Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/M/MARK.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-04 | 9.6 KB | 227 lines

                              The Mark


They met at the agreed-upon place and, as always, spent much time
talking, kissing, hugging, and snuggling.

Once they decided it was time for more structured activities, he stood
up -- it was his turn to top -- and asked her to sit in a chair.

She sat quickly, not sure if they'd really started yet, but figuring
that any extra obedience couldn't hurt.  He was looking at her
seriously, quite a change from his usual demeanor, and she wondered
what was coming.

"I'd like to do something different today, and you should feel free to
say no.  We're not in scene yet, and I want your honest reaction to
this, not a ritualized expression of whatever you think I want to
hear."

They both knew that she was never very good at these ritualized
expressions, and she grinned at him.  "Okay -- what's up?"

"I would like to put a permanent mark somewhere on your body, to
remind both of us of our relationship and of the...nature of our
relationship."

"You mean, like a tatoo?  What do you want it to say?  Or did you have
a picture in mind?"

"No, not a tatoo," he said, "something a little more serious than
that."  He paused for a moment.  "I had in mind a whip scar.  It would
ensure that the passion we feel for each other would leave a visible
mark on your body."

He looked at her, a little anxiously she thought, as he waited for her
reaction.  She thought for a second, then smiled suddenly.
"It's romantic and twisted, both at the same time -- I love it."

"That's us, Baby, romantic and twisted."

She looked into his eyes as if by gazing into them she could read the
mind behind them.  (It had never worked yet, but she kept hoping.)
"That's only half of the reason, isn't it?  What's the other half --
are you feeling a little sadistic today?"

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?"

The question was rhetorical, but she answered it anyway.  "You CAN;
you just don't WANT to.  So, out with it -- tell me what's on your
mind."

He looked at her as if he were trying to assess something, and she
wondered what he was trying to figure out and what he had concluded.
"You remember the time when we spent the whole day telling each other
our fantasies, and the harder yours was to admit to, the harder to
tell I made mine?"

"Yeah," she said, "I remember.  I told you stuff I'd never told
anybody."  She abandoned seriousness for a moment and started to tease
him.  "Not really fair; since you're an exhibitionist, you don't HAVE
any shameful secrets."

He stuck his tongue out at her.  "Not true."  "But seriously, you told
me that one of your fantasies was to do something that you didn't like
but I did, as a gift to me or as a way of showing me how completely
you belong to me, or something like that."  She nodded, and he
continued.  "You've never seen anybody get marked before, so I'm not
sure that you know just what's involved, but it's a far more serious
experience than the mild beatings we give each other for our mutual
pleasure.  This will not be for your pleasure, or at least not for
your physical pleasure.  I expect, given what you've said, that you
will enjoy it emotionally."  He took a deep breath, then went on.  "To
leave a permanent scar, I will need not just to draw blood, which
we've never done before, but to hit you over and over again in the
same place, to make it deep enough to mark you for life."

"I understand that," she said impatiently.  She was always impatient
when someone treated her as if she were stupid, even though she knew
that his careful explanation was for her benefit, to make her think
things through before she agreed.

"I want you to do this as a kind of sacrifice; your pain and your
blood and your screams will be a gift to me."  He looked down, unable
to look at her after having said that.

His embarassment made her feel bolder.  "Honey."  He looked up.  She
gazed at him steadily and said, "I'm willing to give you anything
you're willing to take."

"Baby, don't SAY things like that."

"Why, because it scares the shit out of you?"

"Yes!"  They both laughed, breaking the tension.

Immediately serious again, he said, "I have one more request."

"What, marking somebody for life isn't enough for one day?  You wanna
cut my ear off and send it to your girlfriend?"

"Van Gogh used his own ear."  He grabbed her arm and shook it
slightly.  "Stop being a giddy wench, you giddy wench; this is hard
for me."

She sobered at once.  "It's hard for me too, honey; that's why I joke.
YOU may have been around the block a few times, but I've never
gotten this deep with anybody before.  So, what's your request?"

"I'm not going to tie you for this.  I want you to hold yourself still
for me, showing me that this is not something I'm stealing from you;
it's something you're giving me.  I know that will make it harder --
can you do it?"

"How the hell should I know?  I promise to try."

"Okay.  You can ask for time out if you need it."

***

He gestured with one hand.  "Face down on the bed."

And now she had to do it.  The time for jokes and sparring was over,
and now it would be just her body and his, without the wit and
whimsy....  She cursed herself for a coward and flung herself onto the
bed.

"You can still change your mind, you know," he said gently.

She raised her head and looked at him and was startled to find that he
looked as scared as she.  The sight of another's fear, oddly enough,
had always made her more courageous, not more scared, and his obvious
nervousness calmed her down.  "I won't change my mind," she said,
"unless you stand there all day yakking."

He raised the whip and brought it down lightly, then again slightly
harder.  He settled into a rhythm of mild blows, and she raised her
head and looked at him again.  "You're holding back," she said.

"I am."

"The old trouble, risen up to haunt you?"

Only a nod this time.  She searched for the right words to say, the
ones that would make what he wanted all right.  She didn't usually say
anything except from the heart, but this time she spoke for effect
only.  "You aren't really planning on flinging my gifts back in my
face, are you?" she asked, her voice hurt and angry.  "I thought I was
giving you something of value, but maybe you don't think so.  Maybe
you like to ask for things and then sit back and laugh at the poor
suckers who grant them -- laugh at our gullibility, laugh at our love
for you, laugh at our trust."

CRACK!  The whip came down hard and she screamed, smiling inside.
Those must have been the right words after all.

A storm of blows broke around her, and she felt herself losing reason
and speech and even her fear.  She held tight to her love for this man
as the one thing that would help her weather the storm, as he hit her
again and again, harder each time.

On the next blow, her skin parted and the blood flowed.  She screamed
again and couldn't seem to stop.  The next blow fell on the exact same
spot, and blood spattered all over her ass.  Her screaming
intensified, and she doubted that she could continue to hold herself
still.

Before she could quiet herself long enough to ask for time out, he
stopped.  "I think you need a break," he said.  His voice was as
hoarse as if it were he who had been screaming, not she, and she gazed
at him but did not speak.  He was covered in sweat and breathing hard
and looked as if he wanted to cry.  "You'll get a turn at this,
someday, honey," she thought to herself, "and then you will scream and
I will cry."

He fetched them both a glass of water and sat down beside her on the
bed.  They drank in silence, then he put down his glass.  "I'm going
to hit you as hard as I can, five or six times, and then I think we'll
be done."

She looked at him, amazed.  "How hard were you hitting me when you
stopped?"

"Oh, about 75%."

She gulped.  "Okay."

He got off the bed and picked up the whip again.  She breathed deeply,
trying to center herself.  He threw his whole body into the next blow,
and it felt as if she'd been struck by lightning.  Pain crashed
through her, and she screamed.  Again.  She found herself wondering
how many times it was possible to be struck by lightning and live.
Somehow this didn't seem an illogical thought to her; reason had been
jettisoned long since.  He struck her again, and she stuffed her
forearm into her mouth to keep from screaming their safeword aloud.
Her world shrank to love, pain, and holding still.

The next-to-last blow bit deeply into her ass.  She could feel it
slicing its way into her and was only then reminded that the goal was
to leave a mark.

He hit her for the last time, hardest of all it seemed, then withdrew
the whip from the channel he had carved in her ass.

"We're done," he said hoarsely and came and gathered her up in his
arms.  She held him tightly as she sobbed, and although she was crying
so hard that she couldn't quite tell, it seemed that he was crying,
too.  They cuddled for a long time; when her crying had quieted, he
brought her a kleenex to blow her nose.

"I hate blowing my nose in front of people," she said.  This remark
seemed amazingly incongruous to both of them, and they laughed.  This
started her crying again, and he looked at her with concern.

"It's all right," she said, "I'm happy.  You actually let me give you
something."

"I think maybe you got as much out of it as I did?"

"At least." she said.  "And when I've recovered a little more, I hope
to give you a little something else."  She winked salaciously.

He hugged her tightly.  "Baby, you just got wore out.  *Stay* worn out
for a little while."

She snuggled up to him and didn't answer.