ABOUT LESSON NO. 2

Later, he told me he'd fashioned his hand into the head of a swan, pecked,
danced, pressed, gained sustenance, nudged, extracted, punched, pulled, forced;
his arm throwing an indistinct long necked shadow across the hatch of red marks
along the inside of my left thigh.

I looked in his eyes more thoroughly, to see if they flinched at all in a fib
before saying casually, "I could have sworn you had your hand balled up in a
fist."

"That wasn't until later, sweet," running the backs of his fingers casually down
my cheek, "After you'd opened completely."

"Oh..."

As he spoke, his hands drew geometric figures on my skin, tracing wide and narrow
marks around and over my belly, breasts and thighs, making me feel as though I
was an incredible sculpture he'd finished working the for the day. From time to
time I convulsed involuntarily under his fingers.

I alternately examined the tracks left by his discipline and the unconscious
small smiles and frowns of evaluation that played across his features in the half
light of the candles.

"You know we need to work together to stretch you further, to allow easier
access. Now, how about a drink?" With a flush of trepidation and excitement I
tilted my head slightly to the side in unspoken query. His eyes twinkled as he
lowered onto my body.

Unexpectedly, he grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so sharply my mouth was
made open to his kiss. He took it.

"Who are you," he said into the cavity of my head, his breath joining with mine.

"I am a slave in training," I whispered as he tilted my head forward just enough
that our eyes would meet again.

"And what is your only purpose as a slave?"

"My only purpose as a slave is to serve my Master's pleasure in any way he
chooses."

"Now, about that drink." He giggled incongruously as he watched me gathered my
wits from where they'd scattered on the floor around the bed. "You're
magnificent, and make me very proud." I smiled. Yes.

During the course of our training session I'd taken ten more strokes from his
huge collection of whips than the first time. One hundred six, plus countless
more from a small flogger as he'd fucked me with a butt plug and huge dildo I'd
indirectly asked for during the course of dinner conversation.

In addition, after I'd cum 3 or 4 times, he'd given me ten strokes with a cane.
My first time for the cane, though I'd heard much about it in passing from other
Dom/mes and submissives. One Dom I knew characterized the cane as "direct." And
indeed it was, making contemporaneous electric connection between the buttocks
and the brain.

When the ten from the cane were finished, he stood behind me, out of sight, and
gave me several options, saying I might simply thank him and he'd stop. I might
on the other hand ask for a specific number more strokes; or finally, allow him
to cane me as long as he found pleasure in it.

After he posed the question, he left the room. Left me bound and splayed at the
foot of his bed: kneeling forward, my head on a pillow, cuffed ankles out as far
as the queen size bed allowed, wrists also cuffed--arms back, under, between my
legs--to my ankles.

I knew exactly what the answer should be, but it would be incredibly difficult to
say the words. It would not be possible to say them. Thoughts about the cane and
how sharply and deeply it had bitten drifted cumulus through my head, tears still
drying on my cheeks. I had no clue as to how long he would go on or how many
strokes he was capable of giving before reaching the limits of his own pleasure.

Most importantly, could I trust him?

Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I realized he was on the phone in the
next room. Voice calm. Laughter. Perhaps infinity could be defined by the time it
took for him to return. Footsteps. Then no footsteps.

"Please, Sir, give me the cane as long as it gives you pleasure. But I'm
frightened." But the sentence came out in one long breath, as if all the words
were hyphenated:

Please-Sir-give-me-the-cane-as-long-as-it-gives-you-pleasure.

As his hands made contact with the red and welted skin of my upturned buttocks I
jumped involuntarily, even though he touched me with the utmost delicacy. I had
already begun to cry again, and desperately tried to hold back the tears. His
touch disappeared and rather than tense, it became my goal to relax against his
bonds.

I decided it would be best not to count, and forced my mind to go blank. Air
entered and exited my lungs in slow, deep breaths. Despite my wishes to the
contrary, my body grew tight. At the height of the third breath, the first stroke
came down hard. And then a second and a third, harder still.

It came as a surprise when he then caressed me again tenderly. I knew immediately
it was finished. A pressure flowed from my body in a flood.

I don't know how I managed to hold position until the cuffs were completely
disconnected from the eye hooks, but I did, and then began a slow collapse onto
the soft sheets, laughing and crying.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you . . . . " I must have said it twenty times as I
stretched, and began to ease.

He hugged me tightly, caressing and stroking with strength and pride, then after
a time whispered in my ear, "About that drink."

Sir John's personal drink service ritual included a certain costume: No. 5 nipple
clamps with a 5 ounce weight attached to the chain. I looked to see if he wished
to dress me. His gaze led me to the clamps and weight on the bedside table. For
dressing, I would apparently be on my own. He was understandably exhausted. I
left a kiss of appreciation and honor on his neck as I passed by.

As I poured the thick brandy into a lovely cut glass snifter, I remembered a Dom
having asked me if I'd cried yet. Now I knew why the question had been so
important to him, and to me. The knowledge made me smile. So many lessons to
learn.