Andre's good with the whip

We're in the dungeon, in a little back room down the hall that's hung with black lace and cracked, dim mirrors.

Andre looks down at me and smiles.

Yes, this is the place.

"Take your clothes off ," he tells me, and one by one the little pleated skirt, the studded black top, the demi-cut black laced bra, the high-cut fishnet stockings and the red and black suede pumps come off, till it's only me and the big O-ringed collar.

Naked, I look up at him and nod.

"Lean over the saddle," he says.

"Master, can I keep my shoes on?"

"Yes."

And I'm draping myself over the leather vaulting bench, ass in the air across from the mirror, my backside displayed for the pleasure of anyone walking past this quiet room, or coming down the hall to watch.

"It's my birthday this month, and you're going to take smacks for me," Andre says, "And if you make any mistakes when you count, I'm going to start over."

"Yes, Master," I respond.

(We've agreed that for this evening, I am going to follow new rules and address him as Master at all times, wait to be spoken to, and let him lead me..a shift from our more usual only in bed D/s dynamic.)

Ohh, he hits me hard! I can feel my ass redden as his big hands rail down.

"Six, thank you, Master....Seven, thank you Master...Eight..."

He's old enough it goes on and on, warming my butt so by the time we stop I know I'm pleasantly red, and so relaxed from the beating I'm open to any new thing.

Soon, the spanking is done and now my legs are spread and I'm bent over the saddle, getting flogged, the floggers and the twigs and the little cane-y thing sending me right into subspace.

Andre's good with the whip, a man who puts thought into his blows, who takes pleasure in the red strips railing down my legs, the pink reddening circle on my ass, the whip marks on my back.

There's a precise poetry in his hands, they get right into the rhythmn, taking me far and away, yet grounding me right here, blow after blow after blow.

Why is it that being hurt in this manner feels so good when someone I care for is wielding the whip?

Why do I crave this feeling of surrender?

Of giving myself over to be used and taken?

Over and over, as Andrew strikes, I feel the power inside myself of giving and letting go, the incredible sexual energy of surrender and it's a white heat of pleasure between us, lust and love and trust.

"Feel how hard I am," he whispers, and he leans over and presses against me and I feel his cock, hard and thick through his pants, grinding into the small of my back, my ass, my thighs, my legs.

Good, oh it's so good, I think, and smile, because I know we're not done.

To be continued...