Page 33 of Carrick
“Alright Bellamy, here’s what you’re going to do. First, strip to bra and panties,” I said, voice low, grounding for both of us. “Then kneel in front of the bench.”
She moved with quiet purpose, peeling off her hoodie, then her camisole, then her leggings, folding each piece with the kind of mechanical focus that said her hands needed something to do. And then she knelt—bare knees to hardwood, thighs pressed together, head bowed—not as a performance, but as something deeper. Intentional. Clean. Reverent.
Every part of her was wound tight with anticipation. Vulnerable, yes, but never afraid.
When her gaze dropped, it sent a bolt of heat straight through my chest and down to my cock.
I swallowed hard, jaw clenched, holding myself still.
“Color?”
Her voice came soft but sure. “Green.”
My control locked tight. This was happening—she was giving herself to me, fully and without fear. I stepped beside her and gestured to the tools laid out on the bench.
“Name every piece,” I said, not looking at her yet. “You don’t get what you can’t name. I don’t scene with tourists, Bellamy. You said you’re not one.”
I paused. Let the air stretch thin between us.
“Prove it.”
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
She simply moved one hand over the selection of toys, as if deciding which one to start with. After a moment, she made her decision, and picked up her first selection, holding it like it was something holy.
Thecrop.
“Crop,” she said, voice steady. “Leather tip. Stingy. Fast. Used for precision. Corrective—not meant for endurance.”
Her fingers traced the shaft like she missed the feel of it, like her skin remembered the sting and wanted more.
I watched her in silence, arms crossed, pulse kicking up.
Every move was deliberate, not for show but for reverence. She wasn’t performing. She was surrendering to the ritual.
She set the crop down slowly, then reached for the flogger—suede falls worn soft from use, dragging like a promise across her palm.
“Thuddy flogger,” she murmured. “Heavy impact. Deep bruising. You use it in rhythm. It’s slow, grounding. Good for warm-ups... better for trance.”
My brow lifted.Trance.Most subs didn’t know the term. Fewer still had ever been there.
But she had, apparently.
She’d gone deep before. And she wanted to go deep now.
That tool joined the crop on the table.
Then her fingers curled around something thicker—shorter than a baseball bat, but heavier than it looked. Padded. Weighted. Silent in her grip.
“Weighted bat. This one’s cruelty in disguise,” she said, voice low. “The padding fools you at first. But it lands heavy. Deep. It doesn’t sting—it sinks.”
She rotated it in her hand once, like she was remembering how it felt. “Leaves you sore for days. A slow ache, not a sharp one. It bruises bone-deep.”
She set it down beside the flogger and picked up the next—thinner leather falls, sharp and fast. “Stingy flogger,” she murmured. “Lighter. Bites at the ends. Wraps if you’re careless.”
She didn’t look at me, but her mouth twitched. “You won’t be careless.”
