The Switch by Christine Denham Read Free Book Online Page B

emotionally. Jesus, the woman never did
anything halfway, did she? He smirked.
    “You don’t really want it that easy, do
you?” he said.
    Her lips pressed together in a tight line,
but he saw a spark of something flicker in her eyes before she
released him.
    “Kneel up.” She swatted his flank lightly
with the tip of her riding crop.
    Grayson did his best to move quickly but
calmly. Physically, he didn’t care for lashings. But the way he saw
it, that was kind of the point. Unless you got off from spankings,
of course, in which case it wasn’t much of a punishment. Then
again, if he went by Marion’s words, punishments were no longer a
cause-and-effect thing.
    He had no idea what was coming next.
Uncertainty tightened in his chest. Under that, a low-simmering
thrill.
    Well, shit. She’d barely touched him
and he was already a mess.
    A rich, low chuckle interrupted his
thoughts.
    “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you think so
hard, pet. Hands and knees.”
    When had she ever seen him hard, he
wondered? Had she watched him at the club? The thought almost
derailed him, but he did as told, teeth clenching slightly as she
moved to stand behind him. His cock bobbed freely, still thick and
heavy with need.
    “Apart.” The point of a foot nudged between
his thighs just above his knees.
    As he edged his stance wider, the sudden,
cool air against his testicles made him very aware of his
vulnerability. Instead of dampening his arousal, it fed it. His
fingertips pressed into the uneven texture of the rug beneath
them.
    He nearly jumped out of his skin at the
first touch, and it took a second to realize it wasn’t her finger
stroking a portentous caress across the skin of his sac. A short
whisper of air dragged in between his teeth as he wrestled his
apprehension. This was Marion, he told himself. Domme or no, she
would never bring him actual harm.
    The flap of leather continued its trail up
his backside, feathering along his crack, then up, over, and around
to rest against his butt cheek.
    “You don’t care for lashings.” It wasn’t a
question. “Yet it’s not on your list of hard limits.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    The first swat didn’t even suggest a
sting.
    “I have a theory about that.”
    The next was barely harder than the first.
He didn’t respond or ask what her theory was, but waited as the tip
of her riding crop fluttered a series of pats over his ass. As
striking as the sight of it was, he’d never actually been
disciplined with a crop before. Some of the more seasoned
submissives had spoken of it in awe or terror. Some even claimed it
was worse than caning. This, however, was--
    Snap.
    He bit off an expletive, grunting through
his closed lips. It wasn’t that hard of a strike, but it stung,
sharp and precise, heat radiating from that needle-bright spot like
the echoes of a wasp-sting. Then the cool, intimate touch of her
finger soothing that bite. Grayson inhaled a shaky breath as he
realized that was the first she’d touched him, flesh-to-flesh, all
evening.
    “People draw different things from the
experience, depending on how it’s administered.”
    A hard, quick pinch, then a slap. It was
ludicrous, embarrassing, arousing. And somehow it eased the mark,
like scratching an itch.
    “Some are in it for the pain,” she
continued, her touch trailing over the arc of his buttock and down.
“Others are moved by the punishment aspect, fully accepting and
relishing in the physically unpleasant experience, because with it
comes humiliation, shame, and eventually absolution. And, of
course, there are so many varying degrees of physical
sensation.”
    Did she expect an answer? He wasn’t even
sure he knew what the question was. In fact, the further her
fingers drifted, the less his brain seemed to function. His eyelids
grew heavy and he found himself inching into her touch, knees
edging apart, fingers curling into the rug.
    “There we go,” Marion said quietly, cupping
his sac for just an instant