Page 75 of For Her Own Good

Starla’s caught her breath by now, though, her inhales and exhales coming slow and even, and she’s looking up at me from where her head is cradled in my lap, scratching gently at my thigh through the fabric of my pants. Is she taunting me, daring me? Her sass is perhaps a front for fearing I won’t do it. Either way, there’s only one thing to do.

I catch up her wrists, one in each hand, and place them at the small of her back, gathering them into one hand. Aside from this being hot as all hell, I don’t want her to get hurt. Not for real, anyhow, and reaching her hands into the path of the hairbrush is a sure way to do that.

After she’s secured to my satisfaction, I look back to her face to see if she’s still okay. Her expression reads to me like gratitude and it tugs at something inside me. Am I reading her right? When she mouths, “Thank you,” I know for sure I am. Clutches my heart in a harder, more thorough way.

I don’t want to say you’re welcome, because I owe her as much thanks as she owes me. Not that she owes me anything. It seems the right thing to do is to brush some hair back from her face and stroke her cheek with the pad of my thumb. Tell her in more than words that I’m grateful for her. More than she could ever know. So, with one hand I restrain her, and with the other I pet and stroke her. If that doesn’t encapsulate what Starla enjoys, I don’t know what does.

* * *

Starla

I could die happy like this. Not that I want to die—I’ve spent an awful lot of my life trying not to die—but if I had to, this wouldn’t be a terrible way to go. Lowry’s stroking my hair and dragging his thumb across my cheek and the only thing I could want more than this is to take his thumb in my mouth. Suck on him while his other hand is pressing my wrists into the small of my back. Hell, I wouldn’t say no if he unzipped his pants and stuffed his cock down my throat. But that would be unwise given that I’m about to take a beating. I wouldn’t put anything…delicate in between my teeth during that—it seems risky. God knows I wouldn’t want to hurt Lowry at all, but especially not damage his beautiful cock.

Sometimes Jade gags me during this part, but she won’t this time. Won’t want to set a bad example for Lowry since she wouldn’t gag me if we were brand-new to playing with each other. Nor will she want to spare him from what this is like, for better or for worse. She wants him to hear me, see my face contort, I know it.

And then there’s the smooth plane of wood rubbing over my cheeks. They’re sensitized, tenderized already from the hand-spanking I’ve had, and the sensation is far more intense than had Jade done this when we first began. A hand brushing over my skin would set me to tingling, and this is nearly electrifying. I shift my hips in anticipation and I get a short, sharp tut of the brush for my trouble that makes me gasp. Oh, yeah, this is going to be a lot. She was very thorough with her hand and that’s going to make this a more intense experience for me.

Like that.Shit.

A more serious crack of the brush across the fleshiest part of my bottom has me gasping for breath and my shoulders rising, as though I could escape that way. Of course I can’t. I know better than that. Even when it’s only me and Jade, I can’t, and now I’ve got Lowry ceasing his petting to press down between my shoulder blades in a way that makes me groan. There’s no escape, I have to take this. And if I do, I will make them both happy and will have earned whatever kind of affection and care they see fit to bestow upon me afterward.

Which is maybe kinda messed up? Do most people assume they’re worthy, deserving of affection? Kindness? Spoiling? Care? Cosseting? Or am I not as alone as I think in needing to prove myself worthy, of earning that, of repaying the person, or rather, putting a down payment on any sweetness they might have for me? Regardless, this is how I’ve chosen to receive this and it lets me have affection without embarrassment, without questioning why I’m receiving it. It’s obvious.

Which is why, despite it hurting like fuck, I relish the way the paddle strikes my ass, builds up heat, and is surely painting the pale skin a mottled red. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, with some bruises that will remind me of everything we’ve done here for days to come. Trophies, yes, of being strong enough to handle what Jade dished out, but also souvenirs from a time very much enjoyed.

My mouth works in ways I can’t control, parting on a yelp, tightening on a squeal and squeak, flying wide open with a cry as Jade takes a crack at a spot she’s been hitting over and over and over. My god, that’s painful. And when Lowry swipes at a spot of saliva at the corner of my mouth, I can’t help it.

I lick the pad of his thumb and then suck it inside, groaning with satisfaction when I can surround it with my mouth and suck it deep and hard. Makes it easier to take the stinging pain on my backside, how there’s pain on impact, yes, but how it also radiates and stays long after the hairbrush has moved on to other parts of my bottom, the backs of my goddamn thighs. It’s when Jade hits me there that I’m most tempted to swear, but I’m also acquainted with the consequences of spitting curses at her. So I’ll keep sucking at Lowry’s thumb and trying to breathe because I’ve been scolded often for forgetting.

You wouldn’t think it would be possible to forget to breathe, but when you’re being smacked and hit and swatted, it’s easy to hold your breath. Trying to manage pain is a tricky thing, and all sorts of normal, everyday things get left by the wayside. Which is one of the wonderful things about this: when you’re trying to figure out how you’re going to accept the next blow, when you’re trying as hard as you can not to break down into tears, it’s easy to forget about pretty much everything else. That deadline you missed, that email you need to write, the nagging decisions you haven’t made, how you’ve disappointed your father—yeah, everything.

I can feel it now, sneaking up on me, that feeling of being near the edge, of being so close to tipping over fromI can do thisintoI cannot fucking take this anymore. Sometimes Jade will make me tell her—how many more swats I can take and I know she’ll make them hard and that I’ll have to count. It’s a kind of game I play with myself. How many can I take for her, how many will it take before I break down? I don’t want to guess too many because then I won’t be able to make it and I’ll feel shitty about disappointing her, but I also don’t want to make it too few because I want to be strong for her and also prove myself.I am tough, I am strong, look at everything I can take.

I don’t think she’s going to force me to do that today, which is fine since I have too much swirling around in my head already, though at the moment it’s static: a background thing, muddled together and happening somewhere in the distance. I’ve hit that deeper level of subspace now. Not the slightly disconnected pleasant feeling of letting things happen and not acting overmuch to try to prevent them, but that push under the water that makes me feel surrounded.

Nothing matters now except feeling, and I am feeling. Every inch of my body is alive and I feelmore. Hypersensitive as though my nerves are straining toward any stimulus and intensely aware of what is happening now. The only things from the past that matter are the ways in which Jade prepared my body for what she’s visiting upon it now. Pain on top of more pain. Sting on top of ache, heavy thwack on top of an already stoked fire.

Which is when it happens. Really fucking hard on top of a spot she’s been paying special attention to since she bared my bottom, and that was the hardest she’s hit me all night, no joke. Most of the time, I have a hard time distinguishing between how hard she’s hit me. A softer swat can feel ouchier after she’s hit me there before. But this—this—I can guarantee that this is hard. So hard I almost choke myself around Lowry’s thumb instead of laving it. Fuck,fuck.

All of a sudden, I am there, very fast. That point at which the pain stops being manageable and becomes way too fucking much. The reflex of fight or flight I’ve been able to control breaks free of the tethers that held it. All of a sudden, this stops being a fun game and becomes terrifying. My body no longer gives a shit that if I say stop this stops. Fear overtakes me and everything human about me flees.

I have enough presence of mind to look up at Lowry as the next strike falls, and as our gaze connects, I think he can sense it or can read the expression on my face. He must, because unlike before when he’s silently studied me, even seemed painfully pleased with my predicament, he says, “I see you,” a split second before Jade whales on me again. Those three simple words buoy me, but I still freak the fuck out when the strike lands. Because it hurts enough to force me to tears and pained gasps, to render me into a mass of panic.

I’m not fighting because I can, I’m now fighting because I can’t not.

Lowry releases my wrists and I hear him say, “Stop,” but not to me, even though he’s looking in my eyes.

At this point, I’d usually curl up in Jade’s lap, cry on her shoulder while she caresses and soothes me, tells me what a good job I’ve done, how strong and brave I’ve been, how pleased with me she is, and how I’m okay. I’m okay because it’s over.

What she won’t say is that I can lose my shit because I’m allowed to now. That I have earned the right to cry and fall apart because I’ve withstood pain and punishment and humiliation and anyone under those fucking circumstances would be within their rights to hardcore lose it.

But I hear it nonetheless when we’re together because she knows. She knows why I do this, what I get out of it, even as my butt is bruised and sore for days, even during the times when I’ve yelled at her that I hate her and that this hurts like a motherfucker and she’s an asshole for doing this. Sure, I get mocked and punished for that too, but I’m allowed to say those things, allowed to be angry and hurt, which I haven't been permitted to for most of my life. Except with Lowry. He always let me have my feelings. He’s letting me have them now.

I am a mess, a wreck. The tears are flowing uncontrollably and I’m scrambling at, scratching at, anything I can get ahold of because I need something. Someone. I need to be held, reassured. I’ve done my time and now I want my reward. I want to be cuddled and consoled. And now my mind is faced with a question when usually I don’t have to deal with any: Jade or Lowry?

They’re both here. I’m…on both of them. While my inclination is to climb into Lowry’s lap, I don’t want to betray Jade. She’s been here for years. Met my needs whereas Lowry abandoned me, even if I understand why now. Will she feel badly if I choose him? I don’t want her to. But isn’t that what he’s here for? To see what this is like? To make an informed decision? To see the full burden of what it’s like to be with me, what I want? Because no one has had to take this on before. They’ve all gotten off easily. Or not, as the case may be.

Irritation pricks the back of my neck and frustration rises to the surface of my desperation because it’s not fair that I should have to think about such things when this hasn’t been part of the toll I’ve been expected to pay before. It’s too much and tears of frustrated rage are about to join those of fear, pain, and release.

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