Page 34 of Carrick
I said nothing, but something inside me lit like a fuse.
Her gaze lifted. “Used right, it’s pure endorphin.”
My cock throbbed.Jesus.
She didn’t just know this. She craved it.
She picked up the devil sticks—thin, nasty little bastards meant for close, controlled impact. “Precision bruising,” she said. “Best used slow. It can leave beautiful marks if you space them right.”
Then the single-tail whip.
She uncoiled it like she was unwrapping a prayer.
“Signal whip. Cracks like thunder. Used for fear. For tension. Not just pain.”
She was reverent now. Not romantic. Butintentional.
The dragon’s tongue came next—bright red, stiff, with a bite like sin. “Sharp fire,” she murmured. “A dragon’s tongue whip. It licks. You feel it in the spine. Leaves you red in one pass. Black and blue if you layer it.”
By the time she reached the shark’s bite, my breathing was louder in the room than hers. She turned the strap over in her hands, dragged her thumb across the embedded plastic spikes. “Used for spanking,” she whispered. “With enough force, you feel it for days. Every step. Every seat. Every time you lie down.”
She set it down like it was a memory.
And finally, she pulled the remaining items from the lower tray underneath the bench; a cane, several paddles—wood, leather, and metal—and the violet wand.
“Rattan cane,” she said, trailing her fingers along the shaft. “Sharp. Fast. Scars the mind more than the skin. But it can definitely scar the skin, too.”
She paused, brushing her thumb over the smooth grain of the wooden paddle. “Wood paddle—classic. Thuddy. Builds pressure. Leather paddle—stings. Heats. Metal paddle…” she smiled faintly. “Metal is punishment.”
Her hand hovered over the violet wand, fingers ghosting the wires. “Pain with a spark,” she murmured. “Used right, it’s heaven. Used wrong…”
She looked up. “It’s hell.”
Our eyes locked. And I saw it there—clear, steady,hungry.
“Ok, that’s everything. I know what they are,” she said. “I know what they do. And I want them.”
Something inside me snapped. Not from rage—from recognition. She wasn’t bluffing. Wasn’t posturing.
She wanted to unravel. And I was the only one she’d let pull the thread.
I took a slow step forward. Deliberate and measured.
Her breath caught like a held chord—tight in her chest, humming between us.
“You told me,” I said, my voice low and steady, “that you needed to feel real again. That you wanted to stop carrying everything—every fear, every unknown, every moment spent pretending you weren’t coming undone.”
Her lips parted, eyes wide. But she didn’t speak.
So I did.
“That you wanted to be used,” I murmured, “not carelessly. Not cruelly. But with purpose. With intention. Like your painmeantsomething.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
The sound of it—it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t unsure.
It wastrue.
