"Breathe with me," he says, his voice a soft whisper. And I begin to hear the rhythm of his breath, slow and deep, the exhale a long, leisurely release of air, a gentle sea breeze, a warm soughing of wind, and I close my eyes and breathe with him, his face close to mine, sharing the air. We breathe together, minutes go by, maybe more, his palm laying down lazy circles on my back.

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When he straightens up, he reaches for the whip.

"No!" I say.

"Yes," he replies. "There is more."

"James, please -- "

"Shhh," he says, placing his fingers over my mouth. When he sees I won't say anything more, he sets down the whip and reaches over and takes off the right wrist cuff, then the left.

I think he's changed his mind, there won't be any more, but then he moves me down to the very edge of the bed, has me get up on all fours.

"If you fight me," he warns, "I'll put the cuffs back on."

He moves my knees apart, then tells me to go down on my elbows. Once again, my ass is in the air. I turn my head, see him pick up the whip. My body tenses.

He puts his hand on me, on my hip, my buttock, my thigh. "Relax," he orders, "breathe."

I think of the whip. I think of the pain.

"Breathe," he says again, his hand still on my haunch, and this time I close my eyes and try to relax. Several minutes go by before the touch of his hand leaves me. Again I feel the sting of his whip, the slashing pain on my ass. I clench my hands into fists, drawing them close to my body. He leans over and pulls out my arms, pries open my fists.

"I don't want to see you tightening your muscles, he says, "or tensing your body." He pauses, then adds, "Settle in, Carly, because I'm just beginning."

I close my eyes again, waiting for the whip. When it comes, I jerk, feeling the pain, but this time I concentrate on my breathing and I relax before the next blow arrives. He strikes me again, on the top of my back, and I shudder, wanting this to be over, but he whips me again and again, on my ass, my back, my thighs, and I wait for the memory of that earlier long-forgotten pain to return, the darkness and blood and the feeling of death in every broken bone, but it doesn't come. It is gone, faded away. The pain I feel now is of a different kind, sharp and burning, the pain of the here-and-now, and as I concentrate on my breath, my gasps begin to come out as low groans, and I keep my fingers unfurled, telling myself the pain will lessen the more I relax.

But it doesn't. I feel each strike painfully, and sometimes I forget to breathe, and James leans over and reminds me, then he hits me again, and again, and again. I don't know how long this continues, I've lost all sense of time, and it takes me a minute to realize when the blows have stopped. I wait, expecting more, but nothing comes. My buttocks feel warm and prickly, tender. I wait longer, then finally allow myself hope that he is through.

When I open my eyes, I see him walking toward me from the bathroom, his shirt unbuttoned, a glass of water in his hand. I dare not move. As he gets closer, I see he is flushed, and beads of sweat linger on his chest and face.

He gulps the water, watching me, sets the glass on the armoire, then takes off his shirt. His chest is broad, muscled, lightly tanned, with not much hair. I want to ask him if I can move, but I'm afraid to speak, afraid to disturb the silence. He slips off his shoes and socks, then picks up the whip. I close my eyes, waiting, knowing more is still to come. He's not finished with me yet.

He begins again, and the pain starts all over. There is a rhythm to the way he whips, although he breaks it up, surprising me with three rapid strikes within a sequence of slow hits. The pain mounts, a crescendo of blows, while he moves from side to side, slowly, striking me from here, lashing out from there, placing each stroke deliberately, like an artist covering his canvas, and then, despite the pain, or maybe even because of it, I notice something strange within myself, acceptance, perhaps, or something more urgent than that, some kind of temptation or hunger that comes from deep inside, a feeling too disturbing to acknowledge. I concentrate on my breath.

Then I feel his hand move between my legs, insinuating, and I open my eyes and forget to breathe. His fingertips brush against the lips of my vagina. I hold my breath, waiting, tense. Not once this evening has he touched me in a sexual manner.

"Spread your knees more," he says, pushing them apart farther with his other hand. He lays his palm on my buttock, and I feel the heat of my own flesh, the hotness left behind from the scourge of the whip. With his other hand, he slides the tips of his fingers along the opening of my vagina, barely making contact, a brushstroke touch. I remain motionless, apprehensive, waiting, but he neither penetrates nor causes me pain. The muscles in my back and shoulders, down my legs and in my calves, are tight, taut, and I feel the bare touch of him, teasing it seems, or torturing, and then I remember his appeal, forgotten in the pain, but it's coming back to me now, and I realize -- or maybe I knew it all along -- that I want him to fuck me.

As if he could read my mind, he pushes a finger inside me, twists it around. He puts in two fingers, and I relax, accepting him.

"You're dripping," he says. He removes his fingers and, leaning forward, with one knee on the bed, he shoves them in my mouth. I suck his fingers to the knuckles, tasting myself, smelling myself.

"Don't move," he says, taking his fingers out of my mouth, then he gets up, standing behind me. I hear him unbuckling his belt, the rustle of a sliding zipper, his pants falling to the floor, then more movement as he steps out of his underwear. I try to turn around, to look at him, lift up on one elbow, but he puts his hand on my back and shoves me down.

"There's nothing here you need to see," he says, and his fingers are inside me again, palpating. I hear him go down on his knees, and I think he is going to fuck me now, but instead he slaps my ass sharply with the palm of his hand. I tighten up, let out a sudden cry, surprised by the unexpected pain. He keeps his fingers inside me, moving them around.

"This feels better, doesn't it?" he asks.

I nod, not sure if he is referring to the pain or the pleasure, too afraid to ask. He slides out his fingers and goes to my clitoris, rubbing gently. He hears me sigh, a soft moan.

"You like this?" he asks, and I nod again, closing my eyes. He continues rubbing, then uses his other hand on me as well, his fingers hard and cool and pushing against me, determined, trying to wedge inside my vagina but not succeeding, and I feel myself growing wetter, wanting more, impatient, so I press back against him, then abruptly realize it is not his finger pushing against me, but something else, something hard and round: the wooden handle of the whip.

"James?" I ask, uncertain, a slight protest.

"Quiet," he commands as he continues to work it inside me, twisting it in bit by bit, nudging, prying me open with the whip that had caused me so much pain, and then, unexpectedly, I feel myself getting even wetter, yielding to the thought of this violation, wanting it, wanting more, and all of a sudden the handle slips in easily, slick with my own juice, and then he fucks me with it, his other hand still on my clitoris, rubbing, until he makes me come.

When he removes the handle, he puts the rounded knob up to my lips. I know what he wants, but I don't comply. I've had enough of the whip for one evening.

"Suck on it," he orders, and he shoves it in my mouth, holds it there, makes me gag. He pushes his penis inside me and fucks me roughly, his hands on my back and head, holding me down, getting what he wants, watching me suck the wooden handle of his black leather whip.

When he is through, he leans down and kisses the back of my shoulder -- the only kiss he has given me tonight -- and then whispers in my ear. "You don't understand anything yet," he says, "but before I'm finished with you, you will." He kisses my shoulder again, then adds, "And you'll give me what I want."

I don't ask him what that is.
salon.com | May 26, 2000

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