“It’s a flogger,” I said, and heard the catch of excitement and fascination in my voice.
“Very good.”
“I told you I’m not innocent,” I said huskily.
“Have you ever used one?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said. “I want to be your first.”
“Cole—” I stopped, unsure what I’d intended to say.
“Yes?”
“I—what else is in the room?”
“Just one other thing. A St. Andrew’s cross. Do you know what that is?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Picture an X made out of smooth wooden beams. It’s attached to a frame, and that frame is attached to the wall. Your torso rests where the beams cross. Your ankles and wrists at the top and the bottom. Bound, Catalina. You understand that, right?”
I swallowed, then nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.
“Bound and naked and unable to move. To do anything but feel. I want you to go there, Kat. Go there, take your clothes off, and position yourself on the cross.”
I closed my eyes and imagined it. Imagined my steps, slow and hesitant. Imagined putting my feet in place, leaning in, thrusting my arms up.
“It’s padded under your wrists and ankles and belly. Do you feel that?”
“Yes,” I said. I shifted in the seat, spreading my legs. A slow burn was starting to ease through me, simply from the power of my imagination and the anticipation of the words that were to come.
“Do you know why so many submissives enjoy being flogged?”
“It feels good?”
He laughed. “In a nutshell, yeah. But it’s deeper than that. And the truth is it doesn’t feel good right away. Pleasure from pain, and you can’t get to the one without going through the other.”
“Oh.” My voice sounded breathy, and just a little concerned. I reminded myself that I was in my car, with nary a flogger in sight. This was a test run. And this was Cole. And this would be fine.
“I’m slipping the straps around your ankles now,” he said. “First the left, then the right. Sliding up your body, stroking your inner thighs, teasing your cunt with my fingers. Just a little. Just to make sure you’re aroused. That you want it. That your body is primed.”
“It is.” I realized that my hand had slipped down between my thighs. That I was cupping my sex. And that my hips were gyrating a little, as if seeking just the right amount of pleasure.
“I’m tracing my hands lightly up, over the curve of your ass, then cupping your waist, your sides, then going higher to bind your arms on the cross. Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Spread your legs,” he murmured, and I realized that I already had. “And arms up and wide. Have you done it?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Turned on. Curious. A little nervous.”
“The pleasure you feel depends a lot on the buildup. On making sure you’re prepared. I like to start soft. Sensual. And there’s music, too. Are you familiar with ‘Carmina Burana’?” he asked, referring to the soaring cantata that was based on medieval chants.
“Yes.”
“It’s playing in the background. Can you hear it?”
“Yes,” I whispered, and I could. It’s one of my favorite pieces, rousing and uplifting and slightly disturbing all at the same time. It was, I thought, fitting to the moment.
“I’m letting the flails trail over your back, your shoulders. Then lower and lower until I’m between your legs, and, oh, Jesus, Kat, you’re already so wet.”
“Yes,” I agreed, because at the moment that seemed to be the only word I was capable of forming.
“I flick it up, the strips of leather catch your sex, tease your clit. It doesn’t hurt, the motions are too soft yet, but it’s arousing. It ignites you. It makes the burn start to flow.”
I swallowed, because I felt it. The buzz of heat between my thighs. The tease of the leather flicking against my sex.
I wanted to lower my hand, to stroke and touch and tease the low pulse of sensation into something wilder and more needy, but I knew that was against the rules, and I kept my hands firmly on the roof of the car.
“I do the same along your upper back—and, Kat, that’s where I’m focusing. But the sensation will shoot through you. You’ll feel it everywhere. You’ll—well, you’ll see.”
I kept my eyes closed, the better to imagine.
“Do you feel it? The soft rhythm of the leather against your skin? Your upper back, first on one side of your spine and then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, baby, back and forth, a bit harder, then a bit more, and the flails are landing in the same spot each time so that the sensation keeps building for you, up and up until you reach a point where you’re not only feeling it, but experiencing it. Where pain shifts subtly into euphoria. Where you start to float.”
“I feel it—oh, god, Cole, I do.” I had no way of knowing if it would be the same in real life, but in this imaginary world inside my head, I imagined my back turning more and more red. I imagined the pain rising, and then breaking just at the peak, replaced by something close to bliss. Something that spread through me, warming me, and even taking me outside of myself so that I could fly, tethered by the rhythm of Cole’s hand and the knowledge that he wouldn’t let me float away.
He kept it up, talking me through what I was feeling, taking me higher, and then just when I was on the verge of floating so high I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to come back down, he slowed the flogging, then stopped altogether.