The Goddess Will Play

I was talking to Goddess Lori today, and she gave me a great idea. Since my list of requests is almost empty, it was perfect timing.

So to Anonymous, who wanted to see another story for her, here it is. It's not only for her, it's about her.

 Say Please

When he woke up, he was groggy. She leaned against the wall and watched him slowly realize what was going on. She watched his arms strain against the zip ties, watched him flex his fingers as he checked to make sure he still had feeling.

She watched him roll up to his knees, watched him turn his head side to side, lifting it up, trying to catch a glimpse past the blindfold. He was trying to see if the room was dark, or if it was just the blindfold. He was trying to see if he was alone.

Lori uncrossed her arms and pulled off the trench coat, letting it slide down her skin to pool at her feet. She took a step out of the cloth and let her heel click on the floor. He turned his face towards the sound, followed the sound as she walked around him.

“What's going on?” he asked. “What happened?”

She smiled, though he couldn't see it. “Don't you remember?” she asked.

“My wife is going to kill you,” he said. He stretched out his neck and smiled at her.

Lori laughed again. “Your wife? Who do you think helped me move you?” She turned towards the wall, picked up her first tool, the simple riding crop. “Don't worry about her.” She took a step towards him. “She can have what's left of you when I finish.”

He swallowed, and she took her first swing. A red line appeared across his shoulders, and he winced. She swung again, and again, drawing lines on his skin and smiling with his every wince. She saw him bite his lip, sawing him trying not to cry out, trying not to make noise.

She watched the muscles in his back tense, watched him hunch a little as he took the punishment she was dealing him. His arms bulged, the zip tie on his wrists pulling against him, digging a furrow in his skin.

Lori put the crop on the table and lifted up a glass of water. She took a small sip, then poured the rest slowly down his back. He winced again as it hit, unable to hold in the whimper at the sudden cold against his burning skin.

Lori watched as he bent over from the pain, but his head didn't hit the floor. Not yet.

She applauded when he sat back up onto his knees. “Oh good,” she said. “I would have been so disappointed if you were done so quickly. But you can take more than that, can't you?”

He caught his breath and rolled his shoulders. “I haven't even said please yet,” he said.

She laughed. “But you will,” she promised. Then she took her whip and cracked it over her head, letting the noise make him flinch again when it breaks the sound barrier.

She stepped around the room, heel-toe, heel-toe, a casual pace. She stopped when she could see the lines criss-crossing his back. She stopped and waited. Watched him.

She watched as he steeled himself for what he knew was coming. She smiled, admiring his spirit, admiring the way she knew he would hold out. Even as they both knew that he would break, that he would enjoy breaking, and that she would enjoy breaking him, he still held out. Even though he knew that all he had to do was say the one word, and the pain would stop, he wouldn't say it. He would hold out as long as he could, even knowing the pleasure that would come later.

She watched him and let his imagination work. She watched him wait for her to take her swing, for the pain to begin again. That wonderful imagination was probably already trying to figure out what would come next. He was probably already wondering what other instruments she had, what other tortures she was prepared to unleash on him.

She watched him gather his breath, his bravery, and his resolve. And then, just as it seemed he was about to be ready, she struck.

The leather or the whip sliced through the air, and the top of it clawed against his flesh. There was a single mark left behind, where the blood was torn to the surface of his skin, nearly ripped through it.

Before he could finish his gasp, she hit him again. And again. And again. Eventually, she did break the skin. A small cut, a slight drip of blood that trailed down his skin. He bent, but kept his head off the floor.

She stood behind him and watched him hold in his tears. Watched him grind his teeth against the pain. Then she lifted her foot and pressed the sole of her boot against his burning back. She pressed the heel on the cut where the skin had broken. She smiled at the moan, and she pressed him down, pressed him forward until his face was on the floor. She pressed hard, grinding at this sensitive flesh, pulling open the little cut just a tiny bit. He groaned in pain. She gave him another push, then walked around him. His head was still against the floor.

She looked back as she watched, seeing the tiny spot of blood she left behind with each step.

She stopped in front of him. “There's blood,” she said. “Blood on my boots.”

He laughed, a choking laugh.

“Clean them,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “You didn't say please.”

She stepped to the side and kicked him below the ribs. Her second kick was harder, and it knocked him on his side. The third kick knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Neither did you,” she said. She rolled him onto his back, crushing his arms beneath him, letting his legs stretch out for the first time. She pressed her foot onto his chest, pressing hard enough that it would leave the imprint when she moved. She pressed hard enough to keep him short of breath. She knew he felt half choked, she knew he felt the pain of all the force she could bring down on him

“Are you ready to say it?” she asked.

He shook his head. She lifted her foot and gave his crotch a kick that was comparatively gentle, the way a bullet is comparatively gentle compared to a cannon ball.

He gasped, tried to curl up in pain, and she stomped back onto his chest, pushing him flat once more. “Say it.”

He shook his head, but weaker than before. She kicked him again, but harder than before.

She stomped him flat again. “Say it.”

He was barely holding back a sob. “Please,” he said, his voice not even a whisper. “Please.”

She lifted her foot from him and took a step away, letting him curl into a ball. “Then lick them,” she said. “Lick my boots clean, or I'll have to just taze you again, and we'll start over when you wake up.” 

She gave him a bored sigh. “I could do this all weekend.”

She could see the effort it took him, see the strain in muscles that were already aching, the rippling of skin that was already bruising, but he managed to get back to his knees. He managed to slide forward, scraping his knees against the concrete floor.

Lori decided to extend a kindness, knowing that a rare bit of kindness could be worse than a constant stream of cruelty. She stepped closer, put the toe of her boot to his mouth, giving him a place to start licking.

Read the rest of this tale in Book Three: Boots and Bondage