Image: C. Kennedy Garrett via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve been doing a fair bit of writing and plotting over the past few weeks (hence the lack of curtain twitching) and today I’d like to share with you a little snippet from a tale I first introduced in my Wicked Wednesday post, Beginnings, a few weeks back. The second in a set of three stories that I’ve written exploring mild erotic humiliation, Diana’s been very enjoyable to pen, although I did have to do a bit of creative editing when I realised I’d married a violet wand and a piece of metal in a way that I shouldn’t have. (Oh, the perils of writing about electrical play!) Anyway, happy Friday and I hope you enjoy this little taster.

Jane xxx

*Please note that this short was originally titled Doctor’s Orders and you can find the first part of the story here.

 

DIANA

When your head turns once again to take in the table crowned with its antler-like stirrups and the other people in the club, I know the fight has been won. You just can’t help yourself can you, my beautiful little slut? But I suspect you’re still telling yourself that I’m forcing you do this.

“Do you want to use your safeword?” I ask, although I already know the answer. I want you to say it – out loud – so that later, when you replay what’s about to happen over and over in your head, there is no doubt, no way, that you can claim it as something that was just done to you, without your input. This need to be bought low is within you, no matter how hard you try to pretend it isn’t.

You take your time answering me, a little too long, and I clear my throat in warning. I don’t tolerate rudeness.

“No,’ you mumble, shaking your head.

“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you?” I heard perfectly well. “Speak up, please.”

“No, I don’t,” you say, fractionally louder, talking to the floor.

“‘No, I don’t’ what?”

“No, I don’t want to use my safeword!” This time, you spit the sentence out like a hard pip and actually glare up at me. But the rebellion fades almost as quickly as it arrives when you realise how you’ve addressed me. Inwardly, I’m rubbing my hands with glee at your loss of control; you don’t often give me an excuse to punish you – really punish you – and the fact that you’ve done so tells me just how unsettled you are.

“I’m sorry, Master,” you babble nervously, immediately contrite and wringing your hands so hard that I expect them to drip water. “I didn’t mean to talk to you like that.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, I did,” you bite your lip, “but the thought of that” you incline your head towards the medical table without actually turning towards it, “is just … it scares me, Master.”

“That’s entirely the point,” I say, almost kindly, even as I turn to address a man chatting amicably with his companions a few feet away from us. “Steven,” I call.

He turns at the sound of his name, excuses himself from the conversation he’s engaged in, and walks unhurriedly towards us. Without looking, I can tell you’re trying to make yourself very small. To disappear into the floor.

You know exactly who he is.

Related posts: