Ezri arrived at twelve as promised. The discussed trainee, Clara, was a pace behind her right side, legs together, hands behind her back, and head slightly lowered, not looking up when the door opened. Obviously well trained, if Jen cared to use it. Of course, she’d gotten some extra time alone with her trainer, a consideration contract ended all of three days prior. Pretty. Subtle. She wore black, a bell sleeved sweaterdress accented with lace over leggings. The long, sleek curtain of hair, bangs, was also black. Matched the file and the FetLife pictures and the vague memory of her serving at a party.
She followed Ezri in, but was silent and still in the position as Ezri ran over the plan one more time. A few hours, flexible. Just enough to get to know each other, likely play, let Jen decide if she wanted more. Ezri would be checking in now and then. Whatever agreements they discussed, a final reminder that safewords would be respected today.
Jen rolled her eyes a little but agreed. She wasn’t stupid. Ezri clearly had strong feelings about consent to begin with and was clearly very attached to this case in particular. To cross her on that would guarantee she'd never get to buy Clara or anyone else from her. But she liked Ezri. She seemed like a sane, settled adult—something the file indicated Clara was, too; two grown “kids” seemed promising, if seeing “kids” had spiked her heart rate into no territory at first glance.
Ezri was also apparently very good at what she did, if Clara’s training and popular opinion was a good indicator. And the network was discerning in that department. If mostly a well organized BDSM group with the expectation of deep CNC, a love for higher levels of protocol Jen largely didn't share, and a slightly, slightly more welcoming view of what she considered acceptable sadism, in the end it was human trafficking for profit, no matter if there was enthusiastic up front consent. And, good training in their human products was highly valued.
Jen had no reason to piss Ezri off.
Ezri departed. The door closed behind her.
“Come here.”
Clara obeyed, kneeling in front of her in a smooth and clearly practiced motion, lowering to both knees at once. Well, that could be charming, she supposed, if not strictly necessary. The position was what she’d specified in her own paperwork when prompted, and held still.
Jen reached out and tilted Clara’s chin up. When she released her, Clara’s eyes stayed trained on her. So it was protocol, not obsequiousness, that had kept her gaze on the floor. Good. She had no interest in daily dinner conversation with someone who wouldn’t make eye contact with her, if it was a good skill now and then to keep their head down and be quiet.
The file said that while exclusively a slave in power dynamics, Clara was a sadomasochistic Switch, which was promising. Not that Jen had any use for a Switch herself, but the role indicated openness to some traits she found desirable, while not being threatening on the M/s front. And if the price of that was letting Clara beat up someone at a party now and then, so be it. She’d never been very good at sharing, but as long as at the end of the night, Clara was hers alone, she could probably handle it.
“Tell me about you,” she said, sitting on the couch. “Things I don’t know. You’re not under any protocol here.”
“Well, my name is Clara,” she said, and, because Jen did know that, “and I’m not an alcoholic.”
Jen smirked; there was clearly some nerve under all those layers of training. She offered the bored, “Hi, Clara,” with an amused head tilt.
“Other than that, I’d need a more specific question.”
Jen considered. She’d asked the open ended question because she wanted to see what Clara led with. Well, she’d certainly gotten an answer, hadn’t she? “I should ask—what do you know about me? I’m curious… what you found.”
“Nothing,” Clara said. “Almost nothing.”
Interesting. A statement about the pitfalls of essentially getting, what? A credit report, a background check, a FetLife profile, a bit of network paperwork, the Etsy shop? Whatever came up from Google—some open source work she wouldn’t understand? “You got nothing out of what was presented to you?” It came out a little accusing. She expected a defense.
“I didn’t look at any of it.” It didn’t sound defensive. And that was even more interesting. She was too well trained to just not care. She doubted Ezri would withhold information.
“Why not?”
“I wanted… to form my own opinions, in person. Be unbiased. Let you be a person, not a file.”
Interesting. Bias… “Did you get any messages about it?” Me. Her reputation did exist, and this wouldn’t be the first person to get a few messages of warning. Not a, Run far, run fast but a, Do you know what you’re getting into?
“Yes,” Clara said, a little softer.
“Did you read them?”
“No.”
“You weren’t intrigued, that you got them?”
“People always love not minding their business. That’s not news.”
She liked this girl. She’d managed to surprise her—pleasantly—at every turn so far, and few people did that once. She wanted to know more. Keep asking questions until she could finally predict the answers. Press every button until she understood what they did.
Yes, this might be exactly the type of challenge she was looking for.
“Then I’ll let you figure things out yourself.” The file she’d given Ezri was thorough if it was wanted later. For now... “Come sit at the table with me.”
Clara did, standing with a fluid motion like the one she had knelt with.
“Limits?” Jen asked when they were at the table. “For today. Ezri required I ask.”
Clara shook her head.
“There has to be something.” Surely she was smart enough to not be the type who refused to say no even at this stage. And what she said no to would be telling.
“Maybe don’t kill me.” The banter came easily.
Jen smiled. “So, fear of death.” Standing, pacing behind her chair, caressing her from behind.
“I’m not so much actively afraid of death as much as not in the mood for it today.”
Jen yanked on her hair, pulling her head back enough to look at her, smiled, her other hand pressing a knife at Clara’s throat. Gave her a moment. Let go of her hair for a moment, felt her pulse, racing, despite the silence. “Fear of death,” she repeated.
“Startled and afraid are two different things,” Clara got out, a little too softly, the metal cold and sharp at her throat. She continued looking at her even without the grip on her hair.
“But there’s nothing else?” Tracing a figure eight with the tip of the blade.
Clara closed her eyes. “Nothing else.” Intimidated, but not giving in.
Jen made a small noise that came out vaguely disappointed. “Why not?”
“I’d rather know now what you do when I don’t have limits. Assuming you’re pursuing no safewords, limits, leaving, all that.”
“Fair enough.” She liked that answer. And she liked the idea she might also get to find out what happened when nothing was taken off the table. She wanted to do some terrible things to this girl. Take her apart. See how she worked. She let go of her. Sat across from her again. “And yes, irrevocable consent. Now, you get three questions for me and then I'll let you find out what I do.”
Clara considered. “Why do you want a slave?”
Jen smiled at her. “I don’t like compromise. Why do you want to be a slave?”
“I don’t like partners who compromise.” The smirk was pretty on her. Tears would be better. Probably hard to get out of her, too. Extra satisfying. “Why sadism?”
That, she had a better answer for.
“It’s... control versus authority. Authority's conscious. It's granted. It’s something you decide to submit to, or face consequences. It's an assumption, and assumptions can always be broken. Control's a fact. You can’t fight it. It's not a decision. And you get to that with fear. Enough fear reduces you to instinct. It can break you down to who you are at your core, and every choice at that point is a predetermined yes or no. Binary. There are no thought processes or other emotions left. There’s just instinct that it’s too late to control. Your own instinct. What I like… is to take people whose instincts are to surrender and obey and get them to that place where there’s nothing else. Not to submission—that’s conscious, that’s the match to authority—but to their instinct, to surrender, when surrender is all they know how to do. To helplessness to fight even your own mind. And of course, if I can fine tune those instincts beforehand, that makes it better. So what do you use the fear of to reduce someone to instinct? Pain. It’s only human. It’s the one core fear that makes you afraid of anything else. And no one's fearless. So why fear pain? It's just an alarm bell. It’s an evolutionary feature that tells you when something's wrong. But you can’t accomplish much with a fire alarm going off, and you can’t think when you’re in too much pain. And what does that do to you? It makes you afraid that your mind isn’t working. That you’re losing what makes us human—reason. So, pain prompts fear. Fear prompts instinct. When those instincts are to surrender, when instincts can be conditioned—it’s all about control.”
She watched Clara’s face as she spoke. Wondered if it would be too much. It was almost always too much. But she got only curiosity, processing. “You like to break people’s ability to disobey.”
“Yes.”
Quiet, thinking. “What do you want from me? Schedule, service, rules?”
Jen tsked at how quickly she jumped to question number three. Stood, paced over to her again, tilted her chin up and asked, “What do you think of that?”
“Of breaking people’s ability to disobey?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Ms. Ezri thinks—”
Jen hit her. Obviously harder than she expected, pretending she’d expected it, but she got only a whimper and a flinch. “I’ve heard what Ezri thinks. Don’t hide behind her. What do you think?”
“I think... it makes sense to not settle for authority.” She paused, bit her lip. “You don’t separate your sadism and need for control and I don’t separate being a masochist and a slave. Like, the slave thing, the CNC thing is—a necessary part of the masochism, which is pain and physical but it’s also mental and—dark. I want to be owned, and I want to be loved, and I want to love and trust and respect them at the end of the day, but I also want it to be kind of fucked up and intense and to get to be hurt mentally and physically and be afraid and lost and have it be okay as long as I surrender.”
Much like Jen’s little speech, it came out all at once. Almost desperate. A plea to be understood. It was in her eyes, though she dropped her head and gaze as soon as she was finished. Jen tilted her chin up again and stroked her cheek where she’d hit her and said, “I think we’ll get along just fine,” very softly. With that, she yanked her to the floor by her hair.
It had been an understatement to say, We’ll get along just fine. What she wanted to say was, Finally. And it looked like that was what Clara wanted to say, too.
Right now, though, she yelped as she hit the floor, though she also found that kneeling position quickly. Another unnecessary but fun touch. “As far as what I want from you…” She shrugged, gestured around the house. “Keep the house in order. Handle food. Keep an eye on the cats. Nothing crazy. If you wanted a part time job to keep busy, I wouldn’t object. But a 24/7 live in dynamic. I don’t make it rocket science. I have five rules. So, not a lot of them, but they’re not up for negotiation.”
Clara looked interested at this, looking up at her, since she could not keep her head down with Jen’s hand fisted in her hair anyway. But she looked down again when Jen released her.
“Number one. Obey. You do as I tell you. No questions, no complaints, no hesitation. You can do first and ask later, but I don’t owe you answers. If you really don't understand, you ask nicely. You do your best. Full transparency and basic respect.”
Small nod.
“Two. Protect the property. You stay safe and take care of yourself. You’re not very valuable dead. Note that is rule number two and not rule number one.”
Nod again.
“Three. You answer when I call you. If it's yelling across the house or texting you or anything else, I want an answer. You’re allowed to be driving or asleep or whatever, but if you see it, you answer as fast as you can, and you make reasonable efforts to see it. No do not disturb. Rule one's about obeying my orders, rule two is about being alive to do so, rule three's about being there to hear them.”
Nod.
“Four. I know where you are at all times. You tell me when you leave somewhere, you tell me when you arrive somewhere. You tell me what your plans are. I get to track your location. I can’t control someone I can’t locate.”
Nodding.
“Five. No orgasms without my permission. No one touches you beyond friendly without my permission, including you. Your body belongs to me, and me alone. That, and number one, should be all that applies today. ‘Mistress’ will do as a title if you want to use one. Don't call me 'ma'am'. Do you have a problem with any of that?”
Small shake of her head.
It was—not so much the rules as everything else—a lot of information. More, but different, and more visceral, than what she usually laid out at first. But because things kept matching and matching and matching, she wanted to run down more of the eventual list. More and more eager to know if this could work. She felt newly invested in this working. The file was agreeable and the banter was fun but that bit about masochism and slavery and love and intensity and darkness was…
Finally.
“And because I really don’t know what you know, my name is Jen, and I’m not an alcoholic.”
There was that smirk again.
“I’m thirty-four; I work from home as a programmer basically on my own schedule. I was born here but moved to California when I was eighteen, and have generally been in and out of the scene since. I moved back here last year and found the network shortly after. And I have three cats.”
“Are the cats what's banging on a door upstairs?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” She thought, then added, “The cats have to like you. Except for Hounds, who doesn’t like anyone.”
“You have a cat named Hounds?”
“You got your three questions’ worth,” she decided. Clara could meet the skittish tabby that was Detective Hounds later. “Come with me.”
Clara stood, that well practiced version of standing again. Kept a pace behind and to her right, an impressive feat on the stairs and more noticeable than when they were moving to the little table by the kitchen. That could be cute on occasion, Jen supposed.
Upstairs, there were indeed paws swiping under a door and muffled mewing, but that wasn’t the room they went to. Jen closed the door behind them, silencing the cats.
Clara took in the room. The recessed lighting was set to a variety of warm hues that overall cast the white walls in crimson. Black tile floors, but a pile of red and black blankets and pillows in one corner. A folding table held several whips, leather restraints, another knife. The window was covered in black fabric. Soft music played from speakers built into the ceiling, electric violin she recognized. D-rings were mounted to the walls in various locations. A door that looked like it was for a bathroom connected to the room, like it was supposed to be the master bedroom.
What struck her was that for all the subtle, but significant modifications—the recessed smart lights and speakers, tile that didn’t match anywhere else, the d-rings—the room was empty except for easily temporary additions—the pile of blankets and folding table. Like a set. A bit of a theatrical touch, a scene as art.
What came out of her mouth was, “Red room of pain? Little stereotypical.”
Her back hit the wall behind her, knocking the air out of her lungs, her head not hitting it only for the hand tight in her hair. Jen slapped her again, hard, and after that her hand settled at her throat, pressing, the other still pulling her head back painfully. Clara whimpered, squirmed just trying to breathe. So this was where teasing got her. Oh, she could get used to that. Or, better yet, she couldn’t. It would hurt every time. She’d panic, wanting oxygen, every time. Not an empty threat that she’d learn to ignore. Not actual discipline. Not a hurt look.
“Any other opinions~?” Light, playful.
The pressure at her throat, the lack of air, was nauseating. Words couldn’t get through, only choked whimpers. She tried to shake her head and found the grip too tight. She closed her eyes and mouthed the word, No.
A second later she was on the floor, oxygen flooding her lungs, tightness in her chest easing, even with the painful jolt of her knees hitting the tile, the yank of her hair that had put her there.
“Strip,” Jen ordered, releasing her.
Clara slowly, shakily, went to stand, had barely gotten to kneeling upright when Jen kicked her in the thigh hard enough her hands slammed into the floor for balance as she lurched forward.
“You don’t really need to get up for that, do you?” Jen cooed, the words saccharine and sickly sweet, like trying to drink maple syrup straight.
Clara lowered her head and shifted back to kneeling, pulled her dress out from under her and over her head. Took off everything else in a similar manner, as smoothly as possible but not making a show of it, a little pile next to her.
Jen’s eyes followed her movements. She smiled. “That’s better.”
The very clear thought occurred to Clara, looking back at her: oh, you are a sadist. Not just a pain play Top. Not someone who happened to like bruises or whips. Not someone who just wanted control. But someone who wanted to make her squirm in any way possible.
Her heart raced. Pleasantly so. The lighting, stereotypical or not, had a striking effect on Jen's dark blonde hair, bangs and long, sharp layers, gave new saturation to the faded red of the leather jacket she wore. The boots, too, were leather, but black, like the jeans. That much leather was a stereotype of its own, actually.
“Come over here.”
Closer to the wall. She crawled to the spot specified as Jen paced over.
“Learning quickly? Or even more pet like instincts than your file claims?”
“Both.”
“You’d like to be my little pet? Get shown off on a leash, all the little tricks you can do? Play fetch? Get treats in your bowl when you're good, come hump my leg when you need to feel nice?"
“Those are very dog like assumptions for someone with three cats.”
For that line, she was rewarded with another yank back on her hair so far it hurt her neck, a knife at her throat. “Answer my question.”
“Not my thing; I think I’m more like the cats.” She kind of liked finding this brave side of herself.
Another sharp kick in the thigh, but the side this time. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Then maybe I’d like that, too.”
Jen hummed and released her.
She just had to press. “And you didn’t even have the nerve to cut me.”
Jen moved what seemed so quickly that Clara didn’t see the knife move across her arm as much as she felt the sudden, sharp pain of it, hissing through her teeth at the stinging throb, though it had to be safely calculated. All right, lesson learned.
“You might find I lack a lot of things, darling, but nerve isn’t one of them,” Jen told her.
“Fair enough,” she ground out.
Jen picked up the restraints on the table. “Stand up.”
Clara did, offering her wrists at the obvious gesture. A set of leather cuffs chained them loosely together and to the d-ring on the wall near chest level.
“No running off,” Jen said lightly, and picked up one of the floggers next. It was on the mean side of what could be called warmup floggers—thin, pointed black leather tails designed for sting, and not many of them, another sting factor. They didn’t lead straight into the handle but into a knot that wrapped around a metal o-ring, connected to the actual handle by a short length of chain—a swivel flogger, which changed angles quickly.
The whip came quickly, period—everywhere—her back, ass, thighs—anywhere it could reach, thwap, thwap, thwap. Not full force, but enough she realized she was holding her breath a little. Released it. Breathing through the pain was as powerful a coping tool as holding her breath was a powerful instinct.
It wasn’t even pain yet so much as sensation. Sting. Force. The natural reaction of being tied up and beaten, regardless of if it wasn’t hard yet.
But the lashes did come harder, her breathing a little more difficult to reign back in—just recovered and then lost at the next particularly hard strike.
“You know,” said Jen from behind her, “I was just experimenting with the swivel bits when I made this, but I ended up liking it.”
Had she made it? That was decently impressive. “It’s good for warm up,” she got out, with the slight emphasis that made it clear she could take more. True, but mostly said for reaction. She wasn’t a brat—usually—but call it playfulness, call it banter, teasing, curiosity—something had been drawn out of her today of all days. Oh, she knew Ezri’s stiff protocol wasn’t what she wanted, but the ebb and flow. Push and pull. Action and reaction. Whatever she had called it, it had never looked so much like bratting in her head as it did today.
The whip came much harder in response to her words, perhaps half a dozen hard strikes that knocked the air back out of her lungs and left her panting. Then, it stopped altogether.
When the pain started coming again, it wasn’t the flogger. She gave a breathless cry at the first strike and placed it as a belt. Hence not picking it up from the table. Fuck, it definitely wasn’t warmup.
It hurt. It hurt wonderfully. She sighed shakily and more of her weight fell on the restraints. This was much more what she craved. Needed.
More. She’d always liked belts. Handy. Versatile. The mix of thud and sting. She whimpered in protest when it stopped, which made Jen laugh as she picked up a dragon tail instead, paused next to her for a moment and pet her back, her hot, sensitive skin. Tucked a loose strand of hair back in front of her shoulder, a gesture that felt strangely intimate all else considered. Stepped back again and began with the whip.
It wasn’t so different from the belt, really, the way she used it, mostly solid strokes, a few rapid flicks that barely touched her, a quick bite of sting and gone. But it did sting more, and she hissed and writhed as it built up, pain starting to really stick, specific spots that still stung in particular the next time they were struck. Harder. “Fuck,” she panted, leaning on the restraints so hard it hurt, legs shaking, crying out. Her skin was damp from sweat, and she was surprised when Jen’s hand swiped across her back and then was in front of her displaying blood, extra red in the current lighting.
“You mark so nicely,” Jen murmured, “and bleed better.” She slipped her fingers into Clara’s mouth and Clara gave a slight moan as she lapped the streaks of blood off of them, a hint of the metallic taste. Jen smiled and withdrew. “Good girl.” She picked up a single tail and showed her the cracker attached. “This’ll make you bleed pretty, too.”
It stung for the first few strokes, but it didn't I think I might be bleeding more sting. Then, it did. Oh— She cried out, again and again, unable to help it with every few loud cracks of the whip. Her breaths came in shuddering sobs and gasps. No longer with the illusion that they were under control. She squirmed and struggled but the restraints didn’t give, and she cried helplessly. The tears came faster than ever with this intensity, almost humiliatingly easily. She sank to her knees with her arms now bound somewhat uncomfortably over her head, and that meant the whip came mostly at her back, but it didn’t let up. “Please,” she gasped between sobs, “please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please, Mistress, stop—I need—I can’t—” Gasps for oxygen that wasn’t coming. The whip kept coming. It wasn’t a safeword but she was surprised that stop was ignored. Yet, a part of her found relief in it. That there was no big to do about it. Faith that she would be pushed when she wanted to take more but couldn’t help but beg pitifully.
In a few more moments, the whip stopped coming. Just long enough later that it did not seem in direct response to her words. And just brief enough for Jen to pick up the first flogger again.
The flogger hurt on her sore, throbbing, broken skin, but not like the single tail, and Jen asked, “What was that about just for warmup?”
Clara whimpered.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“N-nothing, Mistress,” she got out, managing to find a bit of air, slower, hiccuped sobs.
“Are you about ready to behave yourself now?”
She hung her head. “Yes, Mistress,” she whispered.
“That’s a good girl. You do bleed pretty.” Hard strike. Whimper. “You break better. Get up.”
She stood cautiously. The flogger came again, plenty of strikes landing lower, down to her thighs. It felt like it could’ve been cooldown, if not for the damage it was striking over. Maybe it was ending. Disappointment and relief mixed confusingly. The lashes stopped. Jen set the flogger down and came up behind her, an arm wrapped around her, petting her, her breasts down to her stomach and the fronts of her thighs and the insides of them, and Clara realized as she touched her that it wasn’t all blood and sweat on her skin in that area. Of course. But almost humiliating that she was so dripping wet it had reached that low. Right now, she couldn’t be inclined to care, just lean against the touch trying to tempt it elsewhere.
It wasn’t that she felt aroused—she felt a lot of things right now, very strongly, and she couldn’t place what they all were, but direct arousal wasn’t quite one of them.
It became one of them rather rapidly when Jen’s fingers slipped between her legs, stroking her, precision lost to slipperiness. “God, you’re fucking wet,” she breathed near Clara’s ear. “Uselessly turned on little masochist. And you made such a nice show of crying and begging like you weren’t enjoying yourself.” She tsked. Every brush of her fingers across Clara’s clit made her twitch with need. She slipped two fingers inside of her with pathetic ease, fucked her while her other hand settled at her throat again, Clara whining and rocking against her fingers inside her and tilting her head back onto her shoulder. “Good girl. That’s it. Show me what a little pain slut you are.”
“Oh—ah, fuck,” she whimpered, and cried out as pleasure built and built. Her eyes fluttered shut; trying to look up, back, at Jen made her feel cross eyed; looking anywhere else felt inadequate. “Please?”
“Please, what?”
“Please, Mistress, may I come? Please?”
“No,” she said, all gentleness, as if she was only the one delivering the news, not deciding it. “Not yet.”
“Please, fuck, I’m going to, I need—”
“You need what? My permission?”
“Please!”
“Oh, but it would be so nice to see the look on Ezri’s face if I said her favorite trainee came without my permission so fast, wouldn’t it?”
“No, no, please—I’m about to—I don’t want—fuck—you can’t—” Ezri would commit a murder.
“I can’t?”
“Please, I’m sorry, please, you can, but please—please, don’t.”
Jen laughed. “Come. Come for me.”
Clara did. Hard. Nearly screaming in multiple forms of relief. Sank into Jen’s grasp until it was the only thing holding her up. Panting.
Jen lowered her to the floor and disconnected the wrist cuffs from the d-ring on the wall.
“Fuck you,” Clara said, any words of gratitude for once slipping her mind. She sniffled. Tears still streaked her face. She lapped her fluids off Jen’s fingers obediently when they pressed at her lips.
Jen smiled. “So, you’re afraid of at least two things,” she said. “You’re afraid of death and you’re afraid of Ezri’s disappointment. I can work with that.” She tugged at Clara’s hair. “I’m far from done with you, darling. Don’t get too excited.”
Fear. Dread. Relief. Curiosity. Desire. She had never gone through the cycle so fast.
The fact that Jen was looking for fears to exploit was scary. The fact that she was good at it was terrifying. And hot. The nerve of this woman. She was going to be the end of her, one way or another.
Jen pressed at her arm and Clara wasn’t sure why it hurt except for a general soreness creeping into her muscles, then remembered the cut from earlier, the drying blood. “And you even like whips and knives.”
To say she liked knives was a bit disingenuous. She liked the idea of knives. She liked knives pressed at her throat and drawn along her limbs just enough to scratch, and she minded the rare kitchen mishap less than the average person. She had never been purposefully cut with one until today. The thought of more made her think yes, please and oh, no all at once. It was standing in line for a rollercoaster both eager to get to the front of the line and continually convincing yourself to stay in it.
“I love knives,” she said.
Jen rebound Clara’s hands behind her. Clara flailed her uncuffed arm at the last second, but Jen grabbed it just below her elbow and squeezed, hard, as she pulled it back. Clara gasped sharply at the unexpected pain that shot through her arm, and had just recovered when Jen finished getting her retied. She shoved her onto her back on the floor, or rather, onto her arms behind her. The position was uncomfortable more than it hurt besides the initial fall, heavy on her wrists, pressing at painful, burning marks from the whips, a bit of strain at her neck.
She was frankly more interested in the use of what had to be a pressure point at her arm. It felt like this piece of knowledge that came from wanting to know what made people tick, how to take them apart and put them back together, the same as decoding her fears, but more physical.
Jen took the knife from the table and straddled her, settling over her thighs. With her free hand, she brushed Clara’s hair away from her face—damp from sweat and tears—and flitted her fingers through the bangs that clung to her forehead, before her grip settled at her throat. "You love knives," she corrected, tracing patterns on her skin with the tip of the blade. "So, tell me about some of your experiences with them."
Clara’s heart pounded. She was sure Jen could feel it. “Well,” she said, “some number of minutes ago, you cut me with one.”
Jen laughed. The knife pressed a little more, just enough to scratch, leaving little white lines she could see and Clara couldn’t. “And how does that make you feel?” she asked in the therapist’s tone.
Scared. Turned on. Like she wanted her to just fucking do it again already.
Silence.
“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours,” Jen advised, “or I’ll convince you to.” With that, she cut a line at the top of Clara’s arm. It stung. Clara hissed.
“You’re a sadistic bitch and I hate you,” she bit out before she could lose her nerve.
“Now, now, darling; one of those things might be true, but you don’t hate me, do you? You like this.” She dipped the hand that had been at Clara’s throat down to between her legs, still dripping wet. Maybe more so. Fuck.
Her phone dinged, where she’d left it in a pocket in the pile of clothes, barely distinct from the music. Ezri. It had to be. The only person who could get through her Do Not Disturb setting for today. Jen didn’t seem interested in retrieving it.
“It’s Ms. Ezri,” she got out. Her mouth was dry, at least. “I have to answer.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “And if you don’t?”
“She’ll show up, call the police.”
“Well, if she’ll be that insistent.” Jen slid off of her and picked up Clara’s phone from the pile. She held it up. “This? This is your brilliant safe call? How are you? A text? Is there even a code word you’re supposed to send back?”
Nothing, and then a tiny shake of Clara’s head.
“Fine,” Jen narrated as she typed. “Busy.” She tossed the phone back onto the pile. Returned to where she’d been.
“Okay,” said Clara; “you do have some nerve.” God, they’d known the first safe call was a little insecure, but what would Ezri think if she knew it wasn’t Clara responding? What would she think if she knew how much Clara liked that nerve? That she'd rather belong to the person with that nerve than to Ezri?
Jen laughed. “So, where were we? I’m a sadistic bitch and that gets you off?”
“Something like that.”
Jen held the knife where Clara could see it. “I never did get into knife making,” she said, tracing the blade. “Leather seemed easier to pick up working with. Whips. These.” She indicated the cuffs at Clara’s wrists with a brush of her hand. “So, you haven’t really played with knives. What do you know about whips?”
“I’ve—played with whips a lot more. What about them?”
Jen hummed as if considering her answer, tracing Clara’s throat with the tip of the knife. “Can you tell me the difference between a bull whip and a signal whip?”
“Signal whip has the cracker braided in; bull whip has it attached.”
Jen smiled. “Good girl.” She rewarded this answer with a cut at the top of Clara’s other arm.
Clara hissed, tensed under her, squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched. Jen grabbed a fistful of her hair and pressed the blade lightly at her lips. Clara lapped the blood off of it carefully. As she did, Jen said, “Do you know what that little indent you feel is for? They call it a blood groove. It’s so it’s easy to pull the knife back out—” she pulled it back from Clara’s mouth “—when you’re done stabbing someone.”
“Blood grooves are a myth,” said Clara, still grimacing a little at the metallic taste in her mouth. “That’s not what they’re for.”
Jen grinned at her. “You’re the first person to call me on that. No, they’re to make the blade lighter. Weight is important in knives.” She attempted to balance it on her fingers inches above Clara’s neck, though the hand that had been in her hair steadied it. “Balance point should be right… about… here.” She let go of it with her other hand, let it balance. Let Clara watch it sway just a little, from the motion of being placed there, wide eyed.
When she moved suddenly, the knife back in her hand and pulled back and then down towards Clara’s chest, Clara screamed, but there was no pain, only the sound of the metal hitting the pile of blankets behind them, over Jen’s shoulder, before her hand touched her.
Panting, Clara got out, “Fuck you,” again, only to be slapped harder than she thought it deserved at that particular moment.
“So, fear of death,” Jen said in her ear.
“Startled,” Clara spat at her. “Again.”
“Perhaps knives make you jumpy.” She took the other knife out of her pocket, traced her neck again.
“I have common sense.”
“Oh, darling,” Jen cooed in that tone you responded to a tragically wrong assumption in, “if you had common sense, you wouldn’t be in a stranger’s house naked and tied up with a knife at your throat and a text as a safe call. Now, be a good girl and stay still.” She cut a little curved line at Clara’s shoulder. Clara gritted her teeth. Another. This one got a hissed gasp.
The cuts held the pain of a paper cut or a cooking mishap, but it went on too long, built up too much. Pain and fear were a messy mix; what actually hurt and what she was afraid would hurt became a little bit the same thing.
Third line. She writhed a little when it was done, breathless.
“Still,” Jen reminded her calmly, her other hand settling at her throat again as if it were a soothing touch. She cut the fourth line.
The tears returned, slipping down the sides of Clara's face to the floor. She swallowed, jaw shaking. Fifth line. A running whimper, squirming, stilling. Sixth line of what had to be the network symbol. Small, choked sobs.
“Shh.” Jen setting the knife down, petting her, pressing shushing kisses to her face, Clara’s tears on her lips.
She wasn’t sure what had her crying again. It wasn’t that the pain itself was so bad, even though it seemed everywhere hurt and her hands were going numb. But she felt scared and intensely vulnerable and lost, and she wanted to be told that all of her common sense errors aside, it was going to be okay for her to be here at this stranger’s mercy, as long as she was good and followed directions.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” There was actual gentleness in the words at her ear, but they were light, not terribly concerned.
“I’m scared.” A choked whisper, pleading.
“I know.” A soft kiss at her cheek. “I know.” The first kiss on the lips, long and slow, a series of them. Oh. Her eyes fluttered shut again. Her body relaxed, melted. Yes, she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Kissing someone had never felt so right even when it tasted like blood and tears.
And suddenly I know was all she wanted to hear. I know you’re scared. I know it hurts. And nothing more. Not a promise for the future but an understanding of the present. I’m scared. I know. Understanding, knowledge, that Jen knew what she was doing with her, in this moment. It committed to nothing else. The calm, And? She could hurt and torment Clara for hours—forever—more, just offering, I know you’re scared. I know it hurts. It should hurt. You should be scared. I want you to hurt. I want you to be scared. It was a unique kind of it’s okay—it was, you’re scared, and that’s what you’re supposed to feel. Everything is going according to plan. Not trying to make her feel less scared. Just acknowledging, yes. That is the part of the emotional wave we’re at. Would you like to ride out the rest?
There was not a chance she was going to use that safeword.
Jen stood and retrieved the riding crop that had been on the table, returned, but settled next to, not on her this time. Pet her with the implement, offered several sharp, biting flicks at her breasts and thighs, making her jump and squirm, pull her legs up. It didn't help. Little red marks faded in after every strike, every distinct pop of the crop. She yelped at the harder ones, hissed and writhed.
"Open your legs."
Whimper.
"Now, Clara."
She obeyed. The words sent a slight shiver up her spine.
The crop had an unbelievable sting applied to the soaked skin between her legs. She yelped and hadn't quite noticed she'd snapped her legs shut again when they were pushed open. She cried out but tried to hold the position, direct any tension into pushing out more, not in; still, she squirmed, and Jen settled over one of her legs and held the other.
The strikes came faster, her cries longer. "Please!"
"What?" Deadpan, not interested.
"May I come? Please? Mistress?"
Surprised enough to stop, for just a second, then smart enough to resume. "You may. Come."
Clara came, pain and sensation intensifying and overwhelming, need and desperation for a form of relief building and overflowing. She knew, as she started to come down, that she had a lot more explaining to do than the, "Thank you, Mistress," that fell helplessly from her lips.
The pain stopped coming. "So."
"Yes," she said, deadpan herself now, eyes still closed, "I can come from pain." She managed to get her eyes open, realized she was panting. "No, I've never met someone else who can. No, I'm not lying. And no, it wasn't because of where you were hitting."
"Oh, darling," said Jen, grinning slowly, "you should've opened with that." She stroked her thigh with her hand, offered one sharp slap but stilled when she asked, "Why isn't that in your file?" then moved off of her.
"No one believes it. Reduces credibility."
"Oh, I believe it. I can't believe that you didn't offer that sooner."
"Well, you also just saw it."
"Mm." She took up the crop again but kept it on her thighs this time, a little lighter. "So tell me more. How does it work?"
Clara squirmed. "It's like any other orgasm. Sensation builds. Need for relief. It's about... the overwhelming. Peak of pain instead of peak of pleasure." Panting again. "I don't usually ask. Usually it's an order. A warning first helps. But I was just really..." Trailed into a whimper of pain or pleasure.
"Mm. So it helps to be told that you're going to be a good little pain slut and come from the pain itself?"
"Yes." Breathy.
"Get off on being hurt without even needing to touch your pathetic little cunt?" The strikes came faster, harder.
"Yes."
"Useless masochist. You know, pain is supposed to be a warning bell. Tell you that something's wrong. You're not supposed to fucking get off on it. But you're going to, aren't you?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Mistress—"
"That's better. If pain makes you come so nicely, you better show me you appreciate it with some basic fucking respect." Her free hand around Clara's throat. "And you better fucking be a good girl and come when I tell you to. Don't you dare fucking think about coming sooner. I'll tell you when you get to fucking come."
Clara choked on a whimper and every direction she tossed and turned just seemed to get the crop on a worse spot. Tears streaked her cheeks again.
"Five. Four."
A long moan amongst the cries.
"Three. Two."
Oh, sensation as pain in her thighs started to rush to her cunt as pleasure.
"One. Come." The grip on her throat tightening. "Come right fucking now, you pathetic little pain slut."
Clara did, wailing with pain and pleasure and relief and need. Gasped for breath as Jen's touch lightened as her throat and the orgasm faded from her system. "Thank you—Mistress."
"Mm." Jen flipped her over to lying on her stomach. Circulation rapidly but not completely found its way back to her hands, tingling and twitching. Jen pet the sore marks and bruises, fingers skimming her skin, then dug her nails into her hard and tore scratches down her back, pink lines and the smears of reopened wounds. A few times. Clara writhed and moaned. "Can this do it, too?" Jen asked her.
"Yes," she whined helplessly, whimpering, but Jen's touch moved lower, fingers slipping through her wet folds and then inside her, one, two, three, enough to meet a bit of resistance for the first few thrusts, making Clara whine and whimper. Buried her fingers deep inside her, fucked her fast, watched her squirm with need. The angle left some to be desired.
She stood and dragged her by the hair up to kneeling upright, then standing. Fingers back inside her, Clara rocking to meet them, Jen’s other hand still in her hair. Clara tilted her head onto Jen’s shoulder weakly.
“Worthless little whore,” Jen hissed in her ear. “I’ll be surprised if Ezri gets anything for you. You say you like pain but you also scream like a child and burst into tears.”
Clara whimpered.
“So you don’t want a bunch of rules and ways to serve. You don’t really want to be hurt. What do you want? Do you just want to be fucked? Feel nice in the end?”
“I do want to be hurt,” she gasped out.
“Then why all the hysterics?”
“I don’t know—please!”
Jen slowed, nearly stopped altogether. Tugged Clara’s head back with her other hand. “I don’t believe you.”
“I—”
“You want to be hurt?”
“Yes, Mistress."
“Then beg. Convince me.”
“Please, Mistress.” Unable to look at her. Whimpered. “Hurt me again.”
“How?”
“I don’t know—I don’t care—” Still thrusting against Jen’s fingers like it would make any difference or make her move any faster. Another whimper. “Any way you like.”
Jen hit her, across the face, left handed this time. “Keep going.”
“Do it again. Please.”
Jen hit her again. Finally started to fuck her again. “Still,” she laughed, “that can’t be sold for much, can it? Little pain slut who comes when she’s told and looks pretty when she cries? That’s not much of a file, is it?”
“Fuck you.” Finding her nerve again in sexual frustration and the fear that Jen was right.
“And can’t even keep her mouth shut. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Whore.” Another quick slap to the face. “Worthless.” Another.
“Whores get paid by definition. That’s worth,” Clara retorted.
Jen’s fingers around her throat, pressing and pressing. “Tell me, darling, if you were on your own, no Owner, no trainer, what would you be worth in network? What amount of money does someone get for you?”
“Nothing.” More of a movement of her lips than sound, eyes pleading for air.
“That’s right. And since you do have a trainer? She can set any number she wants, can’t she, but that doesn’t mean anyone pays it. So, who eventually decides what you’re actually worth?”
“The buyer.”
“That’s right. Which is?”
“You.” Jen gave her just enough oxygen to audibly say the word with.
“That’s right. So you’re worth up to as much as I say you are. So, as I was saying, one more time. Worthless. Whore.” The words accompanied this time by measured squeezes at her throat.
When the pressure stopped, her breaths came in gasped sobs. There was far too much truth in the words. Jen was still fucking her and Clara still desperately wanted her to be, whimpering and writhing. Her back—or rather, arms bound behind her—had ended up against the wall. Funny how that happened.
“And the worst part, darling, is that you just get off on that. That it’s up to me exactly what you’re worth. Doesn't that scare you, too? Or are you just trying to take all of these as empty words that don’t mean anything because they sound so hot that way when you want to come? Are you even listening to me?”
Clara whimpered; her mind was spinning with uncertainty, but arousal was definitely at the forefront of it, which only proved the point. God, wouldn’t it be humiliating if the words weren’t empty and she still… fuck. God, she wanted this woman to want her and fuck with her head like this for the rest of her life.
“You have no idea if I’d take you. Put a collar around your neck—” fingertips at her throat were pressing again; she squirmed and it was useless; pain in her chest but almost pleasantly lightheaded, very aware of the lack of Ezri's collar “—and make your filthy little cunt feel this nice now and then. But just for that you’d spend your life doing whatever I ordered you to, wouldn’t you? Just to feel like this now and then? You'd be good for me, wouldn't you? Is that what you have to offer? How desperately you need this and what you’ll do to get it?”
Whimper.
“Answer me.”
“Yes! Yes, Mistress—fuck—” Choked.
“Just because I’m the one that can make you feel like this?”
“Yes—please—”
“You really want to come like this?”
“Please, Mistress." Closing her eyes.
“Look at me.”
Clara did.
“Come. Prove me right.”
She did, humiliatingly hard, crying out loudly and breathlessly and thrusting quickly to meet Jen’s fingers. Helpless tears streaked her face, doubt and fear and pain. She didn’t feel Jen release her but she felt the sudden rush of oxygen, like a second orgasm in itself. She fell to her knees, sliding against the wall, whimpering, “Th-thank you, Mistress," and hanging her head. Oh, she’d never manage to forget this even in the worst case where every degrading word was true and she was just a toy cast aside after today. How had she not run out of tears?
She considered, for a moment, that Ezri might be selling her to a merciless sadist if this worked out.
She considered, for a moment, that she had already enthusiastically accepted—accepted she needed—a future of being this sadist’s plaything.
Pet might have been a generous word.
Jen stroked her cheek while Clara hiccuped and gasped a few more little sobs. “Shh. Now, there’s no need for that, is there? You can’t be so miserable two seconds after coming, can you?”
She wasn’t sure miserable was even what it was. Overwhelmed. Aching to find out what parts were true and aching to stay in the safety of unknowing limbo. Effectively hurt and scared and broken down to her instinct to just keep surrendering. She shook her head.
“No,” Jen murmured. She untied her, and Clara didn’t struggle this time, not even when her hands were rebound in front of her and attached to the wall again, even shifting to kneeling up herself. Standing was not going to happen right now.
“Mm, these are forming nicely.” Jen stroked what had to be bruises along her back.
When she hit her with the flogger again, Clara took it breathlessly but mostly quiet, the occasional whimper. Leant her head against her arms, sunk into the restraints.
Jen watched her with curiosity. The girl was uniquely clever, and appeared to actually want what she had claimed, always a big question. Broke down satisfyingly but a part of her was still enjoying it, if the orgasms were any indicator, and had a bit of fight in her it was nice to watch fade in and out—and it did return, at some point, seemingly regardless of what Jen did, a rare brave streak. Didn’t break and cower at the first sign of trouble, like so many did, but just seemed to enjoy it further. Any insights were fascinating. That she could come from pain... where the hell would you find that again? She did take a nice beating, too, harder than many would take, physically and emotionally. And tears and bruises and blood were even prettier on her than that smirk.
It was a powerful drug, to realize that she wouldn’t truly tell her no, that she would tease and banter and resist and struggle and beg and cry and scream, but not say no. Her explanation had been right—it would be inadequate to call her a slave for the dark depths she wanted, needed, not content to submit to less, but to call her simply a masochist denied the element of surrendering herself to whatever pain it was an Owner wanted to give, without imposing specific desires or limits of her own.
Jen didn’t stick to the flogger for long, picked up the sjambok from the table, the leather whip resembling a flexible, tapered cane. It handled a lot like a signal whip, considering. This got much more of a running whimper than the flogger. “So, you know what a signal whip is, and you know what a blood groove isn’t. Tell me what you know about sjamboks.”
“They're—” sharp inhale at the next strike “—from South Africa. Police weapon. Self defense. Livestock. Slaves. Heavy leather. Rhino or hippo. Or plastic.” Gasped phrases between strokes.
“Good girl.” Even in the scene, even in network, sjambok got you a confused look as often as not.
Getting the words out seemed to break whatever had been keeping her reactions contained; she pulled hard at the restraints for a minute until she gave up, just about screamed when she was struck particularly hard, running whimper turning into sobs and pleas as the pain kept coming.
“Please, fuck, I can’t, I can’t, fuck—”
“You can’t what?” That gentle but unconcerned tone, the whip ceasing for a merciful moment, Jen petting her hair, gathering loose strands back over her shoulder.
She shook her head. “Can’t breathe,” was what came out amongst the multitude of answers.
“Yes, you can. Look at me.” Nudge at her chin. “You have enough air. You’re crying but you’re breathing just fine. That’s all.”
“I can’t take it.” The second answer that came to mind, eyes desperately locked on hers.
“Yes, you can. And you are. The worst it can do is hurt.”
Oh. Something in the worst it can do is hurt sounded like the I know. “Okay,” she whispered.
When the whip came again, she reflected on what take it meant—and what it meant to not be able to do so. To not be able to take it meant that it had to stop or else… some extreme consequence. And right now, the only plausible thing that meant it had to stop was if she used that safeword. And she had already committed to not doing that. And she knew that she wouldn't have that forever. In a way, she didn’t even want it to be an option right now, didn’t want to test her own resolve. Wanted to be able to yell and scream whatever words she wanted without them having any bearing. Know that she didn’t have to control herself to get what she wanted—continuing based on a decision she had already made, not the continual decision to keep that safeword from crossing her lips with the sobs and shrieks.
“About done there, darling~?”
“Why? Tired already?” The defiant words came out weak and pathetic, gasps for air, limp in the restraints, sweat dripping down her skin. She closed her eyes. All it can do is hurt.
Little laugh. “Just checking.” Hard strike at her shoulder. “If you have so much energy, why don’t you stand up?”
She hated her. She loved her. She stood shakily on the second try. The pain kept coming. Her skin was on fire. It throbbed even in the moments between strikes, pulsing heat. Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the inside of it, the salt of sweat and tears clinging to her lips. She was so tired, so tired—on her knees again. Jen laughing. A few more strikes. “How about now?”
She managed a small nod.
One more strike. A flinch. Jen disconnected the restraints from the wall but left her hands bound in front of her as she slid down to sitting on her heels, sniffling, head low and eyes closed. She tried to shift her weight off of the bruises and wounds, turned and leant on the wall.
“Tired?”
She made a small sound of obvious acknowledgement more than answer. Jen brushed her hair, damp and tangled, out of her face. “You poor, pathetic little thing.” The oversaturated sweetness was back in her voice. “Do you want water?”
Another small nod, looking up at her.
Smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Clara would have assumed that in a moment alone now, she’d have a thousand thoughts and questions racing through her head, but none came. Emotion came as wordless as the music did as she tried to collect herself, vague but strong.
There was no room for further emotion by the time Jen set the bowl of water on the floor in front of her. Thirst easily outweighed humiliation. It was the best water she’d ever had, even if it was lukewarm tap water in a pet bowl. She managed to drink it efficiently, kept her hair out of the way, found a position that was easy to maintain and appealing to the average Owner, even with her hands bound loosely together.
Oh, the range of things Ezri had prepared her for.
"You take to being my dog a little too well, darling~" Jen smirked from above her.
"It really sounds like you regret all the cats."
She was not aware of Jen moving so much as the fact that her face was abruptly shoved into the deep bowl of water. She struggled and pushed back against the tight grip in her hair, wanting oxygen, but it was useless. She cried out desperately in panic and when Jen let her up, gasped and panted, water dripping off her bangs, glaring at her.
"Oh, please, it wasn't that long."
Her chest throbbed.
Jen removed the wrist cuffs, set them aside, settled on the pile of blankets and beckoned her over. Clara crawled to her and reflected that the crawling, too, probably seemed a little too practiced to be natural.
Ezri was a trainer at heart, and with the extra months of the basics covered, and the high skill level Clara had come to her with, there was time to teach her a few more tricks. While certainly a process Clara had mixed feelings on, she knew it was a form of generosity from Ezri, especially since Ezri didn't want a pet. They had known, really, that this day would come.
Once ordered, she also knew how to help an Owner out of their clothes smoothly, including the boots. Set items to the side in a neat pile and did not push her luck, no extra touches. She knew how to do the slow, touchy version, too, kisses and caresses, but also to do so only upon request, even if it was a standing request. She might've liked a chance to show Jen that, actually. With any luck, she'd have the rest of her life to show her such things. For now, she tried to not even let her gaze wander beyond the attentive and respectful. Still, there were further forms of attention and respect she might've liked to indulge.
She got her chance soon enough. "Good girl." And Jen's hand at the back of her head, hand tight in her hair but not pushing so much as guiding her mouth where she wanted it. Clara took her nipple in her mouth and sucked, swirled and flicked her tongue, exhaled carefully in a way that would slightly chill and arouse and mostly pleasure, offered a small moan of enthusiasm, her hands tracing Jen's sides just firmly enough to not tickle.
"Mm, God, that's..."
Clara's eyes flicked up to hers, but Jen didn't finish the sentence, just sighed shakily and tilted her head back and pulled Clara to the other side.
It had been far too long since she'd had someone else's hands and mouth on her. She had a high sex drive and never found masturbation fulfilling and was a much nicer person when she was orgasming regularly by someone else's doing, and got to beat the shit out of them now and then. If they could cook a decent meal or keep things in some kind of order, that was a nice bonus to her mood.
Right now, she just wanted Clara's attentions somewhere else. She gave her a slight tug down and Clara shifted, but only nuzzled her thigh. "May I please you, Mistress?"
"You better."
Clara grinned.
Oh, that girl did nice things with her mouth. Jen whined and whimpered and moaned under her.
"Let me know what feels nice?"
Everything. God, everything. "Okay," she said vaguely, breathy. Clara's tongue flicking over her entrance and at her clit, the long flat tongued licks, the way she sucked her into her mouth. Her fingertips pet Jen's thighs with gentle reverence, careful not to restrict her motions. Jen understood very suddenly why some people called it oral worship instead. A divine feeling. Fuck, it felt good.
Clara knew it, too. Her eyes held the smirk when she looked up at her, if her lips were busy.
The pleasure built steeply, and she cried out and tightened her grip on Clara's hair and hissed, "Don't you dare fucking stop," rocking against her a little. "Fuck." She writhed, realized she'd pulled her legs up some but shifted them only more open. It didn't matter much; Clara's attention was on every best spot. "Oh, God. Fuck. Yes. There. Clara." Her name came out on a wail.
"May I make you come, Mistress?" Words dripping innocent sweetness.
"God, you fucking better," she growled, and came moments later, loudly, pleasure flooding her in waves and waves and it just kept going, endless. Images of the day flashing behind her eyelids. Panting, yanking Clara off of her. Hand loosening in Clara's hair and then falling limp at her side. Some kind of tension that had been winding through her unnoticed until now abruptly vanished. "Use your hands," she got out, "and make me come again."
"Yes, Mistress." There was that grin. Clara curled up at her side, laid her head on her chest lightly after a moment, and stroked her, fingers pressing at all the right places, sliding to just the right spots, gently opening folds for better access. "Inside?"
"Yes."
One finger inside her, careful of the angle, buried deeply, and making sure to stroke the nice places inside her every thrust. Dripping wet. Another finger, and a thumb still at her clit, sensitive from the slickness and the first orgasm. Faster. Long cries of pleasure. Thrusting against her hand. Desperately grasping at Clara's hair or the blankets or anything that would ground her as the room spun from pleasure. Her nails down Clara's back again and the whimper it got that made her clench around Clara's fingers.
Clara's lips at her breast again, tongue working its magic.
Her head tilted back and her eyes closed and her legs open and pleasure crashing through her—
The orgasm hit her when she had been near that peak of sensation for a while, and, like the first, just kept going, pulling her back in each time she thought it was fading, loud cries becoming whimpers each time the aftershocks hit. When they faded, and she was left gasping for breath, Clara stopped, and as Jen managed to look at her in exhaustion, sucked the fluids off her own fingers.
Mm, that did it. One more. She was tired—tormenting this girl was a workout and the orgasms induced strong but pleasant sleepiness. But they could doze in a minute. She shifted and pushed Clara where she wanted her, lying on her back, and straddled her face and gripped her hair and growled, "Again."
So Clara got to pleasuring her again, and it built even more rapidly this time, which was probably good as this position would leave Clara wanting for oxygen. A little extra motivation. "You're not fighting me for air now, are you, darling?" Jen got out, one hand supporting or balancing herself against the wall, also gasping.
Clara made some kind of muffled noise under her.
Mm, the way Clara had pushed back on her hand with her face in the water bowl, though. The colorful mess of blood and bruises on her skin. The choked little sobs, the eyes watery with tears and the resigned whimpers and pleas. The way she'd fallen to her knees helplessly when beaten, defeated in surrender. The smirk and quips and grins and defiance. The pure terror in her eyes at the idea of coming without permission. The way she came from nothing more than the whip on her thighs.
Jen came the third time with each memory coming faster than the last, overlapping, incomplete, senses mismatched. And, truly exhausted, collapsed next to Clara again, letting go of her. Gave her the smallest pull and Clara inserted herself loosely into the crook of her arm, head on her shoulder, an arm draped over her waist, folding a blanket over them. They were quiet for a while, lying together, caressing each other, curious touches, hesitant kisses, and shy smiles.
Pain and fear and humiliation was one thing, but cuddling was quite another.
It felt right, though, Clara thought. Every defensive wall she had ever built burned to the ground, lying in the ashes, just as content without them. For now. Oh, if only she knew what was going on in Jen's head. But her skin felt warm, and Clara at least was freezing now, and it felt natural to curl up close to her and fall asleep.
Jen watched her, exhausted but suspecting she would never fall asleep, herself. Doze a moment at a time at best. Wondering what the reaction would be after a bit of sleep, endorphins worn off.
Lying here with her eyes closed and Clara against her was enough.
If all was well when Clara woke…
God, she wanted all to be well. Yes, the scene was a huge rush in itself, physically and emotionally, would've been for a year in, let alone a first meeting. God knew where a few years could take that. Yes, all of the paperwork lined up perfectly and there was a magnetic attraction between them impossible to resist. The sex was mindblowing and Clara was beautiful and clever and intense and interesting and Jen desperately wanted to tear her apart and figure her out.
And she was a masochist all the way down. The true sadist's perfect match. She wanted the darkness, and Jen had given it to her, more than planned for the first day, waiting for the flightiness, the emotional distancing, the safeword, the retreat, the breaking point where people left.
But it didn't come.
Somehow she did fall asleep, lulled to it by Clara’s warmth and steady breathing, the quiet music and dim red light. Deeply and peacefully enough for once that she woke alone without Clara slipping out waking her, a surprise. She evaluated that as she sat up, if slumped against the wall, finding another blanket slipping off of her that hadn’t been there before, one that had been tucked to the side. She looked at it questioningly, confused.
“You looked cold.” Clara read her mind, or her expression, from where she sat just a few feet away, dressed again and wrapped in a blanket. Hounds—the skittish, scaredy Detective Hounds who trusted no one but Jen to so much as be in the room—was curled up over said blanket in her lap, a shock and betrayal at once.
That was another surprise. Not that she had been cold, but that Clara had noticed, cared, done something about it. It was a simple, thoughtful gesture, but not one that had been offered to her much before. She at once liked the idea that Clara had kept an eye on her as she slept, seen her shiver, tucked the blanket over her while careful not to wake her, and also felt… confused. She’d beaten the hell out of this girl for most of the afternoon and she cared that she was cold?
And maybe Clara had enjoyed the experience, but it felt like this was not the reciprocal gesture to make. The sex, sure. Pleasure for pleasure, whatever their pleasures happened to be. But she had not done anything for Clara she would have called kindness and that was what this gesture was.
A few more sleepy blinks brought into focus that all the whips, knives, and restraints had been returned to the table, save the belt, which was set with her clothes. She was cold, with the blanket slipped off of her again. She dressed and sat back on the blankets.
"I cleaned the knives," Clara offered. "Like, actually. The whips looked okay. And got some antiseptic on myself. I brought water? Not in a bowl." The smirk balanced the desire to please that was in every word and action. "And talked to Ms. Ezri. And I let the cats in." She put her phone away, displaced Hounds easily, and crawled over, letting the blanket slide off of her, offered a rather chaste kiss on the cheek and then her head in her lap.
There was, in fact, a glass of water at her side, and two other cats curling up nearby, one over Clara's legs, one under her arm. As if she'd always been around.
Perhaps, Jen thought, taking a few refreshing sips of what definitely wasn't tap water, she should have actually looked for a real service streak, or training for such, though it seemed she had stumbled across one. She didn't need anything extraordinarily complex or time consuming, but she could get used to this.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and stroked Clara's hair and was quiet, but this seemed to be enough for Clara, who nuzzled into her contentedly, smiling. Jen laughed a little, more happiness and relief than humor. All seemed well. Even Hounds approved.
It was just—she wanted this one. She didn't want to screw it up. She didn't want to lose someone else. She wanted so desperately for this to be it, a terrifying realization. To not let herself ruin it. To finish the cycle. To keep this one forever, to just... be done. Be settled. Be enough.
And the collection of traits she was looking for at once melted away and she wanted not someone that met the list but this one.
She saw forever in everything Clara did. She had all day. Thought, for once, instinctively of where years would take tolerances and what little sweet gestures she could one day become accustomed to. Not tonight or tomorrow. But with time, real time. Years and years to look forward to with the specific girl lying on her peacefully right now. It wasn't so much the desire to build something new together as much as commit to what was already there.
"I want you," felt like an understatement, and yet, strangely hard to say.
"You have me." Soft, with a little helpless laugh at its truth.
"Will you sign an Ownership contract?"
"Yes." Grin.
"Will you marry me?" It came out as the natural but extreme followup, as another please tell me you want this as much as I do. As long as I do.
"Yes." Shifting up, kissing her, long and slow and deep. Like they had time.
"I mean it," Jen murmured into the kiss.
"So do I."
Pulling back, caressing her face. "Good."
"Good." There was the grin again.
"When?" What's the catch?
"I'm free Saturday," said Clara with a little yawn, settling against her side. "I imagine there'll be enough moving and planning for a week? Ms. Ezri's gonna want paperwork and money and a hell of an explanation."
Jen laughed and clutched her close to her. "God, I love you. Was I supposed to say that before proposing?"
"Probably." Clara stretched a little. "But I love you, too, anyway. And these little ones." She indicated the cats. "Do I get to know their names now?"
"After the wedding," Jen deadpanned, which made Clara giggle, and she smiled while Jen introduced her to Lord von Whiskeridoo, Dr. Fluffypants Fuzztail, and of course, Detective Hounds, whom Jen gave a halfhearted glare for his sudden betrayal.
Clara poked "Fluffy's" nose. "I'm gonna be your step mom," she told the white cat with a little smile.
"God, don't say that. It makes us sound so old."
"Or else what?" The smile turned challenging, looking back at her.
"Does your masochism refractory period not fucking exist?"
Clara kissed her cheek. "Not really. You'll get used to it." She yelped as Jen yanked her back by the hair.
"I'll get used to it?" A growl in her ear.
"Yes, Mistress." That syrupy sweetness from earlier reflected back at her.
Jen smacked her, across the cheek, reaching around her. "And you'll get used to doing what I tell you, slave."
The smile and words softened a little, fondly. "Yes, Mistress."
"And, darling," she said, with another long kiss, "you'll have forever to deal with it."