idea to the point of saying he’d produce it independently if it came down to it.
Now James Gretsch, one of the three big backers he had been courting, was on the phone. I found myself craving a cigarette and I didn’t even smoke.
He burst in so triumphantly that I didn’t even need to ask what the answer was. Gretsch had taken the bait.
‘Hang on to your bustle, baby,’ he announced. ‘Dunraven and Walters are coming to Tinseltown.’
We were halfway through decorating the tree before he’d be drawn on any details. I had asked every question in my mind and more, but he’d deflected them all, wanting only to savour his moment of bliss until its purity faded and it had to be kept alive by talking it over.
‘So the film is going into pre-production after Christmas,’ he said, handing me a bauble. ‘And we’ll start filming in April.’
‘When you say pre-production,’ I said cautiously, trying not to get prickled by the little pine needles as I tied on the bauble, ‘that includes casting, I guess? After Christmas?’
He sucked a breath in between his teeth.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘well, I need to talk to you about that.’
My chest fizzed uncomfortably. I hadn’t