TWENTY-NINE

Rose de Fer

Lara braces herself. She stands on tiptoe and bends forward over the padded armchair, gripping the seat. The leather creaks beneath her hands. She can feel Michael behind her, the displacement of air as he positions himself at an angle to her.

He lifts her skirt and she closes her eyes, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. Then his fingers are inside the waistband of her panties. He pulls them to her knees.

Lara takes a deep breath, preparing herself. She wants to make him proud.

Michael doesn’t speak and neither does she. She knows both what to expect, and what is expected of her.

After a few moments she feels the cool caress of the little leather whip. It’s disarmingly small and inoffensive to look at, but she knows its kiss can be vicious. Michael trails it over her bottom, teasing her for a moment. The calm before the storm.

Then he brings it down and the room rings out with the sharp crack of leather against bare skin. It doesn’t hurt much, but as always, it takes a moment for the sensation to fully blossom. Lara gasps and waits until it has reached its peak before she counts.

“Two.”

“Good girl.”

The next stroke falls and again she waits for the stinging warmth to spread before she counts.

“Three.”

The whip lands again, harder this time.

“Five.”

And again.

“Seven.”

Michael pauses to stroke her, running his fingers over her cheeks. Right now her bottom is only slightly warm. She knows it will be burning before he is finished.

The next strokes come in a brisk volley, one right after another. She gasps, trying to keep track. There are four in all.

She calms herself and then speaks the numbers. “Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen.”

“Very good.” Michael is smiling behind her. She can tell. It makes her smile too.

But her smile vanishes instantly as the next stroke falls. This one is much harder, and begins to challenge her composure. She yelps, kicking her leg up as the sting washes over her. Then she counts.

“Twenty-three.”

Another stroke, this one even harder.

“Twenty-nine.”

Michael stops, once more caressing her tender bottom. Lara relaxes, sagging over the armchair. Her punished skin is tingling, the pleasure and pain producing a heady cocktail of sensation. She waits for him to tell her she can get up.

And waits.

When she feels the tails of the whip tickling her bottom again, she gives a little whimper of confusion and protest. They’ve already reached her age. Is he planning to give her one to grow on?

He answers her silent question with another volley of strokes, and her disorientation makes it difficult to keep track. Four. No, five. She counts them aloud.

“Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven.”

Behind her, Michael chuckles softly. And suddenly she catches on. Yes, she is twenty-nine today. That means twenty-nine strokes. Quickly she performs the calculation. She’s had fifteen already. But she can’t factor far enough ahead to know when he’ll stop. All she can do is keep count and try not to lose her place.

The whip falls again, harder. The stinging leather tails elicit little cries and gasps from her and she wriggles over the chair. It is all she can do not to reach back and rub the burn out of her cheeks. But she stays focused.

Another three strokes. Fifty-three, fifty-nine, and sixty-one. Another four. Sixty-seven, seventy-one, seventy-three, and seventy-nine.

For a moment she loses count. Was it twenty-one or twenty-two? Another stroke falls as she decides it’s the latter.

“Eighty…” She hesitates. Oh god, is it eighty-one or eighty-three?

She hears Michael pulling the tails of the whip through his fingers, slapping it against his palm, prompting her. Twenty-three is eighty…

“Eighty-three!”

He laughs softly and pats her bottom. “Very good,” he says.

The numbers are getting harder now. And so are the strokes.

Eighty-nine wrenches a cry from her and it takes her some time to compose herself enough to speak. She pants out the number for him, and when the whip lands again, she realizes she has lost count.

She freezes in horror, staring wide-eyed at the blank wall before her as her mind spins its gears frantically.

This time he has to prompt her. His deep voice says her name, a low sultry warning tone.

“Eighty-seven,” she ventures uncertainly.

She can tell by his silence that it’s wrong. Blushing to the roots of her hair, she hangs her head in disgrace, her entire body burning with the shame.

“Lara,” he says gently, “what is three times twenty-nine?”

She visualizes the numbers in a dance, circling and combining like cells. And she groans as she sees the divisors neatly carving up the number. “Eighty-seven,” she says with a groan.

“We’ll try that one again, shall we?”

She grips the seat, knowing it will hurt. He doesn’t disappoint. The leather tails spread sweet fire through her flesh and she cries out, writhing and kicking her feet as it washes over her and through her.

When she finally gets control of herself, she concentrates. “Eighty-nine,” she says. And they’re at twenty-four. Only five more to go. She is determined to make him proud.

Ninety-seven makes her gasp, but doesn’t shake her concentration. With renewed focus, she counts the pair that follow it, twin primes as it happens.

“One hundred and one, one hundred and three.”

Only two more. And she smiles to herself as she realizes that they are twins also.

The whip falls, ringing out in the little room. Lara gasps and whimpers, panting as she gathers herself.

“One hundred and seven.”

She knows the next one is the twenty-ninth. A prime itself, and her age. She holds her breath as she waits for the stroke to fall. And Michael makes it count. Her bottom is alive with stinging pain as the whip falls, its tails splaying over her already sore and reddened cheeks. It is all she can do to stay in position, but she refuses to disgrace herself again.

She takes a deep breath and speaks in a loud, clear voice. “One hundred and nine.”

Michael doesn’t speak. The room is nerve-wrackingly silent. But he doesn’t rattle her this time. She knows that was the final stroke, number twenty-nine. But before there can be any question of it, she lifts her head proudly.

“Thank you, Sir,” she says.

The next thing she feels is his hand, warm and smooth, stroking her bottom. His touch intensifies the burn, but the sensation is wonderful too. He guides her up and gathers her in his arms.

“Happy birthday, Lara,” he says.

She curls into his embrace, feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy from the endorphins pinging around in her brain.

Michael smiles, gazing into her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” he says.

She blushes and lowers her head.

“I think next year we’ll have you count in binary.”