“Pain is an unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential tissue damage, or described in terms of such damage.”

– International Association for the Study of Pain

As a sensation in general, pain (understandably) gets a bad wrap. If we accept the above definition, it’s the body’s way of letting us know that we’re doing something to it that it would rather we didn’t.

But, for some, feeling and/or inflicting pain isn’t always a negative experience. What about those of us who have a positive, healthy relationship with it? Who consider it to be an intrinsic part of our sexual selves and a consensual, loving relationship?

I have been trying to write this post for a while but it has proven to be rather difficult. Mainly because I’m not confident that I can fully articulate the nuances of erotic pain, it subtleties – its beauty – in any sort of way that will do it justice. Not to mention that I am fighting against the ridiculously outdated perceptions of sexual/erotic pain put forward in the late 1800s and early Twentieth Century by two well-known psychiatrists. (Yep, we’re still defining sadism and masochism according to theories that are now over 100 years old. How’s that for progress?)

So I’ve called in help – big time – in the form of four very awesome people, all of whom, like me, have a close relationship with sexual pain and view it rather differently to Richard von Krafft-Ebing and Sigmund Freud …

THE RECEIVING END

Molly

That first touch of his hand or the flogger or the paddle is always a shock that makes me gasp for breath and often, for a split second, a little glimmer of hate for this moment will niggle at my brain. ‘Ow that hurts’ my knee jerk reaction but only for a moment. The smallest of moments, because then it is replaced with a heat, a strong powerful surge of chemicals that flood my nervous system but all too soon they begin to wane, disappearing alone my nerve endings and fluttering away to almost nothing until the next strike and then the next and onwards. My body greedily lapping up the sensation, riding on an ever building wave of heat and pressure making my muscles twitch and my skin throb. Nothing else exists in this moment, the pain (for want of a better word) is a consuming focusing point that dances through my body, emptying my mind of everything and making me feel. Everything is more when there is pain and yet everything is me. I am the centre of myself or should I say my body is. Alight with heat, hot electric pulsing heat that fills me up and consumes me, washing everything else away. I am raw, exposed, vulnerable and yet invincible. In that moment I feel so truly alive.

Words can’t really explain it, there is a risk of sounding like a complete lunatic, someone not quite balanced or else so full of woo woo type lovey dovey nonsense that you just can’t relate and my pain experience within kink won’t necessarily be yours. Like all physical reactions, they are unique to the person experiencing them. My orgasm isn’t like your orgasm and my ride on the adrenalin rush of pain is just that, mine. I have written about it so many times and yet it’s true strength and power eludes me here with words. Part of that is because our association with pain or what that word so often means in life is negative, trying to twist that with words into a positive moment always has to overcome that deep rooted association we all have that pain is a bad thing. Painful emotions, painful memories, painful experiences all register in our brain as a hard difficult moments and yet pain applied in such a way as to stimulate can bring about such amazing reactions and release.

So how did I discover pain as a positive erotic stimulus? The answer is someone showed me. He guided me to that moment and despite my protests and inexperience took control and spanked me and I mean really spanked me, leaving bright red handprints on my arse and a red hot throb between my thighs. I am so glad he did it, because in that moment I learned something completely new about myself and he opened a whole new world of sensation play to me. Pain in that moment isn’t really pain, it is something far more compelling and addictive than that. It is a strange and dark dance between pleasure and pain, that mingle together edging back and forth from one another but slowly coming closer together until the two are so blurred that you no longer know where one stops and the other starts. It is that moment, that pure physical experience, a loss of yourself into sensory overload, that I crave. For me pain, applied with a loving firm skilled hand is my drug of choice.

Jane

I understand that not everyone feels and experiences pain in the same way that I do and that the following will, to some, make about as much sense as a chocolate teapot.

As well as being a rather messy combination of bottom and submissive, I am a masochist. In the grand scheme of things, I believe myself to be a pretty lightweight one but, mild or not, erotic pain (amongst other things) defines a significant portion of my sexual self. Note the emphasis on the word ‘erotic’ here. To clarify, I do not find banging my shin against a table a turn-on. That just plain f*cking hurts and there’s nothing remotely sensual or enjoyable about that sort of experience. But tangle pain up with submission or bottoming, place it within a sexual context, and we’re suddenly talking about something entirely different.

Can I define exactly how it makes me feel to receive pain delivered with erotic intent? I can try. The best way I can think of to describe it is as an equation, the adding of certain things together to create a desirable sum:

sexual context + aroused brain + erotic pain = catharsis

Yep, for me, even though it is undoubtedly a sexual kink, receiving pain does not necessarily need to lead to a climax. Can pain cause me to have an orgasm? Not on its own. But it can certainly push me towards one or send me over the edge if it’s combined with more ‘standard’ forms of stimulation.

The type of pain is important, too. To get to that cathartic sum it must be of a sort that I enjoy and be delivered in a certain way. For example, I don’t like sharp sensations, but I love sting if I’m properly warmed up and experience it in bursts.

My perception of erotic pain itself is harder to describe. My brain registers that it hurts but then somehow transforms it into something else. You know when you lower yourself into bathwater that is way too hot but you gradually acclimatise until suddenly you’re sitting chest-deep and it feels wonderful and unbearable all at the same time? Well, that’s the closest analogy I can draw.

It would be pretty accurate to say that I crave erotic pain, in much the same way that other people might crave a bar of chocolate. It gives me both pleasure and satisfaction. Could I survive without it? Of course. But do I want to? No.

THOSE WHO GIVE

DomSigns

This is, I think a much more difficult subject for most of those who give pain as opposed to those that receive it. In my mind it is easier for most to understand how closely pain and pleasure are linked in the brain and therefore easier to understand how pain can be erotic. But what about those who find it erotic to give pain, how can hurting someone else give you pleasure? More importantly how can you not see that as a sickness?

After a great deal of thought on this matter I have decided that the problem with those questions is how they are phrased. The way that it make sense is that I am not “hurting” her. Hurt implies damage and I never injure her, what I do is give her pleasure through the controlled application of pain. That turns her on, and it turns me on too.

It is not just the moments of delivery that make it erotic, but all the moments afterward as well. When she rushes off to see the marks that I have left on her body, when she sits down and winces, when I grab her bottom and she groans, all of that turns me on.

Now to the part that is a bit darker. How it can work for me with the right person and consent. I have the opportunity to let a bit of the primeval part of me loose just a little. I get to express the strength of being a man to hold her down and use her as I desire, to bite and hit and mark. This doesn’t mean that I lose control, quite the opposite. I have to keep a tighter rein on what I am doing because there is a greater chance of things going wrong. It is the dichotomy of being Dom. I can  express that aggressive imperative that still lives within us all… But I need to keep it from spiralling into darkness. That is why it is never done in anger, not even when she is being punished. All that we do together is done with love, complete consent and explicit communication. We all have that dark side within us and together she and I get to explore and learn that part of ourselves together with smiles and tears and passion. That makes it a journey worth taking.

M

My introduction to erotic pain was through Jane and her interest in it. Personally speaking, I don’t find being on the receiving end of it a turn-on, nor do I consider myself to be a sadist. But I do find dominating Jane very erotic and arousing – and because it is a hot button for her, pain plays a big part in that process. I guess what I’m trying to say is that while I don’t find actual pleasure in giving pain for pain’s sake, as a sadist would, I love her reaction to it. It turns her on, and her being turned on turns me on.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of doing things that were fundamentally going to ‘hurt’ Jane when we first started exploring her masochistic side, despite the fact that she wanted me to and had given her consent. But as time has gone on, that’s definitely changed – mainly because I better understand her reactions to erotic pain and love the way she responds to it. I’m also far more confident in my ability to ‘read’ her, because experience and communication have taught me what she wants, what she needs, and what I need to do to get her there. I have absolutely been in charge of the pace of exploration, though. That’s partly a the control thing, but has also been driven by my need to be confident in my judgement and that everything we do is safe.

It’s fair to say that Jane and my experiences with her, have turned the way I would normally think about pain on its head; in an erotic, consensual context, I think it is about power exchange, the brain, and a certain level of release more than anything else. Yes, finding pleasure through pain will be outside of ‘the norm’ for a lot of people but for us, it is something that’s a fundamental part of what I consider to be a healthy, loving relationship.

Trent

As a Dom with a sadistic streak a mile wide, my take on pain is rather … complicated.

First, I think some clarification is in order. I am not a ‘sexual sadist’ as described clumsily in modern psychology in reference to serial killers or the like. I’m nothing of the sort. These persons are truly dangerous in that they are incapable of deriving pleasure without inflicting terrible pain (and often death) on others. They have no empathy for their victims, and seek to inflict this pain on others solely to fulfill their own selfish desires. I’ve simplified things greatly here, but I needed to make sure that that was clear, as some people are frightened by the very word ‘sadist’.

I am a ‘sadist’ when you define the word as someone who enjoys, takes pleasure in, giving pain to a woman who wants said pain. The woman must consent, must enjoy that pain – otherwise, it’s not going to ever happen. That consent is paramount and non-negotiable, and is the key to everything regarding sadism/masochism — at least as I define it.

Pain, to me, can all be boiled down to two ingredients: sensation and control. The attraction to pain for a sane sadist – a label I would apply to myself – is that it can be used to overwhelm the sub/masochist with sensation. Many masochists report that the pain transforms itself into something else. Perhaps it’s the work of endorphins, or perhaps it’s something deeper, more conscious on the sub’s part? I suppose nobody will ever know, but I find it fascinating nonetheless.

For me, the pain must be given in a sexual context; Jane’s example of a shin bash being utterly non-sexual was a wonderful example. As in so much else, context is everything. There is a world of difference between scalding your hand on hot water, and having your ass roasted by a hard spanking. Yes, both involve serious pain, but the context renders them two sensations that couldn’t be more different as experienced by the recipient.

The control aspect comes into play in the context of Dominance and submission. Part of the control a Dominant may choose to exert concerns whether or not he will give his sub pain, be it as a punishment for some infraction of their “rules”, or simply pain given both for his pleasure, and for her pleasure at being compelled to undergo said pain. Deciding when, where, and in what form his sub feels this pain is one of the aspects of D/s that is rarely spoken of in frank terms, but one I suspect is an undercurrent in many, if not most, D/s relationships.

When a Dom decides his sub shall have a spanking, it is not merely the physical pain of the punishment that she may crave and fear in equal measure, but the control he’s exerting upon her in making her endure the pain of the spanking holds its own separate, yet intertwined, attraction for her.

He’s compelling her to expose her naked flesh to his gaze, surrendering her body for both his pleasure and hers. She’s submitting to his will, and accepting his right to give her both pain and (if she’s a good girl) pleasure. In a sense, pain itself is actually subordinate to the real appeal of the entire D/s dynamic: the unequal power relationship and its implied and explicit exercise of control. Pain in the D/s relationship is really a tool, a way to make her experience overwhelming sensation, a means to compel, to punish, or even, to reward.

For the subs/masochists brave enough to embrace those sensations, those adventurous souls who are ready to take that journey, it can be a magical trip indeed!

*An enormous and heartfelt ‘thank you’ to Molly Moore (Molly’s Daily Kiss, @Mollysdailykiss), DomSigns (@DomSigns), Trent Evans (Trent Evans Letters, @TrentEvansTales), and my husband, M, for taking the time to help me out with this post; I couldn’t have written it without them. Please, please do take the time to go and check their very excellent online selves out – in short, they rock!

The post Pain Positive appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Title:

This joint review was a no-brainer for us. Michael and I are both big fans of Cherise Sinclair and it’s fair to say that we were both gagging to read this latest instalment in her Shadowlands series. When I suggested to him that This Is Who I Am should be our next project?

@Jane: I have been looking forward to that book for over a year:

‘”I won’t scar you. I won’t go past when you can take. If you can trust me that far, this will be much easier for you.” He met her eyes straight on, letting her read his body, hear the truth, and see it in his face. “But, Linda, I’m going to hurt you. You’ll hate me when I make you take it, and you’ll hate even more that you need it. That it fills that hole inside you and cleans away the clutter.”‘

(To Command and Collar (Shadowlands Book 6))

@Michael: CANNOT WAIT for Sam. And DeVries from Dark Haven. They both scare and tempt at the same time … *sigh*

Yep, we were pushing the download button on release day.

Did it live up to our expectations?

MICHAEL’S TAKE 

I tend to think of the Shadowlands series as one of the crown jewels of romantic BDSM fiction. Each book in it tends to be better than the last.

Last year we were treated to the most fantasy-oriented of the series. When Kim is rescued from the evil Harvest Association by Raoul, a series of improbable events causes her to assume the place of the slave he has always wanted. During the course of the story we see a moment occur between Linda, another woman kidnapped by the Harvesters, and Sam, a friend of Raoul’s, who tries to keep her safe in a rather unique way. A way that ends badly.

‘He rubbed his hand over his mouth, wanting to swear up a storm. He’d sliced into her defenses with less finesse than a baby dom with a new whip. After a glance at the attendant who still hovered nearby, Sam knew he couldn’t explain to her, to apologize–not here–but when this was over, they’d talk. Damn straight, they would.’

But they wouldn’t. At least not until now.

Linda is home. Back from her kidnapping. Recovered physically and largely emotionally. But she faces a new menace, in some ways just as destructive and self-serving as her kidnappers: The Court of Public Opinion. She wasn’t a child kidnapped from her bedroom. She wasn’t a teen walking home from her fast food restaurant job. She was a woman who had just stepped out of an S&M dungeon. That meant she deserved what happened to her, right? In fact, she probably enjoyed all of it.

Fortunately, not everyone feels that way. And foremost among them is Sam.

Linda is a masochist and a submissive. This isn’t a story about a woman who thinks that she’s become either of these things through a bad experience. What Sam provides is a way for her to work through her feelings and figure out where she wants to go with them. And she actually helps Sam do the same thing in the process. Because he’s got some experiences in his past that he’s never quite dealt with, too.

Just one minor thing: The stories are set in Tampa, a place I know pretty well. In fact, I used to live right where one of the key events in the story takes place (when Sam meets Linda’s children at the café). But I never got the feeling that they were really there, as much as the geographical references are sprinkled in, from looking at a map. Next time, I would at least like to know if we are on Fowler, Fletcher, or 30th Street.

This one is timely, both advancing the genre and the story of the series. And I can’t wait to see what happens next.

JANE’S TAKE 

Responsible.

That’s the word that springs to mind whenever I read a book from Cherise Sinclair’s Shadowlands series. Basically, I know that whatever happens, the Doms won’t behave like complete tools and the submissives, whatever their issues, will end up grinning from ear-to-ear because they’ve been done six kinky ways ‘til Sunday. And then some. Given that This Is Who I Am’s male protagonist is a Dominant sadist and the plotline revolves around sexual enjoyment through pain, both giving and receiving? Well, let’s just say that knowing the story was written by Ms Sinclair was a huge (huge) weight off my mind going in. This sort of subject matter can be pretty frickin’ scary to read about when tackled with the wrong pen but, as predicted, this book goes to all those lovely dark places you want it to without ever feeling negatively risky or dangerous.

As Michael said to me while we were reading:

‘Cherise just has a way of creating Doms that I trust implicitly to do the right thing. Not every author does that for me.’

So, the pain factor; how hardcore is the hurting? Well, personally, I thought all the scenes between Linda and Sam were handled beautifully and, while there are some things that may make certain readers’ eyes open a little wider, their interactions are written in such a way that everything that passes between them feels incredibly natural and erotic. The descriptions of masochistic pleasure and the way Linda processes it are excellent and the way Sam conducts himself and his need to hurt refreshingly unapologetic. The play never feels out-of-control or violent – just measured, sensual, exciting and very, very hot. It’s accessible S/M, in other words; I wasn’t reading and going ‘I can’t believe they did that!’ or ‘WTF?’.

Which leads me on nicely to my next point.

I really (really) loved the ‘normalisation’ of masochism and sadism in this book – and would even go so far as to say this was the aspect of This Is Who I Am that resonated with me the most. People being to able to talk openly and honestly, to accept themselves for what they are without fear and/or shame? Bring it on.

Finally, Sam.

Dear, God, but I love that man. (He’s not real, Jane. He’s not real …)

@Michael:

I love Sam.

I love Sam.

I love Sam.

Did I mention how much I love Sam?

I think if I could assemble my perfect Sadist, LEGO-style, he’d be pretty close to what I’d end up with.

I know that This Is Who I Am is an idealised, romantic version of BDSM but the core sentiments are beautiful and, ultimately, what many of us would want to find or experience in a D/s S/M exchange. The suspense plot is a little woolly but with such erotic scenes between the protagonists, who really cares?

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to purchase a copy:

Amazon.co.uk

• This Is Who I Am – Kindle

Amazon.com

• This Is Who I Am – Kindle

The post This Is Who I Am – Cherise Sinclair appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Title:

I’m such a geek. First thing I did upon hearing about this book? Googled quinacridone. (It’s a red pigment that’s often used in paints, in case you’re wondering.)

Taking it at face value, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the title, Safeword: Quinacridone seems kind of random – light-hearted and playful in its obscurity, even – and that you’re in for the standard BDSM erotica romp.

Boy would you be wrong.

This is a tale of two people, Cara and Travis, bringing together their respective kinks – objectification and sadism – and, at the same time, creating a functional, romantic relationship.

When we first meet her, Cara, a budding artist, is still very much coming to terms with her wants and desires. Her sexual trajectory has been troubled and she is decidedly unsettled by her initial encounters with the reclusive and contradictory Travis, whom she is inexplicably drawn to. He, on the other hand, is very much in tune with himself – and his need to hurt – but wary of unleashing the monster within on Cara and crossing the line. The couple’s steps first steps towards one another are tentative and awkward (although they’re both full-grown adults, at times I felt like I was watching two teenagers muddle through the beginnings of a sexual awakening) but, gradually, their rapport blossoms into something very intuitive and unique.

I knew going in that Safeword: Quinacridone was going to be intense, having previously read another of Candace Blevins’s Safeword books (Safeword: Rainbow), but this latest entry to the series stepped things up to a whole new level. Really, the only word that I can think of to describe some of the content in this novel is ‘extreme’. Cara’s objectification fantasies, in particular, sometimes push the edges of the envelope.

Interestingly, and despite the very intense level of play between Cara and Travis, Safeword: Quinacridone isn’t a story about total power exchange. I haven’t come across very many books lately that show characters in compartmentalised BDSM relationships, or encountered bottoms who aren’t actually subs. (Even though Cara gets off on being objectified and has some submissive tendencies, she can’t really be described as the latter.) She and Travis are able to switch backwards and forwards between ‘vanilla’ and ‘non-vanilla’ with one another and enjoy the ‘best of both worlds’ – something I found to be incredibly refreshing and enjoyable.

Full disclosure, Safeword: Quinacridone did push my comfort levels. Certain scenes and sections? Very, very, hot (I particularly enjoyed the human table scenario and a number of the impact sequences). But the lean towards the edgier end of things brought me up short at times – to the point that if I had been Cara, I would have painted the entire street in red pigment and had a flashing neon sign with the word ‘quinacridone’ installed over my front door. There were also a number of occasions where I found myself repeating the following line from a conversation between Travis and his friend Paul:

“I mean, I know we’re supposed to be okay with other people’s kinks, but…shit.”

Ironically, the discussions that the characters had about stuff that they wouldn’t do or considered ‘too extreme’ for real life, generally disturbed me more than the things that they actually did end up engaging in. The romantic relationship that develops between the protagonists, however, did tend to balance out the heavier stuff. Candace’s writing style is very natural and readable, too (although the ex-editor in me really wants to tell the publisher that they should have done another copyediting pass on the text as I noticed a small handful of errors in the final manuscript.)

If objectification – and I mean objectification with a capital ‘O’ – floats your boat, you won’t want to miss this one. Casual BDSM erotica readers? Just be aware that you’re about to jump into the deep end of the pool. Without floaties.

Reader advisory (taken from directly from Safeword: Quinacridone): This title contains graphic language, consensual BDSM, extreme objectification, bondage, watersports (one scene), chemical play, fisting, temporary body modification with saline injections (one scene), and the use of toys including clamps, canes, plugs, paddles, whips, floggers, and zip-ties.

*Please note that a free copy of Safeword: Quinacridone was supplied by the author in exchange for a fair review.

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to buy a copy:

Amazon.co.uk

• Safeword: Quinacridone – Kindle

Amazon.com

• Safeword: Quinacridone – Kindle

The post Safeword: Quinacridone – Candace Blevins appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Karlyne (Own work)

All Girls Love Ponies is my second five-minute erotica offering and involves a sadistic dressage instructor giving some rather unorthodox instructions to his female pupil. If the idea of a whip applied to a soft backside makes you hot, then this story might be for you …

Missed the first five-minute erotica, Frostbite? You can find it here.

IMPORTANT: Please note that All Girls Love Ponies is a work of fiction and contains explicit sexual content and BDSM elements, including impact play. If such material offends you or you are under the age of 18, please don’t read any further.

ALL GIRLS LOVE PONIES 

I was late for my lesson. Again.

Hell hath no fury like a dressage instructor kept waiting and to say that Sebastian was going to be displeased with me was a colossal understatement. Monumental, in fact.

The industrial lights from the indoor school blazed in the darkness and I swallowed, briefly toying with the idea of getting back in my car and driving off.

It was tempting. More than tempting. But I was in no doubt that if I hightailed it I’d banned from his tutelage forever. And I didn’t want that, because even though Sebastian Cavendish was a total asshole with a heart of granite and the demeanour of an angry bear, he was an absolutely brilliant riding teacher. People waited months and months and forked over hundreds of pounds to have him yell at them just once. I, on the other hand, paid for the privilege, physically, financially and mentally, every Friday night from eight ‘til nine.

For whatever reason, I’d decided that resurrecting my childhood riding hobby was a good way for me to relax, to shed the stress of my job as a lawyer at one of Oxford’s busiest and most prestigious law firms.

To a certain extent, my theory was working; it was virtually impossible to think about my caseload while sitting astride five hundred kilos of difficult horseflesh and being yelled at by an ex-member of the Household Cavalry.

A dark figure appeared between the open double-doors of the school, illuminated by the manege’s lit interior.

Sebastian.

He stood silently; legs apart, hands on his hips. Six foot three of intimidating shadow, waiting for me to approach.

I glanced down at my watch once more, praying for miracle.

8.17pm.

Nope. Time hadn’t stood still. I was nearly twenty minutes late.

A boulder of dread sitting heavy in my stomach, I reached back inside my Mini and grabbed the velvet riding helmet on the passenger seat, thankful that I’d scrambled into my breeches and jacket in the ladies’ loos at work. Asking Sebastian for additional time to change at this point would have been like volunteering to be shot by a firing squad.

Slamming the car door, I reluctantly started towards the manege, my anxiety growing with each step.

With the light behind him, it was impossible to see the expression on Sebastian’s face but there was absolutely no doubt he was royally, royally pissed; his displeasure was a living, breathing energy that radiated outwards and wrapped around me like constricting serpent.

A metre from his imposing frame, I ground to a halt, unwilling to get any closer to the explosion that was certain to occur. It was hard to keep my eyes up, to not look at the ground like a naughty schoolgirl, but I forced myself to face him despite the fact that I was literally quaking in my riding boots.

I knew better than to say anything. To him, excuses and placations meant nothing. The only thing this man responded to was perfection – and he never got that from me.

I stood and waited for him to address me.

But, disconcertingly, he simply stood there. Hands braced against his hips, face in shadow, caustic gaze burning holes in me as I squirmed like a gill-caught sprat on his line of contempt.

I was on the verge of breaking the horrible silence with a stuttered apology when Sebastian simply turned on his heel and strode back into the school.

For a moment, I stood dumbly. Should I follow? Or did his silence mean he was washing his hands of me for good?

He must have realised I wasn’t trotting along in his wake because he paused briefly and without turning his head uttered three words in the most scarily level tone I’d ever heard him use.

‘Get in here.’

I stumbled forwards, jogging slightly to catch up with him as he marched to the collecting area on the far side of the arena.

And was almost ill when I saw the jet-black horse waiting for me.

The Boatman.

Named after Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, he was easily the most difficult ride in the Sebastian’s stable – and the few times I’d been on him, things hadn’t ended well. I really had felt like I’d been crossing the River Styx to the world of the dead without a coin to pay for my passage.

I was so busy eyeing my equine nemesis and panicking about how the hell I was going to stay on him that I momentarily forgot about my human one.

Until he spoke, that was.

‘Take off your jodhpurs.’

My head whipped around so fast I was surprised I didn’t give myself whiplash.

Sebastian was standing just to the right of me, arms folded across his chest, face completely impassive.

‘Excuse me?’ I spluttered.

‘Your jodhpurs. Take them off. Now.’

Anger surged through me at his audacity – the nerve of the man! – but, most alarmingly, the ghost of a thrill came hot on the heels of the outrage.

I drew myself up and somehow forced myself to assume the expression I used when facing down opposing barristers in court.

‘How bloody dare you, you arrogant shit.’

Sebastian’s eyes took on an evil gleam and my blood turned ice-cold at the frightening promise in them. Well, except for the place between my legs, which, against all odds, seemed to catch fire at his look.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to me.

‘Natalia.’

Leaned in.

‘Take. Them. Off.’

All the air seemed to leave the arena. Just for a moment, I wondered if I was having some sort of hallucination, but then I realised, no. This was very, very real. On some instinctive level, I realised that I was on a precipice. Even worse, I was going to willingly step off it.

Glaring defiantly at the man in front of me, I let my helmet drop to the ground and bought my fingers to the hook at the top of my riding trousers. Popped it loose and yanked down the zip below it. Unfortunately, my air of challenge, such as it was, lost all effect as I realised I would be unable to rid myself of them without first shedding my boots.

Reluctantly, I dropped my eyes and attempted to toe them off. Usually, I removed them with a boot jack – the fit was very tight – but here in the riding school there was none. As I struggled to lift my right heel upwards, I glanced briefly at Sebastian.

He made absolutely no move to help me despite my obvious difficulties, seeming perfectly content to watch me contort myself as I attempted to follow his ludicrously inappropriate instructions.

My humiliation grew. Yet something in me refused to back down.

Eventually, the boots came off – along with my socks. I was so embarrassed by my lack of grace that it was almost a relief to peel my black jodhpurs down over my thighs and calves. At least until I had to hop about in front of him pulling the clingy fabric over my ankles.

When I finally stood bared legged and barefoot in the sawdust, my breeches in a heap next to my hat, I was red-faced with embarrassment.

‘Lose the knickers. Put your boots and socks back on.’

Without waiting to see if I would comply, he turned and made his way over to the rail of the collecting area and picked up the long dressage whip leaning against it. Then Sebastian turned towards me, tapping the long, thin stem across his palm, narrowing his eyes at the pants still in place over my sex. ‘It seems that you’re as appalling at following instructions as you are at riding in a straight line.’

‘I–’

‘Don’t say a word,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in quite enough trouble as it is.’

I swallowed.

‘I’m going to give you one last chance, Natalia. And if you don’t do as I tell you, you’re going to be very, very sorry.’

I was in absolutely no doubt that Sebastian’s threat wasn’t an idle one. My hands flew to my hips, tangled in the elastic waistband of my knickers, pulled them down my legs. When it came to drawing my socks and boots on, I didn’t hesitate. I simply sat bare-assed in the sawdust, the rough shavings brushing against my pussy, and drew them on as quickly as I could. When I stood, the chips that had clung to my skin rained down the backs of my legs like wooden confetti.

Sebastian regarded me critically, in the same way he would take the measure of a horse he intended to break.

‘Come here. Bring your things.’

I didn’t dare disobey. I bent to scoop up the detritus of my riding gear and made my way towards him, the various items spilling over my arms. Funnily enough, I was more concerned with not dropping anything that the fact that I was exposed from the waist down.

‘Put it down.’

I did. Straightened.

‘Look at me.’

My eyes met his.

‘You’re going to ride every drill I give you perfectly. No errors.’

My jaw dropped. In the four months I’d been coming to Sebastian for tuition, I’d never managed to execute a single line, circle, or change of rein that met his exacting standards. And that was on a horse I could actually control.

‘And if I don’t?’

He smiled, showing off his lovely straight, white teeth. ‘You’ll be reprimanded.’

Oh, God.

‘Any questions?’

Hell, I might as well go for broke. ‘Why am I not wearing pants?’

‘So that I can punish you more easily when you fail, my dear Natalia.’

I sincerely wished I hadn’t asked.

The Boatman seemed to sense something was afoot. He flicked his ears backwards and forwards and shifted restlessly as I moved to mount him.

Don’t panic, Natalia. You can do this.

Gathering the reins in my left hand, I grabbed onto the saddle and prepared to pull myself onto the gelding’s back but, as I did so, I was suddenly struck by an awful thought.  When I swung my leg over, Sebastian, who was holding the stirrup on the opposite side to prevent the saddle from slipping, was going to get an absolute eyeful.

‘I haven’t got all night, Natalia,’ he barked. ‘If you don’t want me to take this whip to your ass, get on the horse.’

That decided it. I pushed my weight into my left leg and pulled myself onto The Boatman’s back. And almost lost it when the cool, smooth saddle leather pressed against my bare pubis. I’d had it waxed not two days before and the skin was achingly sensitive.

The Boatman chose that moment to dance sideways, his body moving like liquid silk beneath me. I sat deep and tightened my legs in an effort to bring him under control – and was immediately distracted by a sharp bolt of arousal as my unprotected clit rubbed against the pommel of the saddle. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of the reins, but it was a close-run thing.

I bought the gelding to a stand-still and hurriedly got my right foot into the stirrup. When I looked up, Sebastian was frowning at me.

‘Warm up. Two circuits at a walk. Change the rein. Two more.’

I nodded and gently squeezed The Boatman with my calves to move him to the outside of the arena. After a brief battle of wills, he complied. But not before his undulating movements had caused further havoc with my rapidly swelling clitoris.

Initially, I was just thankful that I had the horse moving in the right direction, but by the time I’d completed my second circuit and started riding the diagonal line that would see us moving clockwise rather than anticlockwise, I was rapidly turning into a ball of messy, distracted arousal.

The rhythm of The Boatman’s springy walk, my bare pussy and the leather rubbing against it, was bordering on unbearable. Worse, I could feel the saddle growing damp as my pussy started to leak its juices onto its smooth surface.

The Boatman chose that moment to take advantage of my inattention and dance out of alignment, throwing in a few small bucks for good measure as he did so.

Heart pounding, I wrestled to bring him back under control.

‘Halt!’ boomed Sebastian, who was now standing in the centre of the arena, mere metres from our mishap.

Easy for you to say, I thought, somehow managing to bring the black devil beneath me to a stop.

‘Dismount.’

I took my feet from the stirrups and slid to the ground next to him.

‘Tie him up at the collecting ring and come directly back to me.’

On shaking legs, I led The Boatman to the side of the manege, secured him, and returned to face the seriously displeased man holding the dressage whip.

‘Get on your hands and knees, Natalia.’

Thud, thud, thud.

My heart was deep and hollow, pounding like a kettle drum. How far was he actually going to take this? The man had a frickin’ whip in has hand for Christ’s sake. And just how far would I let him go?

As far as you need to in order to earn his approval a small voice whispered.

It was an uncomfortable truth. Deep down, as much as I railed against Sebastian’s awful attitude, I genuine wanted to please him, to do something worthy of his praise. Now he’d well and truly thrown down the gauntlet and, fool that I undoubtedly was, I didn’t want to be found lacking any more than I already had been.

Decision made, I lowered myself into the sawdust, keeping my eyes locked on his the entire time.

The corner of his mouth turned up as watched me. ‘Drop your head,’ he said as he moved to stand behind me.

I did as I was told, the helmet adding its own weight as my neck arched downwards.

‘Why are you being reprimanded, Natalia?’

‘For not keeping control of The Boatman.’

‘No, Natalia, that’s not it.’

There was a whistling sound and then, a millisecond later, a stripe of excruciating heat arced across my bare buttocks. I yelped in pain and lurched upwards, tried to cover the stinging skin with my sawdust-covered hands. Sebastian was ready for me, though; a broad palm pressed not ungently against my spine, stopping me from getting far enough up to balance. I was forced to lean forwards again and put my hands back on the ground to stop myself from face-planting. For a split second, my instincts screamed at me to crawl out of reach, away from Sebastian and the cruel sting of the whip in his hand, but they were quickly superseded by the desire to hold my ground and prove to him that I could take whatever he chose to dish out. Steeling myself, I took two deep lungfuls of air and braced for whatever was coming next.

It was as if Sebastian had been waiting for me to strengthen my resolve, because the moment I firmed my posture, mentally accepted what was happening, he addressed me.

‘If you move out of position again, I’ll tie you to the railing of the collecting ring. Do you understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Now, Natalia. Why are you being reprimanded?’

This time, I thought before opening my mouth.

‘For losing concentration.’

‘Excellent.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sebastian’s leather boots appear near my left shoulder.

‘You have an appalling attention span when you’re struggling with something, Natalia, and that’s the reason you ride so shockingly. So, I’m going to make things both better and worse for you. Each time you lose it, I’m going to give you five lashes with the dressage whip.’ He paused, as if waiting for me to say something.

I thought it best to hold my tongue.

Sebastian continued, sounding vaguely amused. ‘I’m also going to make things more difficult for you every time you slip up.’

Uh, oh.

‘For each error, you will receive something that will make it even more difficult to concentrate.’

Unable to stop myself, I snorted. ‘What could possibly be more distracting than a backside that’s on fire?’

‘Oh, Natalia. Believe me, your backside is going to be the least of your worries.’

My heart actually stopped beating.

‘So it’s really very simple. Keep your concentration and you’ll escape further punishment. Lose it and you’ll make things more and more difficult for yourself.’

My palms started to sweat.

‘Now, I’m going to give you the remaining four strokes I owe you and you’re going to take them gracefully. Aren’t you?’

I gritted my teeth. ‘Yes, Sebastian.’

And then my backside exploded in pain as the dressage whip swung down to meet it with a fierce kiss.

From that point on, the lesson became my own personal chamber of torture. I’d been back on The Boatman less than ten minutes, valiantly trying to ignore my newly striped bottom (which screamed in fiery protest every time it rubbed against the saddle), when I screwed up the sequence Sebastian had asked me to ride. He had me off the gelding in an instant, and the moment the horse was tied up out of the way, he laid down five blistering lashes on the lower curve of my bottom, one on top of the other. Then he pulled me to my feet, tears dripping down my cheeks at the humiliation, and unceremoniously stripped me down to my bra. I was sure I looked ridiculous, standing there in just my boots and a black lace underwire, but Sebastian didn’t seem the least bit concerned by my appearance. He pulled the delicate fabric cups down so that my breasts were completely exposed – and unsupported – and ordered me to get back on The Boatman so we could continue the lesson. As I climbed back into the saddle, I sent a silent ‘thank you’ to the man above for blessing me with small breasts – officially the only time in my life I’d ever been grateful for being an A cup.

The next five lashes came when I failed to move The Boatman from a trot to a canter as quickly as Sebastian would have liked. These ones landed across the fleshiest parts of my buttocks and the blows had enough force behind them to make my mind go completely blank as I tried to process the pain. While I remained on my hands and knees, trying to breathe through the aftermath, Sebastian crouched down beside me and reached for one of my nipples. It was shockingly erect and I realised, suddenly, that this out-of-left-field session of punishment – the pain, the humiliation, Sebastian’s dominance and his implacable orders – were all speaking to me on some base, sexual level.

I was totally and utterly aroused. More turned on than I could remember being in my entire life.

And a glance at the rather impressive bulge in Sebastian’s pants told me he was too.

My moment of epiphany was cut abruptly short, however, because just as the realisation entered my head, he pulled something silvery from his pocket and attached it to the turgid tip of my left breast.

‘Fuck!’ I whipped my hand out of the shavings and tried ineffectually to bat his hand and whatever the hell was now clipped to me away.

‘Put your hand back down, Natalia.’

‘What the fuck have you done to my nipple you sadistic shit?’ I half snapped, half wheezed.

‘You watch your language.’ He punctuated his command with a firm tug on the silvery thing and I immediately crumpled in agony, clenching my fingers into tight fists.

I’d just managed to ride the wave of it out when an identical crushing pressure enveloped my right nipple, too.

‘Aaahhh!’

‘It will pass. The first few seconds after the clamps go on are the worst.’ Sebastian smiled. ‘Well, until they come off, that is.’

Clamps?!

‘On your feet, get back on The Boatman. We have another twenty minutes left.’

I looked frantically down at the watch on my wrist. ‘But I was late and it’s already nine o’clock!’ I protested.

‘You’re mine for a full hour, Natalia, and you’ll get the lesson you paid for.’

The next fifteen minutes went relatively smoothly. For the majority of them, my mind managed to overrule the tingling in my pussy, the increasingly raw skin of my bottom, the weight of the clamps as they dragged at my aching nipples with each bouncy step The Boatman took. Against all odds, the additional distractions were forcing me to focus every part of myself on the horse beneath me; concentrating on every little detail of the ride was only way I could rise above them and keep my ever-increasing arousal at bay. That was until my clit took a delicious rub during a leg yield, the reins went slack and The Boatman bolted.

Off I came again. Another five lashes. Alternate cheeks. As the final stroke landed, Sebastian gave me the shock of my life by burying one of his fingers in my embarrassingly wet pussy, then drawing it out and around the pucker of my anus.

I tensed. He snorted with laughter.

His finger left me briefly and there was rustling followed by a squelching noise, as if something was being squeezed from a bottle. Then the feeling of something cool, firm and slippery pressing against my ass – which I immediately clenched in protest.

‘You owe me five more minutes, Natalia. And I’m going to make them count.’

‘By sticking something in my bottom?’ I retorted.

Sebastian leaned down next to my ear. ‘Are you looking to add another ten minutes of complimentary instruction?’ he whispered.

I shook my head frantically. No way. I was close to the limit of my endurance – physically and emotionally. These last five minutes might as well be five hours.

‘Pity. You’ve made more progress this evening than you have in the past four months.’ He punctuated the end of his sentence by pressing whatever it was in his hand through the resisting ring at the entrance of my anus. Stopping briefly when I flinched, and then continuing until it was fully seated within me.

I whined. I actually whined. The object wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was uncomfortable. Only the discomfort had an edginess to it that was inexplicably tantalising. It didn’t make sense – especially to someone like me who generally disliked anal sex.

Sebastian slapped my bottom the flat of his hand none-to-gently and I scrambled to my feet.

‘You have five minutes left, Natalia.’ He paused, studying my flushed face. ‘Don’t disappointment me.’

It was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Three hundred seconds of heaven and hell.

Every time my bottom hit the saddle, the bit of the object protruding from my ass was shoved further inside me. My nipples felt both numb and tingly, the clamps on them feeling heavier than ever before. The welts on the skin of my buttocks became more and more tender with each movement of the horse beneath me.

The only way to escape the assault of sensation was to become part of the animal between my legs, an extension of the reins in my hands.

And for the first time ever, I rode the drill Sebastian gave me without making a single error.

When I finally drew to a halt in front of him, The Boatman in a perfect outline, legs absolutely square, I was on the brink of a complete meltdown.

Sebastian took hold of the horse’s reins and nodded at me to dismount. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and led the gelding to the collecting ring, rubbing his muzzle as he did so.

I looked down. Saw the silver clamps quivering against my breasts as I trembled. Registered the damp smears of arousal on my shaking thighs.

What the hell was happening to me?

Before I knew it, Sebastian was back, standing like a conquering king in front of me, the dressage whip in his hand. My eyes widened and I took a step backwards.

‘Stop.’

I froze.

He stepped closer. ‘That sort of riding, Natalia, is what I will expect from you every time from now on.’ Keeping his eyes locked with mine, he lifted the long whip and trailed it very, very slowly from the hollow of my throat to the start of the crease between my legs. ‘Very well done.’

The wash of happiness Sebastian’s approval induced was so deep and so great I almost sobbed with relief. At last! I finally had his respect.

But as great as the gift of his compliment was, it did nothing to ease the twisted state of my virtually naked body, wrung so taught it felt close to breaking.

Even as I bathed in his praise, I felt like I was lost in a thick, dense emotional fog and that any second I would shatter into a million disconnected molecules.

I made to turn away, desperate to cover myself and gain the sanctuary of my car, but Sebastian had other ideas.

I got exactly one foot before he tackled me from behind and forced me back down on my hands and knees.

‘Don’t you want your reward?’

Then that wickedly long crop was raining down on my derriere until my skin felt like it had been dipped in gasoline and set on fire.

The pain was like nothing I’d ever felt before and the orgasm that had been threatening to break loose the entire lesson exploded through me like a Fury. On and on it went, re-igniting to an excruciating peak when Sebastian reached beneath me to pull the clamps of my poor, tortured nipples, bathing them in a euphoria of blissful agony.

When the storm finally subsided and I came back to myself, I was lying on my stomach in the sawdust, head resting on my bare arms. Sebastian was crouched beside me, stroking my back, the dressage whip discarded at his feet.

Barely able to summon the strength to move, I turned my head in his direction and looked at him in wonder.

‘How long have you been planning that? I mean, how did you … know to do that to me?’

Sebastian smiled slightly, not even pretending to misunderstand.

‘You always did respond to the sadist in me, Natalia – even if you didn’t realise it until now.’ His grin turned wolfish. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to be late again for almost a month.’

I grunted, and sucked in a breath when his fingers drifted down to my behind and gently extracted the object from my anus. He held it up for me to see.

It was a small glass plug, quite beautiful in its own way.

He glanced pointedly from it to me. ‘Next time you fuck up, Natalia – and you will,’ he added casually, ‘you’ll have an even bigger one of these to contend with.’ He rose to his feet, picking up the dressage whip as he did so. ‘And I’ll blister your ass so badly you won’t sit down for a week.’

I smiled against my arm as he walked away.

‘I look forward to it,’ I whispered into the silence.

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