Chapter 7
Elina
Spending Friday nights at the club and playing with Asbjorn becomes a weekly highlight.
He gradually takes me deeper into the world of BDSM, showing me new dynamics and new toys. After the first couple of times with the floggers and wrist cuffs, I let him add the ankle cuffs. Then it’s baring my breasts and nipple clamps; next, I let him remove all my clothes and touch me sexually.
The first orgasm I get at Asbjorn’s hands is staggering. World-altering, I might even say.
I was never loud in bed, but suddenly, I’m screaming and bucking in a frenzy as Asbjorn expertly fingers my pussy while delivering sharp smacks to my thighs. The exquisite combination of pleasure and pain drives me to new heights I didn’t even think possible.
And it’s not just the orgasms that make me shed my inhibitions and go wild.
Slowly, Asbjorn ramps up the pain, testing my limits and pushing me deeper into unknown territory.
I revel in every second of it. Somehow, he finds the perfect balance—reaching just the right amount of uncomfortable, like he said the first night.
After a few sessions, I barely even stop to consider whether I want to try the new things he suggests. I’ve come to trust that he knows what I’m ready for even better than I do.
But the thing that makes me more nervous than anything before is when he, one night, places a cane on the bar top alongside the usual restraints.
“Tonight, I want to introduce you to the cane,” he says with a serious expression that makes me gulp.
When he showed me all the various toys in his bag a couple of weeks ago, he encouraged me to test the impact play tools—tap them on my palm or calves—to get a sense of the feel and the differences.
The cane was the one that scared me the most. The sharp, focused force it delivered with just light taps gave me the feeling that it could cause severe pain.
It’s a simple, long bamboo stick—or rather, rattan. He told me the difference is very important. Bamboo can splinter and become very sharp, while rattan is more durable. I shudder at the idea of the cane suddenly splintering and cutting my ass like a knife.
“Rattan, right?” I ask, needing to double-check before letting him use it on me.
“Rattan,” he confirms with a smile. “You remembered.”
“Yeah.” I trail my fingers over the cane a few times, studying it with wide eyes, before lifting my gaze to him again. “Do you really think I’m ready for this?”
He glances toward the couches at the back, and I follow his gaze to see Ulf nod—a quiet exchange between the two of them.
“You are,” Asbjorn says. There’s a flicker of hesitation in his voice, but it firms when he takes the cane and taps it against his palm. “This is what we’ll do tonight.” His eyes light up with expectation. “Your ass is going to carry the prettiest marks when I’m done with you.”
“Really?” I bite my lips around an excited smile. I’ve come to love the marks.
“Oh yes. Beautiful parallel stripes and deep blue bruises.”
My heart flutters, and I suppress the urge to clap in excitement.
Shyness washes over me when I look toward the couches again and find Ulf’s attention honing in on me. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always here, watching. Yet it stuns me every time I collide with those stark blue eyes that seem to take in my every little flicker of nervousness and excitement.
“Will he be watching the whole scene again tonight?” I ask Asbjorn in a low voice.
“Probably.” He takes my hands. “Are you good with that?”
“Yeah. It’s just a little weird.”
I’ve grown comfortable with the open display of sexuality long ago.
Playing in the open seems to be second nature to everyone here, so it’s been easy to get used to.
But Ulf watching is a different matter. I barely notice anyone else in the room when playing, but I always feel his eyes on me—a prickling sensation across my skin.
I’m hyperaware of him. If he’s not in the room when we start playing, I feel it the moment he enters.
The air grows heavier, and there’s this deep pull inside me that brings me a bit deeper into that trance—subspace.
I almost expect Asbjorn to suggest that we can play in a closed room—he’s always considerate like that when I hesitate. But he just offers reassurance. “Don’t worry about it. He enjoys watching you very much.”
“Okay,” I simply say. Part of me is a little disappointed he didn’t suggest a private playroom, but at the same time, I don’t think I’d take the offer. As much as Ulf unnerves me, I want him to see me. Knowing he’s watching drives me higher and deeper at the same time.
“Come on, let’s go play.” Asbjorn offers me a hand, takes the toys in the other, and leads the way to the play area.
“Kneel for me, Elina,” he says when we stop in front of the St. Andrew’s cross, his voice deepening into that dominant tone that always stirs a buzzing anticipation inside me.
My breath deepens as I gingerly sink to my knees, lower my head, and place my hands on my thighs.
The position feels natural, like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
A shiver rushes down my arms when I tilt my head a little and see the outline of Ulf in my periphery.
I wonder what it would be like to kneel in front of him.
I think I’d barely be able to breathe—that I might collapse fully, his dominance too heavy to remain sitting straight.
Asbjorn holds the long rattan stick in his open palms before me. “Kiss the cane. Show your gratitude for the pain it will inflict upon you.”
My pulse speeds as I imagine the sharp snap connecting with my flesh.
My breath shudders past my lips. I close my eyes, lean down, and softly graze the rattan with my lips.
It reminds me of all the times Ulf has pressed his praiseful kisses to my forehead.
He always does the same after a scene. I’ve never quite understood why, but suddenly I realize it might be a way for him to show his gratitude for getting to watch.
Heat flows through me. I hope he’ll bestow me with his kiss again tonight. Somehow, it’s always the best part of a scene.
“Good girl,” Asbjorn croons, stroking my hair. I openly lean into his touch, craving his praise. But it’s never quite the same as when Ulf shows me those small glints of affection.
After helping me to my feet again, Asbjorn proceeds to take off my clothes and restrain my arms and legs to the cross.
I sink into the calm rhythm of his slow touch and steady guidance. It lulls me into tranquility—the quiet before the storm.
Instead of going straight to the terrifying implement I’m going to endure tonight, he continues the careful preparation, smacking my ass with his bare hand, warming me up.
When he finally picks up the cane, I feel soft and pliant, leaning against the cross, breathing deeply.
“Are you ready?” Asbjorn asks.
“Yes,” I say softly, genuinely feeling so.
He starts tapping the cane against my ass. Light blows in rapid succession. It’s not bad at all. It actually feels good, adding to the humming heat. But I know it’s not the true intent of the cane.
My nerves tighten when he pauses and rests the thin stick on my ass. I know what’s coming.
“Take a deep breath,” Asbjorn instructs.
I inhale deeply, grabbing onto the chains, steeling myself for the blow.
Just as I start to release the air, Asbjorn lifts the cane and flicks it through the air.
Thwack!
“Ah!” I cry out as pain rips through my flesh, sharp and unforgiving. I buck against the cross, clutching the chains as I pant hard and whimper repeatedly, struggling to process.
In an instant, Asbjorn is right behind me, covering my back with his warm body and stroking my arms and my waist. “Shh, I’ve got you.”
“Oh God,” I whimper. “That really hurt.”
Asbjorn hums. “I know.”
“Sadist,” I accuse, followed by a quiet laugh.
He strokes his hand down my cheek, leaning his head close to mine, and joining the warm chuckle. “You love it.”
Smiling, I bite my lower lip, my eyes falling shut.
For a moment, it’s just the two of us. The rush that comes in the wake of the pain.
The warm comfort between us and the easy intimacy that I allow myself to indulge in despite the cracks in my heart.
Because easy is exactly what I have with Asbjorn—exactly what I need.
“Ready to go again?” he asks, trailing his fingertips down my side, making me shudder deliciously.
“Yes,” I gasp.
Asbjorn makes me feel the sharp sting of the cane repeatedly.
I yelp and hiss, and soon, I’m screaming too.
The pain is sharper and more severe than any other he has inflicted upon me.
It’s almost more than I can bear. But every time I think I’ve had enough, he leans into me, caresses my side and kisses my temple, and the desire to go again surfaces.
Because beneath the pain, a pulsing pleasure awakens, humming low in my belly, building with each strike.
“Short break,” Asbjorn says at some point after he’s been going at me at a steady pace for a while.
“Okay,” I pant.
He steps close, caressing and kissing me and murmuring soft words of praise and reassurance. Once I’ve recovered, he asks, “Are you good with me stepping away for a moment?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
“I’ll be right back.”
His steps recede, and I drift into a thoughtless space while I lean my head against the cross, spending the few minutes gathering myself.
When he returns, he checks in with me again, asking if I’m good to continue. I nod. I don’t think I have too much more in me, but I’m also not quite ready to stop. The delicious heat humming on my ass cheeks has taken on a life of its own, begging for more.
“We’re almost done. But before we wrap up, Ulf would like to take a couple of swings. Would you be okay with that?”
“Ulf?” I say, taken aback, my brain too hazy to react sensibly.
“Yeah.” Asbjorn rubs the sore flesh on my ass gently. “He’d like to use the cane on you. Just a few strikes. He likes the way you’re reacting.”