His only reply was a nod. She saw that behind the mask he’d closed his eyes so she took the opportunity to simply take him in. Who was he? She’d asked herself that question since the day she’d met him when she’d only been sixteen years old. What secrets did he keep behind those eyes and inside that scarred and beautiful body of his? She could have beaten the secrets out of him, but she knew him well enough to know that in fact, she didn’t want to know....

“Seventeen,” he said in a clear voice, raising up his head.

The seventeenth flick of the baton was the hardest by far.

“That was for the ‘he must be a masochist’ crack.” She kissed his welt before dropping the baton on the floor and breaking it with her foot. She never used a toy on anyone else after she’d used it on him. It was the lone sign of respect she afforded him when he was in submission to her. Once a flogger or cane or blade touched his body, it would never touch another. She either broke it or set it aside to be used in the future on him and only him.

“I deserved that.” He relaxed in the bonds, resting his head against his upper arm.

“You did. And worse. I’m trying to decide how much worse.”

“I will submit to anything you desire, Maîtresse.”

“I know you will. That’s the problem. Too many choices. I could cane your legs. I could pour some scalding candle wax on your testicles. Hmm...so many ways to make you my bitch. Hard to choose just one.”

“Are you open to suggestion, Maîtresse?”

He turned his head and peered at her through the space between his arm and the cross. Of course they both knew he shouldn’t be making eye contact with her. This evening, she was in charge, she was the Dominant, and he was nothing but property for her to use and abuse any way she wanted. But she had trouble being angry at him for something as human as looking in her eyes. How would she see his hunger, his need, his humble desperation, if she didn’t see his eyes? She’d give him a pass on the eye contact this time. She’d only flog him a little more. Nothing vicious. She’d save the viciousness for the next time he did it.

“And what, pray tell, is your suggestion?”

His only answer was to laugh, and the laugh was all she needed to hear. A low throaty masculine insinuating thigh-melting, knee-shivering, panties-suddenly-disappear-and-end-up-hanging-off-the-bedpost sort of laugh. Glad to know he wasn’t the only one in the mood.

“Well, it is a good suggestion.”

“Merci, Maîtresse.”

“If I’m going to do it, you’re going to have to earn it.”

“I understand,” he said, almost solemnly. Nothing like a threat of having to “earn it” could put the fear of God back into a sub. She’d already ripped his back apart in three different ways. Time to give the front side The Mistress treatment.