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I peer at him, blankly, I'm sure. This IS important to Him. He explains the difference between red, yellow, and green, and makes me repeat it back to Him. I've got it, and I am flooded with gratitude that I've chosen my first partner well, chosen a man who is careful and trustworthy. I wouldn't have played had I not suspected this, but it is a relief to be right.

Part of me is also relieved to give my skin a short reprieve. Eight. I grasp the chains that bind my wrists and pull each time he strikes me, narrowing my mind to the next number; already, it's getting harder to keep track. Each stroke erases my mind completely, explodes it into little pieces, and I desperately try to hold onto the count.

"Nine."

"Do you want to see yourself?" He moves to my head, moves my hair aside, and tugs a little. I look up to the mirror. I look in vain to see my ass, but I can't at this angle, and I don't like to see myself when I'm not poised, and so after a moment, I look back down and re-shrink my world to what's happening behind me.

"Ten."

That means eleven is next... I just need to focus on eleven... I am so focused on this number that I relax my cheeks completely, so the next time He paddles me, I don't clench and I feel the full strength of His strike on my left cheek. Everything behind my eyelids turns red, and I know that I've erred - this pain will never go away.

"Twelve."

"Twelve?" He asks, chuckling. "Are you sure?"

Damn, but I'm not sure. In fact - I have no idea. Did I say 'eleven', or merely think it? While I am trying to put my mind back together, He caresses my ass, further clouding my mind.

"Eleven?" I offer. But he is not satisfied - I don't sound sure and he wants me to decide. When I do, He chuckles and tells me that indeed, we are only on my eleventh stroke, that I need to focus.

Twelve. Thirteen. Somehow, during the last stroke of His paddle, I pulled myself free from where my restraint meets the bench. For a second, I contemplate not telling Him - but, I like being restrained. I turn my wrist up, showing Him the restraint dangling in the air. Quickly, He secures me again, marveling at my escape artist tendencies. If only I could claim credit.

Fourteen. The heat is intensifying, and thirty seems impossibly far away. I toy with saying the word that I know will slow him down. But I want to take what He wants to give.

He reaches between my legs and decides to walk around my body, casually wiping His fingers along my arm as he moves past. My skin feels wet and cool from the moisture, my moisture that is covering His hand. I'm simultaneously impressed at His attention to detail, turned on, and ashamed of my gratuitous arousal. I hear the sounds of the drawer being opened, and He leans down again, to show me the new paddle that He is going to use on me. It's hot, being shown the instrument of my delicious torture. He speaks to the differences between the two, but honestly, it's lost on me. They both sting like crazy as they connect with my flesh.

Fifteen. Sixteen. The pain is starting to overwhelm the pleasure. Seventeen.

"Yellow... I think?" I offer.

"You think?" He teases me... then smacks me again, hard.

"Yellow! I'm sure... Eighteen."

He strikes me again, moderately hard but I can handle this. I'm glad, and I don't feel that I've disappointed Him. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

"Twenty-two?" He stops for a moment. And I scramble again to try to remember if I said twenty-one aloud or in my hand. He uses this time to fondle me with abandon. I offer up twenty-one instead, but it's a complete guess and He knows it. I confess that I don't know. He's blown my mind into bits, until it no longer functions, until it can no longer manage the task of counting to thirty. He's still not satisfied, and I settle on twenty-two. He continues, and I can't tell if I guessed right or He is allowing me to be wrong.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. My ass feels like it's on fire. Twenty-seven.

"So, you said earli

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