The Temple by Jean Johnson

Author:Jean Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Three gentle swings of the flogger. Slap. Slap. Slap. Three gentle blows landing in succession on his back, his ribs, his outer thigh. Krais let the strands slither over his skin, soft suede dyed a reddish purple with the help of the sea snails that populated the local coastlines. The color complemented the tanned skin of his inner thighs.

She had a whole rainbow of the things, each one made of a different length, heft, weight, material, and color. The one with the stretchy sap strands came in a yellowish-white, and stung hard but landed with very little thud behind its lightweight mass. The one dyed red had angular metal beads clamped around its stiff leather strands, designed to raise welts, even perhaps a little blood. The blue one was nothing but fluffy strips of dyed rabbit fur. Green meant it was made out of chain-joined lengths of round, thin bamboo, like a fanciful threshing flail in miniature. Black, of course, was ceremonial, and rarely used for actual punishments.

Swinging the flogger again with his other hand, he whipped it up over his shoulder, smacking the strands onto the other half of his back on the left side, the opposite ribs, the left side again for his thigh. Whack, whack, whack. Unfortunately, the strands were too long. They struck spots too far from where he wanted to aim.

Krais stopped the tool, swept the finger-wide lengths of suede into a bundle, and folded them back on the handle. Reversing his grip so that it included the bundle as well as the leather-wrapped handle, he tried striking himself again. Much better. Much more control. He liked being in control, even of his own flogging.

The proof of how much he liked it lay in his lap. Kneeling on her bed with his kilt hem rucked up against his hips meant his erection was hidden in the folds. Well, somewhat hidden; it stood up visibly, pressing against the fabric in a distinct, pointed lump. One that twitched against the blue cotton of his kilt more than enough to stimulate the tip with each jostle of the flogger striking elsewhere on his body.

“You hesitate again, but you’re not adjusting your grip. What are you thinking right now?” Pelai asked softly. Coaxingly, unlike his father’s more brutal-sounding commands, his mother’s strident demands. Her tone invoked intimacy in his ears. Confidence.

She didn’t demand that he flog himself more, didn’t demand an explanation for the pause in his actions. She just asked what he thought in that moment.

Krais decided to tell her. “I am wondering what this thing will feel like if I remove my kilt.”

“Then do so, and find out,” she urged. Not with a heavy hand, but gently. An encouragement, not a command.

He slanted her a look. Pelai sat at the head of her bed, pillows mounded up behind her back. Still clad in her black and gilded Disciplinarian leathers, knees drawn up, but with the skirt tucked down between her thighs. Her hands, clasped on her stomach, drew his attention.

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