Counting to Ten by Elizabeth Cage

ONE
He makes me count each time his hand contacts the naked flesh of my exposed arse. The first slap is always a shock, the sting a fusion of pleasure and pain in equal measure.
I remember the first time he asserted his authority. We had been out for a meal at an out-of-town restaurant. On the way back, he drove into a public car park and put his red Mercedes in a space at the far end. It was a summer evening, and still half light. I wondered why we had stopped, but before I could ask he ordered me to strip off in the car. I smiled. It seemed like a sexy idea, so I slipped out of my short silky dress and lacy boy-shorts and leant back in the passenger seat, the leather upholstery sweaty against my naked skin. I have small, neat breasts so I don’t often wear a bra. Feeling pleased with myself for meeting the dare and getting a frisson of excitement every time someone walked across the car park, I waited for him to kiss me. Instead he told me calmly that he wanted me to get out of the car and walk to the other side of the car park.
I was taken aback. Surely he was joking? But the expression on his face, the intensity of his grey-blue eyes said otherwise. He repeated his request, waiting for my response. My hand was gripping the door handle, undecided. What if someone saw me? Maybe that was the point. Shaking, I swung my legs round, my heels scrunching on the gravel. The first few steps were tentative, but there was no one else around at that moment and the warm breeze tickled my skin and I felt strangely liberated. I made it to the other side. I looked over to the car for approval. I needed his approval. He gave me a tight smile and I wondered if I had passed the test. Walking back was much harder.
Afterwards, when he dropped me home, I found myself hugely turned on and I was sure we would make love. But he informed me quietly that he was going away on business for a week and I was forbidden to pleasure myself until he came back. I was stunned. Another test.
When he returned, he brought me a gift. He told me he had made it especially for me. But first he needed to know if I had obeyed his instruction. I had. When his lips brushed against my neck before moving down my body, inch by inch, I thought I would explode with desire and lust. I came with such force as soon as he entered me, my whole being racked with violent spasms. He waited until I was satiated with pleasure, overwhelmed with inexplicable feelings of tenderness for him. Then he placed my hand on the gift that he brought for me, an elegant whip that he had crafted himself from long strands of soft but strong black leather. He took it from me, and began to trail it along the length of my pale skin, from my chin down my exposed belly and breasts, to my thighs, knees, ankles, and the tips of my crimson-painted toes. It felt sensual, the leather strands caressing, like an attentive lover. He let the leather tails dangle over my mouth, brushing my lips. Then he told me to kiss the whip. And I did.

TWO
We had been dating for two weeks when I realised that I was already lost.
I had arrived at his house to be greeted by a note pinned on the door. “Strip before you knock.” I had spent hours getting ready, and was wearing a stunning brand new boned corset dress with a flowing crushed velvet skirt slit to the thigh to show off my long slim legs. But even so, I removed all my clothing, dismantling my carefully constructed outfit. Standing on the doorstep in my spiky black heels I felt suddenly self conscious. His house was partly shielded from the road and passers-by with trees. Even so, there was always the possibility that someone might call by, might discover me naked. It was thrilling but scary at the same time. But it was the knowledge that I was doing it for him that turned me on. He made me wait for what felt like ages, vulnerable and exposed, and I could feel and smell my own increasing wetness. The scent of my lust was intoxicating. Finally, the door opened and I almost melted when he told me to go upstairs and lay down on the bed. Unquestioningly, I obeyed. The bed, which was draped with a black rubber sheet, had steel handcuffs attached to each corner in readiness. I picked up the velvet-lined blindfold on the bedside table and put it on, making sure it was fastened properly. Lying there, engulfed in darkness, every fibre of my being was awake and alert to the slightest sound, the slightest movement. I heard footsteps on the stairs and my body tensed. I waited for him to speak, longing to hear his voice, but I had to endure the silence while he attached the cuffs to my slim wrists and ankles, so I was wide open. He ran a fingernail down between my breasts, lightly scraping the surface of my milk-white skin. I groaned, floating as I lost myself in the sensation of his hands exploring my eager body. He trailed a finger in my mouth, and I began to lick the tip, letting my head roll back onto the pillow. Then without warning he pulled his fingers away and rammed them hard inside my shaved cunt. It hurt. I jerked my hips and yelped. He responded by forcing a huge ball-gag into my mouth and securing it tightly. I thought I would choke as I struggled to breathe. He ignored my muffled cries and proceeded to probe me roughly, pinching and squeezing my nipples without mercy. But my cunt was dripping.