Her energy flared with the sudden imprisonment, and
Brian could feel the cycling forces of the erotic power spiraling
up. He reached out, gathering the energy mentally in his hands, his
awareness feeling the energy captured within the knot, and formed
his fingers in the mudra Ada had shown him, blowing up and out with
a soft puff of his cheeks.
The first ward was cast.
The daughters were playing frisbee in a park blocks
away, laughing and finding joy in the cool breeze of the summer
evening as the disc floated magically between the two of them.
Phina and Lisbet, a year and a half apart but often mistaken for
twins, their merry grins usually contagious to those around
them.
This time, however, anyone watching them would have
suddenly gotten a slight headache, or felt their eyes begin to
water, and they would rub them, shake their heads, and find a
reason not to look at them anymore.
This is why the two sisters, walking through the
park with eager eyes and small black leather pouches in their hands
(though they were, in fact, not aware of them; these were now the
Wrinkled Man’s tools) didn’t see them. They passed on the path near
where the Daughters threw the frisbee, and Lisbet even had a moment
of friendly alarm as it headed towards one of them. But a graceful
leap and the disc was trapped in her hand, just the way Dad had
shown her. He would have been proud.
The sisters walked through the park again, looking
for their targets, but they only saw the gay couple on the bench,
and wrinkled their noses. Two Men. Worse than one.
The Wrinkled Man was frowning again. Something was
not quite right now. He felt as though they were there… but the
tools were failing him.
He sent them away from the park, annoyed. They put
away their black pouches, forgetting them in the bottom of their
purses, and began to discuss the demonstration they had planned in
front of the adult book store the next day…
Brian stood back and watched her struggle for a
moment, enjoying the play of her muscles in the light and feeling
the flow of energy between them. Slowly, elegantly, he moved to the
front of the horse. As he came even with her head, just for a
moment, he paused, knowing that she would be aware of the bulge of
his cock inches from her face, which was unable to move. He saw her
breathing change, deepen, and something deep within her walls again
moved, something dark and primal. He moved closer, feeling her
gather another burst of defiance ready to fire off at the moment
that his cock actually touched her… and then he suddenly crouched,
lowering his face to hers, leaving her with another choice
denied.
“Control is easy, Miss Sally. One hand and one rope
and you are lying here in the middle of this room naked and unable
to do anything.” His eyes turned cruel, and he let a harshness
enter the mellow tone of his voice. “I could line up every person
with a cock and a strap-on at either end of this horse and let them
teach you a lesson in manners that you would never forget, two at a
time, and you know what the strange thing is?” He leaned closer.
“You and I both know that it would only be what you’ve dreamed of
in your masturbatory fantasies for years, Sally. It wouldn’t be
punishment, or rape, it would be wish fulfillment.” Again he felt
that stirring deep within her, even as her eyes left his, unable to
look past the flush of her face, her mumbled “I’m not… ” lost into
the leather padding.
He continued, again in the mild tone. “But as you
put it, Miss Sally, force is easy. And very tiring, and I have
better things to do with my energy this evening. But you will be
punished both for your lack of manners and for your reluctance to
do penance in the stocks. Then, Miss Sally, you will apologize, and
we will go about enjoying this party.”
At the word
apologize
, her eyes flashed up
again, and he saw to his pleasure that the defiance was back again.
He returned the intensity of her gaze, meeting and holding her
eyes, feeling no need to move as his energy poured into and around
her, causing the rope yoke to pulse with the pounding connection
between them. She spoke through clenched teeth, and he got the
feeling that if the ropes had been in reach she would have chewed
through them in a moment. “I will never apologize to you,
fucker.”
“As I said, Miss Sally, I won’t earn that title
until later. In the meantime, the punishment for the rebellion
first.” He stood quickly and drew a riding crop, long woven handle
topped with a tiny tongue of leather, flexing it through the air
with a whooshing noise, making sure that it was swinging true.
Kneeling down again, he matter-of-factly forced the crop between
Sally’s teeth and lifted her jaw up, looking again into her eyes.
They were still filled with defiance and anger, but there seemed to
be something else growing, something else building within them. Her
breath hissed through her teeth as she faced him, jaw clenched
around the hard stem of the crop. “I’m going to use this to give
you twenty strokes for your refusal to submit at the stocks. You
will count each one, and add ‘sir’, the appropriate honorific,
afterwards. Do you understand?”
He waited a moment to give her the chance to reply.
She simply glared up at him. Taking the crop from her mouth, he
said. “So. We begin.”
The first whistling slap into the flesh of her ass
elicited a shriek from her far out of proportion to the sting of
the leather. Brian wanted to warm her up slowly, somehow knowing
that the energy they needed for their work required not only the
conquest and submission, but sexual arousal and eventually climax.
He waited a moment to see if she would count the stroke, and when
he saw her sullen form lay there silent, he shrugged and lay down
two more, slightly harder, observing her start and yell after
each.
Moving to her head, he again let the crotch of his
trousers fill her field of vision, keeping her very aware not only
of her vulnerability but also of her own particular fetish for the
male organ. He was playing with extremes, stoking her desire for
him at the same time that he purposely instigated her struggle
against him, knowing that when the one overcame the other, the
power of both would be combined. Crouching down, he said, “Miss
Sally. Was there anything about my instructions you did not
understand?”
She actually growled at him. “I
will
not
do
anything you say. You
can’t make
me.
”
“We shall see.” He stood, leaned over again, and
added “So. We begin again.”
He ran the tongue of the crop over the skin of her
buttocks, letting it trace around the three marks already left
there, and then, just once, let it dip in and stroke the labia
peeking out from between her spread cheeks. The energy surged at
that, her slight cry and sudden tensing of her thighs only the most
superficial indication of the feelings suffusing her body. He rode
the wave of sexual stimulation, letting it carry his arm back and
driving it down with a snapping gesture. As the tongue hit, she let
out another shriek, this one deeper and more genuine, and though he
waited to hear if she would count, there was nothing more from her
shaking form.
Brian struck nine more times, this time, letting
the red marks form a pattern of rectangles lining either side of
the cleft of her ass. He’d applied them to the upper curve of the
cheeks, five on each side. She twisted within the rope yoke, arms
flailing but knowing better than to try and block the blows, her
cries getting deeper and throatier as each blow struck her. With
every blow the level of power between them increased a tiny amount,
the rhythm and shape of the marks causing a cycling resonance to
build.
Once again the front of his trousers, now
noticeably bulging, filled her eyes, and before she could stop
herself she felt her head move towards it—then the resistance
re-asserted control and she just gritted her teeth. As he knelt
again next to her, leaning close, his soft tone caressed her ear.
“Miss Sally, that was ten strokes of the crop.” He paused, to let
her think about that. “Since you didn’t count aloud, however, they
have to be repeated. It’s a very simple task I’ve given you, Miss
Sally, and we will continue this until you have fulfilled it.” He
did not wait to hear her response; rising, giving her a last
murmured “So. We begin again,” he moved to the back of the horse
and resumed a quick series of strikes, letting them fall harder
this time, no sensuality involved.
The cycle was repeated three more times before she
showed the first signs of breaking, a low moan at the repeated “And
so. We begin again,” this time the strike of the crop followed by a
soft, almost wailing sound.
“
One
.”
Brian smiled, and let her count out the next five.
Then kneeling before her again, he let his hand come up and stroke
her hair and cheek. Sally’s face leaned into his palm for just a
moment, eyes closed at the sensation of gentleness, before her eyes
snapped open as she fought her own desire to submit. The stream of
sexual power traveling between their eyes seemed as tangible as the
rope that held her to the sawhorse, and he let it flow and hold as
they both breathed. He could see the question in her eyes.
“You’re wondering why I stopped. It is because I am
feeling merciful, Miss Sally.” He watched the hope for release
blossom in her eyes, and turned his voice cold and hard. “I very
specifically told you to follow every count with a measure of
respect. That is, after all, why you are here.” Leaning in, he used
his voice like the crop, striking her walls of resistance with
every syllable. “You will follow every count with a ‘sir’, Miss
Sally. Until you do—we begin again.”
She didn’t break at that. Her
inner fortress was still strong, in spite of the assault now coming
from both Brian’s work and her own deeper desires. The tendrils of
his awareness now covered it completely, each breath a new growing
branch of pressure on her resistance, which nonetheless held firm,
and she was able to ignore, still, the stirring
something
behind the walls. So she
didn’t break.
But the tears came.
And at the next hiss and snap against her flesh, a
clear “One, sir!” rushed from her throat.
Brian wanted to smile. It had begun. Instead, he
walked around to the front of the horse and reached to grasp her
wrists. She felt his hands, and knew what was needed. Her fingers
twined in his, and his head and hers touched for just a moment.
Behind his closed eyes, he could picture the house of his ex-wife,
trying not to let any of the residual anger from thirteen years
divorced cloud the purity of his intent. Sally helped anchor him,
lending a burning line of power from the rope that bound her, and
he felt his scars pulse in time with her heartbeat, felt through
her hands and traveling through the flow.
He held the pattern of the mark in
his mind, and set it in lines of bright power across the image of
the house. “
I am Man; I am Protector; I
will care for my own,
” he whispered, not
knowing where the words came from but knowing they were
right.
The pattern flared in his mind. The second Ward was
cast.
The Wrinkled Man was becoming annoyed.
With the failure of his minor Tools, he had decided
to use a more blunt object, and had planted the idea to search the
Mother’s house for drugs into the mind of a police officer in a
patrol car nearby. He’d expected the search and seizure to go as
smoothly as always, with the rights of the Mother lost in the
scandal of the planted drugs, perhaps a plea bargain found if she
were willing to manufacture the complicity of the Troublemaker in
her habit, the Daughters held in “protective custody” as they began
their voyage through a series of foster homes…
Instead, on the way to the house, the officer had
suddenly seen a speeding car and decided to give chase, ticketing
and then lecturing the hairy tattooed man driving the car.
Unfortunately the man had not been nearly as disrespectful as he’d
looked. “Yes sir!” and “Sorry, sir!” were uttered in the humblest
of tones and all his paperwork was in order.
Then when the officer did get back on the road, he
couldn’t find the house. He drove up the street, counting the house
numbers, and somehow kept missing it. The Wrinkled Man couldn’t see
how the man’s eyes were sliding off of the two story house every
time he passed, how the man’s mind justified the change in the
house numbers.
The Wrinkled Man attempted a deeper contact with
the Tool, and as a result when the man made the fourth attempt to
find the house of the Mother, the spiking headache that flashed
into the Tool’s head traveled through the connection and caused the
Wrinkled Man to wince.
He was becoming annoyed. Now he knew what was
happening, and the Troublemaker was becoming more than a nuisance;
he was becoming a danger.
The Wrinkled Man frowned. There was only one
response to danger, of course.
Annhilation.
She made it through the rest of the strikes,
managing a full count to “Twenty, sir!” When Brian congratulated
her on her cooperation, she simply lay there, no longer crying but
with her cheek lying against the wet leather under her. He moved on
to punishing her for the original slight with a more traditional
spanking, letting the palm of his hand lay a stinging glow of pain
over the sharp welts left from the crop. The skin of her ass became
a steady burning ache, around which the rope and their connection
flowed and throbbed.
The spanking added another level of energy as well.
There was a way of striking, an upward, thudding slap to the
underside of her cheek, that would not hurt at all—rather, it sent
a jolt of pleasure through her, making her shudder and give quite a
different cry, a soft mewling hungry sound. Brian used theses
strikes sparingly, at first, only occasional giving her the
pleasure in among the stinging blows. Gradually they increased in
frequency, though, the burning melding into the pleasure slowly
until they were indistinguishable. He gave ten of the pleasure
strikes in quick succession, watching her spine arch, lifting her
ass in eager anticipation and struggling for friction against her
engorged vulva, rubbing over the leather now slick with her sweat
and fluids. Suddenly he stopped, and her ass hung there,
beautifully arched, red and patterned and hungry for any sort of
stimulation.