Bare Prone And Waiting 02 His

Part 2 of 2. Both parts were written collaboratively.

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Finally, it was real, when he saw her ass.

He'd seen her ass before, of course. He'd seen, and breathed, and tasted, played and manipulated, her entire body; he'd found her hidden mark, and even made her plead. He had struck her ass before also, on another bed, in another city. Seeing it again was not what made it real.

The reality came from the obedience. The unquestioning agreement. The willingness. From the tangible evidence of her actions that resulted directly from his spoken words.

He'd anticipated this moment for weeks. He had planned and timed the sequence of events with the focus that the scene, and especially this girl, deserved. And now, there on the bed, she lay, his: his claim, and his responsibility. Real.

He had told her he was going for a walk, and how she was to await his return. "Bare, prone, and waiting," he'd directed: a phrase she knew, a mode he knew she wanted. She would hear him return, he told her, but wasn't to raise her head or look or speak. Her mind would focus, without distraction, on what she knew would come, though she did not know when, or how. She would obey, wanted to obey; he knew that like he knew the sun would rise in the morning.

And now he saw her waiting, as he had directed her to do. It was good, and he told her so.

He moved to the side of the bed where she lay and picked up his satchel, the key in his hand. The satchel's name, in a bit of pleasant perfection, echoed a bond they had forged very early in their relationship, and he smiled to himself that she had embedded herself in him so soon, and so strongly. He had locked the satchel: not because he had thought she might open it while he was gone, though he knew curiosity was part of her essence, but because she should hear the key turn and know that this was something meant for her senses alone. In the satchel were a number of items -- a tickler, several pricklers, and implements of supple leather -- but only one item was suitable for this instant, for this moment when their lives intersected.

From the satchel he took out the dragontail, with its hard wound leather handle and its soft leather length that ended in a flat pointed tip. She knew it, as he had used it before: in lines and lines of text, and hours and hours on a screen, this way and that way, but now she would know it in a new way. Real.

He laid the tail on her bare back and drew it slowly, lightly, over her. Across her back, over her ass, down along the backs of her legs, back up her body to her graceful neck with its hidden mark. "You should see this now," he said, and brought the tail of the whip to her face where she could breathe the fresh leather meant for her.

And then it was time. He stood beside her, taking in again her bare body, outstretched for him, the plaited length of her copper hair, and her pale bare ass, full curved buttocks flanking a deep soft cleft. He touched the end of the whip to her ass, set his eyes to a point on her skin, then raised his hand back and brought the leather down to it.

She gasped, but quietly. He knew she was determined not to show weakness, determined to show him that his girl could take whatever he gave. But he was determined too. To show her that it was good to show vulnerability, because to do so proved her strength; to show her he wanted the strength of her will and would claim it from her. And so he struck, and struck again. The feeling of claim rose in him, the warmth of it mounting like a thick hot liquid filling every open space inside him. And with the claim came arousal, its not-so-silent partner, the physical manifestation of the urgency in his mind.

He felt himself enter a zone of being that was not quite automatic -- still focused and deliberate, but full, all-encompassing. Nothing else existed in his world: not the room they were in, not the light of the sun, not the sea and the boats spreading out beyond the windows of the room, not the voices and the pulls of others that clamored for his attention. He saw none of that, heard none of it, felt none of it, felt only her body bare to him, and the yearning call of her mind, and the desire to strike.

And as he knew nothing else, he willed her to feel nothing else but his love, and his care, and his want, and his claim. Again and again he landed the whip to her body: to her wide yielding ass, to the curve of her seat beneath it, to the flat of her back above it. With every blow he took her, with every crack of sound from her skin he claimed her mind and her will, as she gripped the sheet, and twisted, and cried out for him. Red striations rose on her body, the welts and furrows that signified his ownership of her, that she gave to him freely.

And then he stopped, for she was truly his. He told her she was done, and lay by her, and took her body to him in perfect possession, and held her close where none could come to harm her; and he kept her till time melted into permanence, and only the persistence of memory remained.