My Sweet Degradation (2 page)

Patrick relaxed his hold on the rope so I could once more stand on the flats of my feet. He hardly moved back, however, and I was given no chance to settle my nerves as I suddenly became aware of fingers clawing, without care or subtlety, at the waistband of my riding breeches. Naturally I drew breath to protest, but all I could manage was a shocked, ‘No!' a split-second before I felt him wrench down with all his strength. Two press-studs offered no resistance whatsoever and the thin zipper gave just as easily. With three, or perhaps four, awkward tugs more Patrick had my breeches down over my boots to leave them bunched uselessly around my ankles. And he was quite right; there was no way on earth that I could kick at him now, and through my natural reflex to pull away I immediately lost my balance, which Patrick corrected by leaning on the rope so that, with a distressed cry, I was lifted back into a standing position once more.

It was more through observing his reaction, rather than any realisation of my own, that the true nature of my exposure now became apparent. You see, back then I wouldn't always wear underwear while riding. My breeches were obviously the finest money could buy and offered perfect protection and comfort. Panties weren't really necessary, and at times I would enjoy the extra freedom of sitting that little ‘closer' in the saddle. Tied up as I was, with arms stretched painfully above my head, I couldn't really see below the swell of my breasts, yet that sudden look of doubt on Patrick's face, the way he swallowed awkwardly and took a single, faltering step back, was all I needed to be reminded that my neat little pussy – waxed, but for a thin strip of silky curls rising upward – was now his to behold.

An itchy heat flooded my cheeks. It wasn't so much that I was bashful – I had always been rather proud of my body and perhaps a little too happy to show it off at times – it was more that my vulnerability was now expressed in a new, more dangerous way, and I found myself wondering exactly what the ex-criminal might be capable of.

Because of the sticky heat of the day I had chosen to wear a black cotton vest only above my riding breeches, which, with it barely falling below my cute belly button, did absolutely nothing towards protecting my modesty.

As I looked up once again it was plain to see by the change in Patrick's expression that he too was aware of the shift in the already highly charged atmosphere of the barn, and I suspect that if I'd been careful, if I'd made use of my natural cunning, I might have been able to make him back down. But of course I was young, foolish and headstrong back then, and as a result I only succeeded in committing my gravest error so far.

‘Oh please let me go,' I implored. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you. And you're right; it was rude of me to come back so late. Maybe if I was to pay you – as an apology for your wasted time, I mean? My purse is in the car. If you would just untie me, I... I don't think I have a huge amount of cash, but there might be thirty or forty—' My plaintive words suddenly ended in a pained squeal as the rope was yanked tight once more.

‘Well isn't that fucking typical?' he snorted with renewed disdain. ‘The little rich girl thinks she can buy her way out of trouble in just the same way she buys everything else. Well,
little rich girl
,' he continued, sneering, taking a step closer and wrapping another coil of rope around his hand to stretch me to my extreme, ‘how much is it worth? How much for hitting and kicking me? How much for me having to stay back late for you time and time again just because you think you're more important than anyone else? How much should you pay me for the trouble you cause when you change out of your riding gear in the full knowledge that the stable boys are watching you, and so I can't get them to concentrate on a fucking thing afterwards?'

I felt my cheeks flush a little deeper.

‘How much money are you going to give me not to teach you the lesson you should have been taught years ago? One hundred? Two hundred?' All the time he spoke he'd been stepping closer and closer until he stood right before me, his eyes burning with a violent rage.

‘No,' he said after a slight pause, and with a newfound calm that was even more unnerving than his anger, ‘not this time. This time even money won't help you.'

Patrick quickly turned away and I watched in petrified silence as he bent smoothly from the waist to sweep my riding crop from the hay-strewn floor. He swished it first one way and then the other, testing its action so that the sultry evening air whistled mockingly against the leather tip and I was forced to offer a panicked, ‘Oh no, please,' in response.

But my pleas clearly meant nothing to him, as he merely stepped around me, avoiding my gaze as he went.

In the end I'm not sure what was worse; the moment of silence that stretched into an eternity – my heart fit to burst as I sensed him, watching me, assessing me from behind – or the sudden touch of crop against flesh, which caused me to tense my every muscle and to gasp as it traced slowly over the contours of one naked buttock and then down across the other. Of course Patrick was only taunting me, enjoying his own game in the knowledge that I would have been expecting nothing but pain.

That pain did come all too soon, however. A loud dry crack that ripped through the silence of the barn, causing me to cry out and my knees to buckle as a white-hot agony set my nerves alight. I prayed that my ordeal was finally over – an eye-for-an-eye, a strike-for-a-strike – but my hopes were quickly dashed as Patrick swept the leather tip of the crop down against me once more, only this time with a backhand swipe against the opposite cheek.

‘Oh Jesus!' I screamed as he whipped me again and again, first one buttock and then the other. ‘Please, no! I'm sorry! Stop it; stop it please!' Yet my begging only seemed to make him thrash me all the harder until my tortured flesh burned with a stinging pain worse than any I'd experienced before. With each pitiless bite of the crop I would cry out and attempt to pull away, but there was absolutely nowhere for me to hide: Patrick held firmly onto his end of the rope so that I had no choice but to stand upright, and my legs were as good as shackled by my riding breeches gathered clumsily around my ankles. The best I could manage was to tense and release the muscles of my bottom, twisting from one side to the other, but it offered me no relief whatsoever.

Hot salty tears spilled down over my cheeks. They were tears like none I'd ever known before, and I can only assume they stemmed from the intense, nagging frustration that caused me to grit my teeth and dig my perfectly manicured nails into the soft flesh of my palms. It was a frustration that made me draw short breaths through my nostrils and to release deep sobs from the back of my throat.

Patrick's punishment was relentless, and no matter how much I pleaded he continued to flog me without mercy.

But then, just as I thought I could take it no more, a strange thing happened. Somehow the pain seemed to solidify, it became less unbearable in a truly physical sense, but more so in the way that it left me with an unexplainable longing, a longing that gnawed at my nerves and could only be momentarily satisfied by the next cruel lick of leather against skin. I continued to cry out with every vicious impact of the crop, but somehow differently, and in a way that I could make no real sense of.

In time, and through a whirl of confused emotions, I noticed that the severity of the thrashing had diminished. He was still using the crop against me with the same rhythmical efficiency as before, yet a little lighter now, and with an upward motion only against the lower curve of my ass cheeks – first one side and then the other.

I found myself tensing and releasing those muscles, and desperately trying to understand my body's reaction to the torture, I tested my senses with every strike, noticing how he would follow through with the crop, running it against my burning flesh in a way that soothed it with the gentlest caress of the soft leather tongue, and shocking though the realisation was, I couldn't help but love it.

Patrick slowly began to release coil after coil of rope from around his hand, and I certainly took advantage of the freedom in my arms to relax them a little. But rather peculiarly, and somewhat shamefully, I also found myself bending forward from the waist, lower and lower, and in a way that I can only retrospectively accept came from a secret desire to feel the crop's touch more intimately still.

The stable manager seemed to understand my need and I gasped, feeling an icy shiver run through my body, as the tip of the riding crop pressed just above my knee to slowly caress its way upward.

‘Oh, God!' I moaned as the smooth cool leather traced ever so lightly against the swell of my hairless pussy for all too brief a moment, before moving on to gently run down my other thigh. Another length of rope was released and still lower I bent, shuffling my legs apart as best I could to offer myself more blatantly still, and again Patrick brought the crop between my thighs, drawing the tip lightly back and forth against the contours of my slit.

‘So you like that, do you?' he drawled, and I recoiled at the smug satisfaction in his voice. If he had simply wanted to punish me then all he needed do was to stop right there, right then – to leave me lost in that state of pure physical yearning – yet he did no such thing. Whether it was through the thrill he was gaining by witnessing me debase myself so thoroughly, or because of his own swelling arousal I will never know, but Patrick continued to work the crop against me, pressing still deeper so that the shaft parted my lips and its subtly undulating surface rubbed back and forth against my clit.

‘Oh,' I gasped again, and Patrick released a snort of derisive laughter in response.

‘So, I see you're not just a spoilt little bitch, but you're a dirty slut too,' he mocked, and the humiliation once more surged within me. Ordinarily I wouldn't have dreamt of allowing anyone to speak to me in such a way, and despite the fact that I was in no position to do so – tied up as I was – there was still a tiny reflex that told me to fight. Of course I did nothing of the sort, partly because I was all but beyond rational thought, but also, and rather disturbingly, there was something that excited me about the way that he had the nerve to insult me so vulgarly.

‘Maybe you need whipping here too,' he continued, and I felt the crop draw back until the leather tongue rested on my clit. ‘Maybe I should beat you just here for offering your body so flagrantly to lowlife scum like me.'

‘Oh yes,' I hissed as Patrick began to gently spank my pussy with the tip of the riding crop. He didn't use it aggressively against me, nor in a way designed to cause real pain, but he would hit me just hard enough to send tiny spasms of pleasure firing throughout my body, forcing me to twist my hips one way and then the other so that his strikes would land just where I needed to feel them.

‘You really are a bad little girl, aren't you?' he sneered, now sawing the crop back and forth between my slick pussy lips.

‘No... no I'm not,' I panted, but deep down I was discovering that he was absolutely right.

‘Really?' he replied with overly-dramatic surprise, the tip of the crop again taunting the swell of my mound with gentle, repetitive slaps. ‘Well if you were a good girl then surely you wouldn't be bending over and showing-off that tight little cunt of yours to a lowly stable worker like me – to a man your father pays to serve you. Surely only a bad girl would do that. Or am I wrong?' The leather tongue began to caress deeper, to run ever so lightly across that other little hole of mine, and I couldn't help but gasp.

‘N-no, you're wrong,' I stammered weakly, stubbornly drawing on whatever vestiges of pride I could muster.

Then Patrick suddenly tossed the riding crop down and, with raised voice he said, ‘I think we can add
liar
to the list alongside
spoilt
and
dirty
. If you're really not just a little slut then how do you explain this?' His hand quickly slid between my thighs, the tip of a single finger working its way between my pussy lips to slip so easily within. Reflexively I tightened my muscles around him and moaned as he curved against the natural contours of my body.

‘So you're not a bad girl then?' he sneered, fucking me with his finger before withdrawing once more. ‘You're not a dirty little slut? Next you'll be telling me this isn't, in fact,
your
juices I see smeared all over my hand. What do you think?'

Before I could respond he reached his arm around my shoulder, taking my chin in his hand and forcing his sticky finger inside my mouth. I bit down defensively, but this only made him squeeze my cheeks painfully so that I had no option but to relax my jaw once more.

‘So you want to nip like a donkey too, do you?' he laughed, grabbing my hair with the hand that still held onto the rope and easing my head back while he proceeded to smear first my tongue and then my lips with my own traitorous juices.

‘I suppose if you weren't a slut then you wouldn't be desperate for me to fuck you either, would you?' he mocked.

‘I'm not!' I insisted, still unwilling to own up to the shameful truth, and I listened with both fear and a trembling excitement to the sound of his belt buckle being released, and his jeans being drawn down. ‘Please!' I squealed.

‘You're a liar,' he hissed, and I couldn't help but cry out as I felt the swollen head of his cock press into the sensitive flesh of my pussy. ‘You're a liar and a dirty little rich bitch.'