The Brat


The Brat by John Warren

“I’m not a brat,” she thought to herself with a little smile. “I’m THE Brat.”

“Is that as hard as you can hit?” she called out over her shoulder as he pulled back the flogger for another stroke, but instead of the explosion she expected, he answered her softly, “No, but we are just warming up. I don’t want you to safeword out on me too quickly.”

For a moment, she was a bit nervous. Maybe this had been a mistake. She had done as she always did, brazening walking to the dungeon club and striking up a conversation with one man after another until she found one with the right mixture of looks and confidence. Then, she had made The Offer.

“I’m a heavy bottom, and it’s hard to find someone who plays up where I want. If you think you can, I’ll make you a deal. A one-hour scene here in the club. No blood, no broken bones, no strangulation. If you get me to safeword, you got me for one week as your slave. If you can’t, you pay me two hundred.”

He had looked at her appraisingly and then slowly, almost arrogantly, smiled. “The way I see it, that’s a bet you can’t lose.”

It took her aback. He was right, of course, but most tops were so far into themselves that they didn’t see it right away. Besides, no one had ever “won.” And, with a momentary sinking feeling, she wondered if anyone ever would. She was a heavy bottom. She gloried in what others would call “pain.” And, besides, she was The Brat. She might want to safeword, to become that slave she longed to be, but something stopped her. Pride, Arrogance, just plain Brattiness, she didn’t know.

He thought quietly. Again, she was surprised. Most of them jumped at the offer, certain they couldn’t lose. Then, he spoke. “I like needles, but it might mean a drop or two of blood. Can we make an exemption from the rules for them?

Her knees felt weak. She loved needles, but so few were competent with them. She so rarely got a chance to do needle play. For a moment, her brattiness deserted her, and she nodded mutely. “Get a grip on yourself,” she thought, and spoke, her rasping voice surprising her. “Deal,” she said, “give the money to the bartender to hold,” and watched as he counted out eight twenties and four tens.

Word that she had “chosen” had spread through the club. This wasn’t something that happened every day or even every month, and people drifted closer to the play area, almost stylistically casual in their movements and how they didn’t look at her or the man.

He picked up his toy bag and moved into the play area. This early in the evening it was empty. She noticed he didn’t look back to see if she followed. She did, of course, but it was a bit annoying, and at the same time simulating, that he didn’t seem to need to confirm it himself. Reaching the play area, he set down the bag and turned to her. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for this?”

She stared into his eyes, challenging him. It least attempting to challenge him. He just glanced back, eyelids drooping a bit as if he were already bored. “How much,” she said.

“All of it.”

Quickly, she stripped off the dress and kicked off her shoes. The carpet tickled her feet a bit. Strange she hadn’t noticed that before. It was like her nerves were coming alive. Casually she tossed the dress on top of the shoes. Facing him, she said, “OK?”

She didn’t see him move. One moment, he was standing there appraising her, the next, his right hand was holding her under her chin and his left slapped her on the right cheek, not hard, but so unexpectedly that tears welled into her eyes. Twice more, his open hand struck her cheek and she felt her knees begin to buckle.

His voice was soft with no sign of anger. “Just what part of ‘all of it’ didn’t you understand? Bra and panties… lose ‘em.”

She was surprised at how her hands shook as she unfastened the bra. The bra and the panties joined the dress on the floor. She threw the panties, deliberately, to one side because they were already soaked and she didn’t want to stain the black cotton dress. He took her to one side where the standing bondage frame was and in a moment she was a human X, arms and legs widespread. After a pause, he had begun flogging her. The flogger was heavy leather but he was just letting it fall against her. That was when she tried to challenge him.

The answer was a shock. Most of the men had begun as hard as they could, determined to force the safeword from her. Was he so arrogant to think that he had to go easy, “ramp her up,” so he could make the scene last?

She tried again. “It must be terrible to get old and not be able to swing a flogger hard.” There was no response, either from him or from the whip which continued its steady beat on her back, slowly becoming harder a bit at a time. Occasionally, he would let the whip wrap around her converting a relatively gentle swing into a thudding impact on either her breasts or around her hip and onto her mons.

She began to drift. The steady thudding, the rising levels of endorphins in her body lulled her into a relaxed, dreamlike state. She forgot she was The Brat and just floated. The whip on her breasts brought her around a bit, and she focused to see him standing in front of her, whip in hand. She smiled lazily, not brattish, but thankful for what he was doing. When he step close, she realized he had taken off his shirt and her nipples brushed against his chest. She like it and moved a little more feeling the warmth. When she felt his hand under her jaw again, she started, remember the slap, but before she could do anything he kissed her, hard, holding her head so she couldn’t move and bruising her lips with his.

She couldn’t move her head but she could move her body and thrust her pelvis against him, against the rough weave of his pants, rubbing him first teasingly and then as the fire burst within her, harder and harder. She felt his hand leave her face and heard a sound of metal on metal but was lost in the welter of sensations breaking over her. She thought she was going to orgasm just from the rubbing when a burst of pain blossomed in the small of her back. She gasped and thrust forward harder still against him. He moved his lips from hers and whispered in her ear. “It’s a knife.”

She was frightened. She was horny. She wasn’t sure what she was. He moved his lips back to hers, and the knife touched again and again. One part of her mind knew it was relatively gentle pressure and the skin wasn’t being broken, but another part screamed in pain and terror. Her mouth opened, and she tried to scream, but he held the back of her head and covered her mouth with hers, inhaling the first scream and the ones that followed. The knife explored her back, her ass, her stretched and exposed underarms. All the time, he maintained the perverse kiss, drinking in her screams. She realized that he was playing a scale with her. Each touch was a bit harder than the last… or in a more sensitive place. It was getting unbearable. Then the knife was gone, and he whispered again.

“I love to taste the flavor of a woman’s pain in her screams. Yours were very sweet.”

She wanted to reply, but she couldn’t. She was drained. Her knees were bent and she hung with her full weight on the cuffs. He put her head on his shoulder and then popped the panic snaps. As she fell, he pulled at her and she collapsed against him.

Movement. Her eyes couldn’t quite focus but she knew he was carrying her and the she felt the sensation of falling for a moment but before she could react she was lying on a padded bondage bench and he was reattaching the wrist and ankle cuffs.

She caught her breath and a bit of the brattiness began to return. He had been good, but if this was as tough as he could get, they were both going to lose. Then a cold liquid with a sharp odor splashed against her skin. Brisk and business-like, he set out rubbing the Betadine over her. All over her, she realized with a shock. When she had done needleplay before, it had been a few needles in her breasts.

“Gotta do a good job of this,” he said almost briskly, like a beautician rubbing shampoo into her head. “Don’t want any infections.”

His hands became gentler as he spread the iodine-colored liquid, and she sighed with pleasure and the apprehension melted away. The massage felt so good against her feet as he rubbed each toe individually, spreading and separating them. Somehow, she didn’t notice when he stopped, because the pinch and sting of an expert needle insertion came as a surprise. Her head snapped down and the breath hissed between her teeth as she saw him release her breast, a long needle going in, under and then out again, laced through the skin. Twice, three times more, he deftly looped the needles through her skin until she had four needles, two in each breast, horizontally across the breast.

Then he surprised her. From a plastic bag, with a smell of alcohol, he took out two lengths of thin nylon cord, He looped each length around each pair of needles and then tied them so there was a loop around the needles and a length of cord extending from the loop. Gently he lifted her head. “Open your mouth,” he said, then he placed the two cords over her teeth. “Bite down.” She did and he released her head. For a moment she let it drop back and then the cords grew taut and pulled on the needles. She lifted her head to remove the strain… then in a kind of brattiness, pulled a bit. The needles lifted under the strain, sending out pain waves, but she pulled a bit harder. The pain intensified. She eased up and so did the pain. She pulled, eased, pulled again. Each pull was a bit harder, a bit more painful, but there was something else with the pain. She pulled… pulled; it was agony now, delicious agony. She nodded her head as if emphatically agreeing with something and the agony became waves, waves she was surfing. Flying high, she glanced at him. And he was smiling. Gritting her teeth to hold the cord, she smiled back at him and pulled harder.

Finally exhausted, she opened her mouth and let her head fall. “My god,” she gasped. “That was incredible.” At that moment, the bartender called out, “Five minutes left.”

The brat looked at him and said, “You were the best, but even you couldn’t make me safeword,” and felt a kind of sadness. Then she looked at him and saw that the smile hadn’t faded.

“Oh, THAT,” he said, walking down the bottom of the bondage bench. Casually, almost without looking at it, he trust a needle into the arch of her foot.

The scream even hurt her ears. It was nothing like she had ever felt. It was pure blossoming agony. The second needle in her other foot hurt worse, if possible. Three, four, five. She was losing count; she was past caring. If she had not been so tightly tied, she would have fallen on the floor. If the bondage table had not been so well made, she would have torn it apart. He was putting needles between her toes now. She screamed. She screamed. She screamed “RED… please god, RED.”

In the silence that followed, she heard the sound of the used needles falling into the sharps container and knew that he… she … they had won.