From: Eeyore Thud Onkey <thudonkey@yahoo.com>

Hello, all. I'm afraid eeyore's back with some more completely unjustifiable PWP. This one comes with a very serious warning though.

"Top" is serious SM. There is more going on in the story than just tying someone up, and the sex is between strangers. If you are uncomfortable with this, please don't read the story. I don't want to upset anyone.

I do, however, want to make one thing clear. _Everything_ in the story is completely, 100% consensual.

If the warning doesn't scare you off, I hope you enjoy the ride.



Title: Top
Author: eeyore
E-mail to: thudonkey@yahoo.com
Spoilers: nope
Archive: wherever, but leave the donkey-tail on
Rating: NC-17, WARNING: consensual SM sex between two women. If you don't like SM games, you should hit delete now.
Keywords: Scully/other, slash, consensual SM
Summary: Can someone who is 5'2" and wears lipstick and heels be a believable top for a butch dyke?
Feedback: whips and chains are even better than roses. Send something!
Thanks: to Rad for comments that made this a better piece. Any errors that you find are my fault entirely. I'm willing to accept my punishment like a good little donkey!
Disclaimer: Scully belongs to Chris Carter. He'd probably have a heart attack if he knew what she was getting up to.
Author's note: This story is about consensual SM role playing. If it's new to you and you want to learn more about it, look up _Sensual Magic_ by Pat Califia. If you don't like this stuff, this is a good time to go on to a softer story. If you think that my portrayal of the top is out of character, think about the myriad ways she is in complete control on your TV screen every week.

by eeyore.

"There's no way you'd let a 5'2" chick in heels top you, Ali. I can't see it."

"My point is that her height is irrelevant. She's outstanding at what she does." My friend was adamant.

"Fine. So now my big, tough buddy is happy to be topped by a 5'2" accountant with a short skirt and make-up. Why not just go to Donna's House of Dominance and ask for someone in a corset and 7" stilettos? How can you take her seriously?"

"I have _no_ difficulty taking her seriously. And just as a matter of fact, I've never seen her in a corset or stilettos."

"My point holds. There's no way I could take her seriously as a top, and I don't see how you can. She probably even wears girly jewelry. She just wouldn't do it for me. No self-respecting dyke could give it up for a femme top" I was sure I was right, and wasn't about to let her off the hook.

Alison smiled in some amusement. "You've got me on the jewelry, I admit. She wears a gold cross, no matter what else she's wearing. Somehow it doesn't detract from the image."

I just snorted.

"Seriously though," she continued. "I had this discussion with her. I knew you'd say it was unbelievable."

"Just proves my point," I said. Then curiosity got the better of me. "What'd she say?"

"She said," uttered my friend with the air of someone springing a trap, "all she needs is a safe word and consent and you'll see your mistake."

"Excuse me?" Now I was surprised. Not taken aback, you understand, but surprised.

"You tell me a safe word," Ali said, pointing to her chest, "and she'll find you. On the strength of that, you can decide whether my '5'2" accountant' is worth it. Oh, and by the way, she's not an accountant."

"What does she do?" Not that it mattered, of course. I was still right.

"Doesn't matter. Are you in, or are you chicken?" There was the magic word, and by the smile on my friend's face, she knew it.

"Of course I'm not chicken. Wish her good luck." Who, me? Cocky? Nah.

"More likely I'll wish you luck, Mel. C'mon, give me a safeword."

"O.K., then. 'Orange.'" Might as well stick with something familiar.

Ali nodded and said "I'll tell her. You can expect her to get in touch in the next day or two." We each pulled out some crumpled bills to pay for the drinks, and got up to go. We shook hands over the table, and my friend smiled slightly and said, "have fun. Just remember you'll owe me one afterwards."

I shook my head in amusement. "No way, man. You'll owe me an apology after I get finished laughing at the 5'2" top act. See ya later." With that I walked out of the bar and headed for home.

I was in a good mood as I left the bar. Even though there was no money riding on this bet, I was looking forward to winning. Not only would I be turning a 'top,' I'd be able to rub my best friend's face in it. I practically rubbed my hands together in glee.

I looked around a bit as I walked, thinking about how grey Washington looked at this time of year. No snow yet, but no leaves either, and the few other pedestrians looked kind of grey too. They also made sure to give me a wide berth. Wonder why?

I guess I look a bit scary to the average passer-by. I wear my blonde hair in a brush cut that goes with the black leather jacket and black fatigues. I've got boots that have been used to kick more than one would-be gay-basher, and they look nasty too. I'm big enough to be intimidating, at 5'8", and I carry enough muscle that in the dark I pass for a guy. Sometimes that gets me more hassle than I need, but at least it deters the rapists. That's damned useful when you don't own a car and public transit induces motion sickness.

I don't know how to describe my face, except to say that there are some women and the occasional man who look at it with desire, and little old ladies look away. I have an eyebrow and a nostril pierced, and -- of course -- no make-up or dainty gold crosses. I look tough, but every once in a while I think that I look sexy too. There are worse combinations.

As I was musing, I moved into the rougher part of my usual route. I made sure I could get at my knife, and I kept an eye out, but other than that I was unconcerned. There are very few sharks around here who would fail to identify me as a fellow predator.

About three-quarters of an hour into my walk, I noticed the beginnings of a street fight. I didn't want to get involved, so I moved to the other side of the street and cut down an alley. I could just barely hear the sounds of the argument, and was straining to hear the content as a more ominous sound assaulted me: a hand-gun being cocked.

Before I could even turn around, I heard a female voice say: "federal officer. Don't move. Hands above your head."

Shit. I didn't need this today. When you look like I do, you get hassled by the cops fairly regularly, but I make a real point of staying out of their way. I have no record, and I don't want one. I also have a real aversion to the idea of being shot. Cops in Washington all seem to have Dirty Harry complexes, and having one with a gun at my back makes me feel like a target.

This one walked up right behind me and gave me a push to the wall. "Assume the position." I did.

She frisked me quickly and thoroughly, finding not only my easily accessible knife, but the other one too. Shit. She used her toe to shove my feet slightly further apart, leaving me on my toes against the wall. I've been there before, so I know how precarious that position is. All it takes is one gentle sweep of somebody's boot, and the bad guy goes down on both knees. Hard. It hurts like hell.

Once I was stretched out properly, I felt what had to be the gun barrel on the back of my neck. *Oh, fuck.* I thought. *Execution position.* Hearing her speak didn't ease the fear.

"You are Melanie Ann Darton, D.O.B. 2 April 67, unemployed, residing at the Warrington Women's Hotel. Correct?" I nodded. Lying when my I.D. was in my back pocket would only have earned me a kick. I just knew it. "On your knees." When I didn't move fast enough, she kicked a foot out from under me and I fell to my knees. The gun barrel found my neck again.

The cop leaned up close behind my ear, and I could feel her breath as she spoke softly to me. "Pay close attention. Alison sent me. Your word is 'orange.' You either give me explicit consent or this stops."

*Holy fuck.* Not an execution, not a shakedown. Ali's 5'2" accountant holding a gun on me. "Jesus. You scared the life out of me. How'd you find me so fast?" I moved to get up.

"Stop," she said quietly, but the gun served as a reminder of our relative positions. "You either give me consent, or I walk away and you'll never know what you're missing." Maybe it was just the gun at my neck, but the words sounded menacing in exactly the way that makes my clitoris contract.

I thought fast. I trusted Ali, so this had to be safe despite the gun. Plus the come-on was good. Really good. I also needed to go along with her to some extent if I was going prove she didn't have what it takes, and I needed that to win with Ali. I nodded. "My word is 'orange' and I consent to this scene."

The agent leaned up against me hard enough that I could feel her heat, and put her hand around the front of my throat. She squeezed enough to show me her strength, then relaxed. She said again, "pay attention. You can call me 'ma'am' or 'Doctor.' There are no other options. You will do as you are told or be punished. If you've decided to win your bet with Alison by topping me, you're seriously mistaken. I don't care what kind of a femme you think I am, I don't bottom for anyone. If you try to force me, you'll regret it. Is this clear?"

I nodded, slightly surprised that she'd figured me out that completely, but not willing to disagree with a gun at my neck. Her grip on my neck tightened. "I asked you a question."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, to have the pressure released.

"Good." I expected her to let me up then, but I was mistaken. Somehow, handcuffs appeared in her hand, and she gave them to me. "Put them on." That rankled. If she put them on me, at gunpoint, then I could tell myself that I was coerced, or that I was just being sensible, or something. My doing it myself made it my choice -- a completely different level of participation in this scene. Still, I went along, cuffing my own hands in front of me. As I did it, I heard the click of the safety being engaged on the gun, and the soft leather sound of it sliding into a holster.

As soon as she heard both cuffs snick shut, she moved slightly so that my left arm was resting in between her legs. She pushed her crotch into the arm and ground her hips against me. *Shit, this is making her hot. She's going to be easy to control.*

"Turning you on, am I?" I said arrogantly. I knew arrogance had to be the key to controlling this little top. She didn't back off yet, though.

"Oh, yes," she said throatily. "I'm thinking about how much I'm going to enjoy watching you beg me to hurt you, and how much I'm going to enjoy watching that get you off" She ground her hips again, and then I felt her shift her weight slightly. She stepped back a bit, and I prepared to get to my feet. I was wrong, though. I felt her hand rest on my shoulder, and then I felt her foot between my legs. She ran it up from the crack of my ass, and began to work my clit with the toe of it.

Every nerve-ending in my body woke up. It was absolutely electric to feel the fear of being frisked and cuffed by a cop mixing with the desire to have my clit stroked mixing with the discomfort of aching knees and the stench of the alley. I struggled not to show any of this to her, though. She didn't need to know how much success she was having. I wasn't going to let her win.

Even as I went through this thought process, I realized that my body didn't agree. My hips were moving in pure reflex, prolonging the sensation against me with every stroke. When my brain caught up with that fact I felt another jolt of electricity at the thought of what she _could_ be using to create that sensation. That gun was still foremost on my mind. I bit my tongue to make sure I would stay silent. It didn't matter.

"I won't bother to ask if you're enjoying yourself, Melanie. It's quite obvious without letting you talk." What was the most obvious was the way my hips jerked trying to follow her as she pulled away. I heard the safety click again, and knew that the gun was back in her hand. I had to cope with another jolt of electricity at the idea of a loaded, cocked weapon was behind me. I couldn't decide whether to be afraid or aroused. I bit down on a whimper, but a corner of it escaped. She laughed. "Gotcha."

I heard the gun being re-holstered again, then she rose and hauled me up by the back of my jacket. She turned me until I faced deeper in the alley, then said, "move," and pushed me along. I went, trying to wrap my head around my compliance. It didn't make sense. I knew I could push this woman over; what the hell was I doing. I hadn't even seen. . . that was it, I realized. I hadn't seen her yet. That would break the spell. I'd be back in control at the first sight of panty-hose and eyeliner.

I turned and slowed down so I could get a look at her, but she stepped behind me and gave me another push. *Ha. She knows it'll be over when I see her too. We'll see who's 'gotcha.'*

After a few more steps, she gestured for me to turn right, and I saw a car up against a dumpster. She had been lying in wait for me. Damn that Alison. She'd given away far too much of me to this cop. The cop confirmed that thought, saying, "you were an easy target. You followed exactly the same path as you always do, then you ducked into the alley to make it even easier for me. Hope you're not planning on a life of crime."

At least I had the brains not to respond to that provocation.

When we reached the car, she grabbed me again by the scruff of the neck, and held me while she reached around to open the car door. I caught a glimpse of skin and the scent of leather, but nothing else. At least she wasn't wearing some fricking flowery perfume or anything. Actually, now that I thought about it, she smelled kind of like dead bodies. Formaldehyde or something. Good thing I'm not a necrophile. She pushed me into the car, guiding my head, then quickly slammed the door on me. She walked behind the car to get into the driver's side, so I was again denied the chance to see her. I couldn't help but see the i.d. that she'd left on the car seat, though. *Fuck,* I thought. *FBI. Worse than a cop. They make their own rules.*

I got my first look at her when she got in, though, and it caught me by surprise. She was hot. Her hair was red, and too long by my standards, but pulled back nicely. She'd probably be pretty in daylight, but by the light of the alley she looked strong and cold and aloof. I cursed Ali again. She knows I have a weakness for ice queens. She was dressed all in black, but not the kind of clothes you picture on an F.B.I. agent. She threw a thigh-length black leather jacket into the back seat, and sat down wearing a tight black tank top that looked like it might be latex, black leather pants, and -- I had to check twice -- flat black boots. So much for my fashion expectations. Then I noticed a glint from her neck. Sure enough, there was the cross.

I realized she was watching this inspection when she said "don't smirk too much. I'll have you begging god's mercy before I finish with you." When I looked up at her face, she was completely serious and completely certain that she could do this. Her certainty worried me just a bit, but I shook it off. Since she was turned toward me, I took the time to check out her face. It wasn't the heavily made up article of my expectations. She wore lipstick - but somehow in the absence of other make-up it looked like a warning sign or gang colors rather than a sign of femininity.

"Like what you see?" She said with a wonderfully arched eyebrow. I couldn't believe I was responding to this. It had to be left-over reaction from the gun. Then she proved me wrong. Without changing facial expression at all, she reached between my legs and grabbed my clit through my jeans. She pinched it hard enough that she must have felt it throbbing as I fought not to buck up against her. "Yeah, I thought so," she said as she let me go and reached over me to do up my seat-belt.

Feeling out of control, I took that opportunity to touch her. I reached down and bit her ear as she reached across me. She moaned. *Ha. I knew she'd like it,* I thought as I let go and she straightened up.

"Very nice," she said, straight faced, "but that's one. I'm keeping track." I snorted. I'd have her declaring her defeat in humiliation long before she'd be able to exact any punishments against me. I refused to even think about the part of me that eagerly awaited her punishment --craved the acute pleasure that giving in to the line between agony and ecstasy brings. I turned to face her and slipped my tongue out slightly to wet my lips. For some reason, that always gets the femmes. She shook her head, seemingly disappointed in my action. It was time to rethink my approach.

Just then, a phone rang. She reached into the back for it, showing me that the tank top was definitely latex, and that her nipples were hard. That made me even more sure that I could get to her. She grabbed the phone, and sat up again. "Scully," she said tersely.

*Scully,* I thought. *Aren't you the butch wee thing.* I watched her listen to the caller, and decided to take advantage of the fact that someone could hear any response she made. Moving fast enough that she wouldn't be able to stop me, I dove for her, clamping my teeth around the nearest erect nipple. I bit down hard enough to hurt, but not do damage. I believed her implication that I'd pay for inflicting harm. I'm not stupid. I know the F.B.I. sets up illegal stings.

She inhaled sharply at the pain, but didn't say anything. She grabbed my nose to pull me off her and back into my seat at the same time as she responded to her caller. The words were obviously meant for both of us. "Look, I don't have the patience for this tonight. I have very specific plans, and you're not going to pull me away from them."

She listened for another brief moment, still holding on to my nose in a way that made my eyes water, then said finally, "Mulder, I'm hanging up now. You can watch for little gray men by yourself this time. Good night." With that, she tossed the phone gently into the back seat of the car, and twisted my nose with a lot less care.

She let go and leaned forward enough to pull out the gun once again. "Two," she said ominously, and I tensed. I knew that she wouldn't shoot me or anything stupid like that, but I wasn't looking forward to being pistol-whipped. To my surprise, she didn't hit me with it. Instead, she canted it so that I could see there was no magazine, then cocked it so it was clear to me that there had never been a round in the chamber. That being demonstrated, she slid the gun into the glove compartment and locked it.

Catching my stunned look, she smirked and said "I don't need that to get what I want from you. That's not my game. Now that you know there's no threat, I want to hear it again. Explicit, un-coerced consent." She waited, eyebrow in the air.

By this time, I couldn't deny to myself that I was turned on by Scully and her scene. I still thought I could get her to concede control of the situation -- and thereby beat Ali -- but it was a win-win situation. I nodded. "No threat, Dr. Scully. I consent to what's going on here."

"Good." She nodded in a business-like fashion, and started the car. As she ignored me to maneuver out of the alley, I reflected on why I had agreed to participate. The adrenalin rush that the gun had given me had dissipated at my realization that it was a manufactured threat, but my arousal at her actions and her bearing was still going strong. I was every bit as turned on by this woman as Ali had expected. In fact, I was so aroused by her that I wasn't sure whether that fact annoyed me or not.

She didn't say anything after that, and my one conversational overture resulted in nothing but a smirk and her quiet voice saying, "three." I knew I was supposed to be scared about the threatened punishment, but I was still too confident.

"C'mon," I said. "You didn't tell me to be quiet, so you can't punish me for talking to you. Even you ought to know better than that." I was on a roll now. I had decided that I was sure I could throw her off her game.

She actually laughed in response, then shook her head as though disappointed in me. "Melanie. . ." she started.

I cut her off. "Look, it's Mel. At least get that right."

"Melanie," she repeated, showing just as little irritation as before, "you can't seriously believe that I feel the need to be 'fair.' This isn't about fair. It's about the fact that you want to be taken harder and further than you can push yourself by someone who has the capacity and interest to take you there. It's about the fact that we both know that the most incredible pleasure you will ever feel will come through taking all the pain you can take, and then adding a little more. You also know the game well enough to know when to shut up, and how to ask for permission to speak."

While I was still gaping at her for how completely she had described my desire, she added "Four -- for talking back. Five -- for your refusal to address me properly. Six --because your name is whatever I tell you it is. Do you have a problem now?"

My sullenness could be heard through my "no, ma'am" but at least I said it. I wanted to take it back, though, when she replied with a condescending pat of my thigh and an off-hand "good girl." I hated that this little femme could get away with condescending to me, and I hated it even more that I felt grateful for her approval.

End Part One of Top.

Top (Part Two of Two) by eeyore.

Disclaimers, etc. in Part 1.

I sulked nearly all the way to her place. The ride was broken only when she pulled into a small parking lot, stopping the car as she pulled a piece of black fabric from the space next to her seat. "Can you handle having your face covered?" she asked.

"And if I can't?" I replied, insolence back in place.

"Then I use a blindfold instead, and the neighbors and the press get a good look at your face on the way to the holding cell. Seven."

I didn't even bother to ask what the seven was for -- I was too preoccupied by the clear message that we were going somewhere official for this little visit. That was a touch too public for me. Still, Ali hadn't said anything about publicity, so this Scully must know what she was doing.

"No, ma'am," I forced out civilly. "I have no problem with having my face covered."

"Somehow I thought not," she replied. She reached out, and pulled a mask, or sack, or something over my head. I had no vision, and she tightened the bottom so I couldn't shake it off or see my feet or anything. It's amazing how even a little sensory deprivation like that heightens all your other sensations. I could feel her presence next to me so clearly that it didn't even come as a surprise to feel her fingers stroking the dampening patch between my legs.

I had to moan at that sensation. It was spectacular. . . and it was over much too soon as she put the car back in gear and drove off again. It only took another five minutes or so for us to reach our destination, but it could have been in any direction for all I knew, so I knew I couldn't find the place on my own. Clearly that was intentional.

Once she turned off the car, I dimly heard her open her door and reach to the back for her coat. I had no trouble, however, hearing her command. "Stay."

Showing some initiative (and dexterity in handcuffs) I undid my seatbelt as she walked to my door. Apparently that was the wrong thing to do, though, because she hauled me out of the car none too gently and muttered "eight" right next to my ear. Oops.

She guided me across some pavement, up a set of stairs, and through what felt like a maze. I knew that if I needed to escape, I'd get lost, but I wasn't too worried about that. I was confident both in my ability to force her to do what I wanted sooner or later and that Ali's faith in this woman would keep me safe.

Finally, we stopped walking. Dr. Scully's weight on my shoulder forced me to my knees, but to my surprise the waiting surface wasn't hard, but spongy. I heard the dim rattle of metal and felt another cuff go around my wrist. In quick succession one handcuff was loosened, my jacket slid off, that wrist was re-secured, and the procedure was repeated on the other side. I tried to move during the first maneuver, but the extra cuff had secured my arm to something solid. A little too quickly I found myself chained down. I was still kneeling, and arms draped over something that held me upright. They were pulled enough that I had nearly no range of motion with them.

I still had the range of motion to kick her, but that wasn't going to be a smart thing to do to someone who has you anchored to one spot, so I refrained. Then even that choice was taken from me. She picked up a foot, and I felt something slice through the lace of my boot before it was pulled off my foot. Right after that, I felt a cuff of some sort slide around my ankle. I tried to move it and discovered that there weren't many options. My ankle could ache slightly from the angle, or I could spread my knees further apart and be comfortable and exposed. As she did the same to my other ankle so that they were tight together, I conceded to myself that this woman actually knew what she was doing.

Only after I was secured at all four corners did she take my mask off. I blinked in the harsh light, and as my eyes adjusted I looked around. The room was small and plain. The only two pieces of furniture that I could see were the small table in front of me and the thing I was kneeling on. As far as I could tell, it looked like something she had found in a confessional. What's it called? A prie-dieu, I think. At least that fit with the cross. There was a door without a window on the wall to my left, and a mirror on the right wall. Wait a minute. . . I'd seen those mirrors on cop shows. Someone could be watching us at this very moment. That gave me both a fright and an exhibitionistic thrill before I reminded myself that Dr. Scully couldn't afford that sort of professional publicity about her alter-ego. Could she?

As if reading my mind, she came around in front of me and leaned on the table to catch my eye. "There's nobody in there yet," she smiled. "I might have to arrange it if you continue to misbehave, though." That was a real threat to me. It would be humiliating.

"I don't think that'll be necessary, ma'am," I said -- and this time I even mustered a submissive tone of voice.

She nodded briskly in reply, then turned so I had a very nice view of her leather covered ass and the back of her tank top. She set a small bag on the table and began to unpack the contents. She laid them out for her convenience, but I knew that a part of doing this was the ritual of tantalizing the bottom by showing her what might be in store. The first item out was a good sized paddle. It looked hand-made and well cared for. As she turned it before placing it on the table, I noticed that one side of it was fine grained sandpaper. Even as I winced from the memory of what that could do to my ass, it turned me on. It's just the kind of pain I like -- sliding into pleasure even as it stings.

The next item out was a riding crop: a generic but clearly well used one. It was followed by a thin cane -- no more than 3/8" wide, but long enough to whistle when it hit, and wrapped at one end with a tight leather grip. If a cane like that is well handled, it can give an incredible sting, but if it is misused it can leave evil abrasions. I was beginning to both think and pray that she knew what she was doing. I envisioned a week of not quite being able to sit down.

Four or five more items came out of the bag, but when she stopped the bag clearly wasn't empty, so I wouldn't know the range of possibilities for tonight. I still held out hope that I could distract or disconcert her enough to throw her off, but if I couldn't -- at least I was in line for some fun games.

She turned to look at me, and smiled as she said "that shirt has to go." I smirked slightly, thinking of the hassle she'd have uncuffing me to get it off. I'd have at least two or three chances to grab her, maybe pinch her clit like she had mine.

Caught in the happy thoughts, I didn't notice where the knife came from, but I certainly noticed it open. It wasn't big, but it looked a lot more dangerous than either of mine all the same. She grabbed my t-shirt roughly at the chin and hooked the knife under it. It seemed to take no effort at all for her to cut through the whole front. She did the same up each arm, then walked behind me. This time I felt the knife slide over my flesh and she pushed it up under the back of the shirt. I shivered, but then tried hard to stay still. I didn't want any knife wounds. When the knife hit the top, she ripped the shirt violently off me, leaving me naked from the waist up. Hearing her coming around in front again, I half expected her to scrape the knife across a nipple, or hook it into a nipple ring.

As she came into view, though, her hands were empty. She tucked a finger under my chin to bring my gaze to her face and said "are those pants replaceable?"

"No," I said hotly. There was no way she was going to trash all my clothing.

She shrugged as if it didn't matter, and mildly answered "nine." Then she reached to my waist and calmly unbuckled my belt and unzipped me. Shit. I can't help but get wetter when someone takes down my pants. I just have no control over it at all.

Once unzipped, she walked behind me, and then without warning pulled both pants and my boxers down as far as they'd go. I was left with the choice of having them restrict my blood-flow halfway down my thighs or pulling my knees closer so they could drop out of the way. Perhaps I should have let her destroy them instead. As I debated internally, I felt her hand on my ass, stroking gently. It felt good, warm, safe. Even a light touch like that is a turn-on when I'm pinned to the furniture like I was then.

Just when the stroking stopped being interesting, she raised her hand and brought it down in a light slap. Oh, come on. I pat my friends' asses harder than that. As she slapped me the second and third times in quick succession, I knew I'd found the key to controlling her. She wasn't willing to follow through hard enough to push me out of myself.

I told her so in no uncertain terms. "Look," I started, and even said it in a reasonable, polite tone. "You just can't give me what I'd need. You've got the right idea and everything, but it's too soft. Too gentle. Too safe. That barely even counts as punishment, and nine strokes like that isn't even going to catch my attention. Why don't you let me up, and I'll show you what it should be like." See? I was being rational, appealing to her practical side with some training advice. She was sure to go for it -- either out of embarrassment or just the desire to learn more.

"Ten," she said. "I think that's enough to make it worth my while."

Without further explanation, she walked back in front of me to pick up her cane. She showed it to me, and I could see where the edge was worn from contact with whatever it had beaten in the past. Then she was back behind me with the cane, and I was trying hard not to tense my ass. I had clearly misjudged what the punishment was going to be. Maybe her slaps were just giving me a chance to warm up, or maybe she was trying to piss me off again. I was still mulling it over when I heard the sizzle of the cane through the air.

I barely managed to stay silent as it struck my left shoulder blade diagonally. I felt it hit, felt the tip bounce back up and fall right into the track of the original impact. All my breath left my body in a harsh whuff as I realized what she was capable of.

I waited for the next strike. It didn't come, and the pain receded enough that the ache began to arouse me further. My clit melted further. Then I heard her. "Well?"

Well what? What did she want? All my training and all my scenes temporarily deserted me as I struggled for something to say. She made an annoyed teacher sound at me and walked directly in front of me. I looked up at her, hoping I appeared repentant. She shook her head, clearly disappointed.

"I expected more of you, Melanie. It appears that you're the one who hasn't quite got all the details right. When you deserve to be punished, you will be punished. In order to show me that you understand the lesson and are learning from it, you must count the stroke and thank me after it is completed. Now do you remember?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Eleven. You really should have known that."

She went back around me, and before I could prepare, I felt her trailing the end of the cane down my spine. Rather than suffer another wasted stroke, I spoke quickly. "Please, ma'am, will you punish me?"

"Yes, I certainly will." Again the crack and the raw pain followed the sizzle, this time on my right shoulder. Again I could barely manage silence.

"One, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

Her hesitation was only long enough to let the pain dull in me again before another mark was put on my right shoulder. The angle was the same, but from the degree of pain she hadn't crossed over the first mark. I'd have perfectly aligned slash marks down my shoulders if she kept this accuracy up. The pain was pushing me right where she wanted me to go. I was sliding out of myself, and into a frame of mind where I desperately wanted her guidance and control. I wanted to please her, and her commitment to me was being demonstrated by a willingness to correct me and connect to me.

"Two, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

On the sixth stroke my response escalated from a low moan to an easily audible cry. As I thanked her, I felt her stroking my head and heard words of praise in my ear. "You're taking this wonderfully, Melanie. The marks will be so beautiful for you to see tomorrow." Not only did this give me a minute to get hold of myself, it made me feel wanted, important. She was starting to win my loyalty whether I consciously wanted to give it or not.

Stroke ten nearly broke me. Tears were running down my face, and I could barely gasp out the count before I choked on the words 'I can't.' Again, her hand found my hair and her voice was low in my ear. "Yes you can," she soothed. "Only one more, then you can rest." I shook my head, uncertain, and she continued to rest next to me, moving her hand from my hair to gently stroke my ass again.

That touch reminded me of how utterly wet this caning was making me, and after a moment desire won out over pain and I nodded. "Please, ma'am, will you finish punishing me?"

"Of course," she murmured, and kissed my temple gently before stepping back. The sweetness was a perfect counterpoint to the discipline, and I felt myself slipping further into her control. The last stroke was almost bearable, and I didn't even need to shout. I sounded almost calm as I said "Eleven, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

I relaxed my body as much as I could, and stretched to relieve some of the pain in my back. She stepped again into my field of vision to set the cane down. Squatting down so that she could clearly see my face, she said, "do you need to be reminded of your safe-word?"

I smiled a little, and gave in gracefully. "I concede your point. You are as good as Ali said."

Instead of thanking me, she asked if I wanted to stop. With complete certainty, I replied "please, no, ma'am. I want you so badly."

She smiled, pleased, and stood up. Reaching back into the bag, she produced a bottle of water and a straw, and allowed me to drink. That done, she turned away again. I heard the distinctive sound of latex snapping, and my cunt contracted hard. I was finally going to get the release I needed.

She stepped right up against me, so that my face rested up against her breasts through the shirt, and reached a hand down against me. The coolness of the latex against my soaking heat felt wonderful and after her fingers found my clit I knew I was seconds away from coming. The touch stopped right then, though, and she brought her hand up to my face. Following the clear suggestion, I licked my wetness off her fingers. I watched that make her nipples harden further.

I was both surprised and delighted when she reacted to that by reaching her hand up to rub a nipple through her shirt. It looked absolutely amazing to watch her touch herself. It got better, though, when she unzipped the shirt at the side and pulled it off over her head. She looked like sex personified standing there in nothing but pants, boots, and a latex glove.

Then she was back against me, touching my cunt nearly where I needed it, and urging my head down to her breast. Her breathing changed the second I touched it with my tongue and got less and less steady the longer we stroked each other. I was getting desperate, though, so I broke contact long enough to beg. "Please, ma'am. I need to come so badly. Please, won't you make me come?"

"No. You don't come until I tell you to." She moved away again, and picked up the paddle from her table. She left the glove on, though, so I still had some hope. When she moved behind me this time, I stuck my ass out as far as my limited range of movement would allow, in order to give her the best possible target. She chafed it gently with the sandpaper before bringing it down with a very satisfactory crack on one cheek. Before my moan was finished, it was connecting with the other -- not hard enough to be unbearable, but enough to spread the ache from my ass to my already over-anxious clit.

I actually lost track of time before she stopped, although I did register that the strokes were getting lighter as she continued. I could concentrate on nothing at all but how much I needed her to make me come. Finally, she stopped, and moved again. I had lost absolutely all sense of propriety in my desperation by that point, and sobbed, "god, please, I need you inside me. I need you to touch me."

She laughed, then, low and sexy. "See, I told you you'd be begging god's mercy."

She placed the paddle back on the table then leaned against it to watch me. I pulled my head up so I could see all of her. She was more than good enough to eat, and I wanted her even more. She couldn't miss the depth of my desire written across my features. In response to it, she reached to the front of her pants and slowly undid the buttons, watching my face all the time. When she was done, I could clearly see curls that nearly matched her other hair in color, and I was nearly drooling. What she did then only made it worse.

Her ungloved hand slid into her pants, and I could see the silhouette of her fingers slide down, across where her clit had to be, and right into herself. I moaned helplessly, and watched her pick up a rhythm finger-fucking herself. When I looked at her face, I realized that she was watching me watch. At that point, she pulled the fingers off --they were very visibly wet -- and began to lick them, one at a time. Then back they went.

This time her motion was less steady and faster. Before long, she reached her free hand up to a taut nipple and twisted it roughly. That was enough. I watched her grind her fingers in harder, then flicked to her face to watch her come. The power of it was awesome, intense, and beautiful. I promised myself that I'd do anything in the world to be the one to cause that look the next time.

It was nearly enough to make me forget the state that I was in. She didn't, though. As soon as her breathing quieted, she picked up the riding crop and moved to me, leaving her pants undone. The scent of her arousal was exquisite as she slid the crop between my legs and used it to rub between my labia. It was an awkward reach, though, and she was clearly displeased. Leaving the crop resting between my legs, she moved my knees completely together to pull my trousers down past my knees. From behind, she pulled them further, so that they rested, bunched up, against my bound ankles.

She didn't need to tell me to get my knees apart. As soon I had the freedom of movement to do so, I shifted them to as wide a stance as I could, so that she could reach whatever she wanted between them. She chose the crop again. She slid it against my clit two or three times, until my need was completely out of control, then changed tactics to something I would have vetoed if I'd had a choice. She pulled the crop down to my knee level for some swinging room, then brought it up fast and hard. I cringed, waiting for what I expected to be immense pain, but it didn't hurt.

Sensation radiated out from where the crop struck my clitoris, and brought me even closer to coming. The second hit nearly pushed me over the edge. The third hit, and she shifted her grip slightly so that it continued to push against me, and I was lost. I had to come. Now. Just as it was about to become inevitable, she moved the crop away and said "don't." I recalled myself enough to remember I couldn't come until she said to, but the effort was nearly unbearable.

"Three more strokes, then you may come," she said. This time we both counted, as the crop made contact again with my clitoris. It was through sheer force of will that the first one didn't send me to orgasm. The second might have -- against her orders -- but the third came even as I registered the second. As soon as I heard her voice saying "three" I completely stopped being aware of outside reality as I sagged over the prie-dieu lost in orgasm.

The first thing I registered after that was the sound of metal as my cuffs started to come off. Once all four were undone, the doctor eased me back until I could rest my thighs against my calves. "Thank you ma'am," I said, and she smiled.

She said, "I'll be right back."

When she opened the door, I realized that we weren't in a workplace at all -- the room was clearly part of an apartment. She returned before I felt the urge to go exploring, though. I'd just managed to get my pants done up when she came in with a clean t-shirt and a set of boot laces.

As I thanked her again, she said "I take it I can trust you to behave yourself now?" I nodded. Most of me wanted to touch her, and I'd just been fantasizing about doing, but I know better than that with someone who is so clearly a top. When the scene is over, it's over. If she wants something more, she'll ask.

"In that case," she said, "I'm going to have a shower, and I'll let you find your way out. That way, you'll know where to find me if you need me."

I nodded, but hesitated, wanting to ask for a phone number or something.

She pre-empted me, saying, "Ali has my number. You can tell her I said to pass it on to you." Good. I already knew I had to see her again.

She watched me put my t-shirt on and begin to lace my boots before she moved away again. As she left the room, she turned to say "thank you. You were fun," and walked off to the bathroom.

I could hear her off-key humming in the shower as I quietly let myself out a few moments later.

End (Part Two of Two).


Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those people
I had to kill because they pissed me off.