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From: Bawdy Bloke <nospam@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} No surrender to her (FDom, MSub, BDSM)
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Date: Thu, 21 Aug 2014 03:10:01 -0400
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Taken from my blog at http://bawdybloke.com/story-surrender/

* * * * *
It was horrible, but it was supposed to be. Every slash of her wrist 
brought agony onto my rump as she cackled. She wanted me to fail. She 
wanted me to scream enough was enough and spew forth my safeword.

The safeword was "Surrender" but I would not allow her to succeed. In 
fact, I would have ceded to anyone else but her. She was my enemy, my 
sworn enemy. My writing nemesis. A rivalry colder than Arsenal and 
Tottenham and with considerably less mutual respect. So as my rump felt 
every stroke of her weapon, I ignored the pain, I fought it, desperate 
to dismiss the fire burning in my backside as a mere feathery touch.

I kept my boxer shorts on for dignity: my jeans bunched around my ankles 
as I leant on the table. The soft red velvet of the fabric underneath my 
palm in contrast to vicious whip swooshing through the air and landing 
on my black underwear.

"Ooh ... it tickles!" I cried through gritted teeth, shooting a glance 
at the assembled audience. This was a grudge match: scores were being 
settled. She had threatened to make me cry; I scoffed at the snarling 
bitch and told her to deliver. She offered, and I was goaded into 
leaning over the table with my jeans unbuckled to my ankles.

But she was getting perilously close to my surrender. I fought the 
stripes of pain landing squarely across my flesh, the sharpness of the 
sensation as her whip bounced off my buttocks. The crack of her whip 
filled the small room as she grunted behind me. I could feel her 
launching her weight into her strikes, using every muscle in her body to 
drive the equine whip against my aching skin.

She was desperate to hurt me. I could see her movements in the 
reflection of the glass, concentrating intensely on my pain. Her strokes 
became faster and faster, slashing against my bruised flesh with barely 
a pause for breath.

I whimpered. My resolve was cracking. I wanted to yell, swear and cry. I 
wanted to squeal my safeword and admit her savagery was too much for me 
to bear. But I would not surrender to her. Nothing in the land would 
make that worthwhile, I could not capitulate to her. It would not happen.

"Still tickling!" I teased, because the only alternative was to yield. 
"When are you going to start trying to hurt me?"

I was moments away from crying. My rear was ablaze, no doubt a violent 
shade of red or purple that would be agonisingly painful for days. I 
focused on the patterns in front of me: my mind interested only in the 
interwoven stitching of the soft velvet tablecloth instead of the fierce 
beating unleashed on my defenceless flesh.

They watched, chattering. I heard snippets of whispering, mutterings of 
disbelief from our mutual friends, tired of our constant bickerings. I 
was taking a wild pounding, but I was a depraved, kinky individual, and 
a brutal assault on my body was a small price to pay for claiming the 
tiniest victory over her.

Determined, she unleashed harder and harder strokes of her whip against 
my buns. My nervous system was alight to the torture, my endorphins 
flowing into my blood stream to respond to her malevolence.

"Ooh, I might have a felt a little something there." I lied. I felt 
everything. Every agonising stroke, every excruciating hit on my 
bloodied seat was torture. A self-inflicted torment from my ego for 
responding to her challenge that I could not hope to win.

But I gritted my teeth, squeezing my muscles as the heat in my skin 
sizzled to her tune. This was mind over matter, sheer willpower as my 
body received a dozen more strokes: each one ten times more painful than 
the one that preceded it.

She mopped her brow: the anger in the statuesque blonde translating into 
a strenuous workout. "Getting bored now," I called out, humming to rile 
her. To provoke her. To poke her consciousness and get under her skin. 
"I've had more of a beating from a toddler. This is pathetic."

And that's when she swore, shouting as an avalanche of cruel emotion 
channelled through her whip to land in the middle of my bruises. To 
bounce off my sit spot. To rap the backs of my damaged thighs. To break 
my resistance. For me to yield to her pitiless swats.

My fists screwed the tablecloth as my rump erupted into a mass of 
suffering. I panted, looking into the table so no-one could see the pain 
etched upon my face. My flesh was burning hot, my resolve all but 
crumbled as she wielded the whip relentlessly. "I'm bored," I cried, 
straightening my back and standing up.

"I've not finished," she cried as I stepped towards our mutual friends.

One of our audience patronisingly patted my backside with a giggle. 
"Aaaaahhhh, does it hurt?"

"Ow," I squealed. "Fuck! Ahhh, that really hurt!" I lied as an unknown 
hand gently tapped my abused rump.

"Sorry," she muttered, apologetically.

"S'ok," I replied, before sneering at my nemesis. "They managed to hurt 
me with their hand, you didn't touch me with your whip."

"I've not finished, get your arse back here," she demanded. But there 
was no way I could take any more of her punishment and shook my head.

"Bored. And I've been hurt now so it would invalidate the test. You 
failed to make me surrender, you completely and utterly failed," I 
condescendingly crowed.

But everyone knew the truth. I would not sit down properly for a week: 
every movement would be excruciatingly painful and I had taken a 
battering of epic proportions. Every waking moment I would be reminded 
that the bane of my writing world had given me a hundred lashes of the 
whip and I had taken it because my pride would not let me concede that a 
riding whip hurts.

And it was almost worth it: I had not surrendered to her. She had not 
beaten me. I had won.

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