Angel and the Assassin

strength of the perfectly balanced
    leather tail.
    “That‟s my boy; that‟s a good boy.” Sir‟s words wrapped about him, as
    comforting as his blanket, as comforting as the whip caressing his shoulders.
    The pain increased incrementally. The strokes of the whip fell across his
    shoulder blades, wrapping about his sides. Master landed each lash perfectly,
    slightly below the last until he was midway down Angel‟s back where, without
    pause, he worked his way up again. Angel began to moan softly as the pain
    increased. He bit down hard on the stem of the ball gag, pressing his tongue down.
    In the midst of the flogging, his eyes drifted shut, his body gave up the fight,
    and he felt every last bit of tension seep from his muscles. In that moment he was
    Daddy‟s boy again, completely possessed, owned, wanted, even loved. He was more
    at home in that moment than he had ever been in his life. He found himself in
    precisely the right place at exactly the right moment.
    Master never paused in the rhythm of his flogging because to begin again
    would be impossible. Angel heard distant words filter through the haze of pain and
    pleasure that rivaled and exceeded the one time he had taken ecstasy. “Are you still
    with me, boy?”

    He released a strange sound that was just barely discernible as, “Yes, Sir.”

    Angel and the Assassin
    141

    “Give me a word.”
    “Green!”
    Sir laughed but never paused in the lift and measure of the whip. “I heard
    that, boy, loud and clear.”
    Angel did not want the flogging to end. He wanted it to continue in perpetuity.
    He wanted to live forever in the moment. When Daddy spanked him—the intimacy
    of lying across his knees and feeling his big hand land hard on his buttocks, cupping
    them, sending pain and pleasure reverberating through him—he could barely
    contain his arousal. All his senses were focused on his backside, all the pain, all the
    pleasure. It was so fucking hot.
    But this was different. The whip caressing his body, sending shock waves of
    pain and pleasure through him, was mystical. It bordered on holy. He was in his
    body, and yet he was everywhere, filling the room, his molecules diffuse, blending
    with everything in the dungeon, with his master. They were part of each other,
    connected by the whip that went from Sir‟s hand to Angel‟s body like an umbilical
    cord. He did not want the flogging to end because he did not want the cord to break
    and set him free, floating away from Sir. They were connected in that moment in an
    indefinable circuit whose center was everywhere and whose circumference was
    nowhere.
    “Speak to me, Angel.”
    The sound that erupted from behind the gag came from so far down in Angel‟s
    body, from so deep in his psyche that it sounded like a pure operatic note. The
    strength of the note brought his chin up from his chest until his head dropped back
    between his upstretched arms and the sound soared up to the ceiling.
    Without warning, instead of another stroke, Sir‟s arms wrapped about his
    torso from behind. The great strong length of Sir‟s body pressed into his, lifting him
    off the ground, releasing the handcuffs from the hook.
    Sir lifted him as easily as if he were an infant and cradled him in his arms
    against his chest, carrying him to the couch, where he sat down, holding him close,
    looking into Angel‟s half-open eyes. With one hand Sir unbuckled the gag and eased
    it from his mouth. Angel‟s head flopped against Master‟s chest, where he rested,
    completely at peace.
    “Tell me how you are feeling, boy.” When Angel did not answer at once, Sir
    repeated the words more urgently, taking Angel‟s chin firmly in his hand. “Speak to
    me. Right now.”
    Angel tipped his head back to look into Sir‟s face, bathed with sweat and
    concern. “Sir, I‟m fine. Thank you, Sir.”
    “How come you didn‟t use a safe word? It looks to me like you should have.”
    “No, Sir. I didn‟t need it. I didn‟t need it.”
    Sir pulled him close, rocking him against his chest. “Good lad. Now I know
    what you‟re made of.” He allowed Angel to rest in his arms for some time before
    saying, “Can you walk?”

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    Fyn Alexander

    “Yes, Sir.”
    With Sir‟s help Angel got to his feet. Sir led him to the leather-topped table
    and helped him climb up and lie down on his belly. The smell and buttery softness
    of the leather aroused Angel immediately, but lying flat on his belly on a jutting
    cock held up by the