The Last Goodbye

Dear Bastardlife readers, please join me in welcoming our newest fiction author Alison Tyler who is the author of more than 25 novels and the editor of 50 anthologies, including Bondage on a Budget and Naughty Fairy Tales from A to Z. Her work has been published by HarperCollins, Virgin, Cleis, Plume, Blue Moon and Masquerade, and she is the owner of the racy imprint Pretty Things Press.

“Get ready for me,” Connor said over the phone. “I’ll be over in ten.”

“Ready?” my voice trailed upward, making a question of the single word, while my mind raced. Ready. I already knew what that meant. Connor had considered our last two weeks together a form of sexual boot camp. He spent his days packing boxes of belongings for shipping home, saying goodbye to friends, tying up loose ends.

He spent his nights tying up loose ends, too. Pulling the ends of loose scarves until they tightened securely around my wrists, fastening a blindfold over my eyes, capturing my ankles with his leather belt. We took our opportunities wherever we could find them. This was our final weekend together, and he was determined to educate me, to make my fantasies come true.

The night before, he’d surprised me with a bag of supplies from The Pleasure Chest: a red-and-black paddle, a soft purple suede flogger, a set of silver cuffs. And there were more gifts, ones he didn’t let me open yet. He hadn’t used any on me. But he’d watched as I’d unwrapped each new toy, and when I looked up at him, swallowing hard, he had cocked a blond eyebrow at me and said, “Tomorrow night, you won’t be quiet any longer.”

I knew what that meant. I was always quiet. Practically silent. Connor had been trying to get me to open up, to feel comfortable enough to let go. The most I’d managed so far was a husky moan. I’d never been a screamer. I internalized everything. Tears might streak my cheeks, but I would not cry out. Connor had plans to change that.

While I waited for him, I paced the apartment, clad in an outfit we’d bought together: short black-and-white plaid skirt, silky black t-shirt, fishnet stockings, knee-high patent leather Docs. I walked into the bedroom, where I’d set out all the toys Connor had given me. Then I paced again. He’d used his belt on me, but never a paddle. I stroked the flat side, tentatively touched the wooden handle. It was in my thoughts to try the thing on myself, to see what the pain would feel like, when I heard Connor knock.

Feeling guilty for no reason, I hurried to the front door and let him in. He had flowers with him. And a crop.

Jesus.

He looked me over, head to toe, then nodded his approval. The flowers were left to die a slow death on the spangled Formica kitchen counter. There wasn’t even time for filling an empty wine bottle with water as a makeshift vase. Connor grabbed my wrist and led me back to my bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. I knew what to do. I understood his expressions now, could practically read his thoughts, but the crop kept me from coming forward. The way the tool leaned against the dresser made me want to run and hide. Not because I didn’t want to feel the sting on my skin, but because I was scared to death. I’d confessed all of my secrets to Connor, over our months together. I’d told him every little fucked-up daydream I’d ever had. I couldn’t hide from my truth, but I had a difficult time facing my fantasies head on.

“Get the paddle,” he said. My legs threatened to give out as I walked to the nightstand and gripped the new toy. “Over my legs, girl,” he hissed. “Now.”

I bent myself into the proper position, felt his warm hand lifting my tiny skirt, felt him watching me. He pressed the paddle against my panty-clad ass, letting me grow accustomed to the weight of it, before he landed the first blow. I sucked in my breath, but remained silent. The sensation was different from the belt, but not worse. He began spanking me more rapidly, pausing only to pull my black satin bikinis down my thighs, leaving them on me, but baring my ass. The pain intensified immediately, and tears wet my eyes, but I still didn’t cry out. I wasn’t trying to test him. This wasn’t a game. I didn’t know how to do what he wanted. Not without sounding phony. Not without being fake.

“What did you think about today?” he asked, taking a break to pull my panties off completely and then nudge me to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, to show me my scarlet rear cheeks. He held my skirt up for me, so I could see, and he grinned at his handiwork, clearly pleased with himself.

“This—“ I said. All day long I’d thought of Connor and his bag of toys.

“And this?” he queried, cupping my pussy with his hand and giving me a stern look, no sign of a smile now.

I wanted to melt into nothing. Disappear into a silver mist. Over one midnight confession, I’d asked him if he’d spank me…and then, unable to actually voice the request, I had simply put his hand over the front of my panties. “Spank me here…?”

For some inexplicable reason, I was always waiting for the moment when I’d go too far. When he’d give me a disgusted look and push me away. I didn’t realize that Connor’s own fantasies were darker than my own, went farther than I’d dare to dream.

He’d laughed, not mean, not cruel, but he’d laughed at me. As if it went without saying that he’d do what I asked. “Baby,” he said softly, “I have no problem punishing your pussy.”

Ah, fuck me—

Now, he carried me back to the bed, spread me out, and tied me to the frame like the bondage pro he was. He cut my skirt off, cut my T-shirt away, then ran his fingertips over the shaved skin of my pussy. I had only my thigh-high fishnets on now. Nothing to protect me.

“You know you’re a bad girl,” he said, “don’t you?”

I nodded, and then immediately whispered, “Yes, Connor.”

“And you know that tonight I’m going to make you scream.”

Tears started running down my cheeks. I was shivering all over, but I managed to say, “Yes, Connor.”

He reached for the suede flogger, and then he looked at me, fiercely, and said, “And you know you need this.”

I did. I knew it. I’d known that for years.

The flogger was light, a gentle caress at first. And then, in Connor’s hand, the toy began to sting, the many tails landing faster and harder on my tender skin. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. But it wasn’t until Connor dropped that soft, sweet flogger, replacing it with the very lip of his leather belt, again and again on my pussy, putting just the right amount of power behind the blows, that I finally started to give him what he wanted. I could hear the wetness as the leather connected, and I could feel the lake of juices under my ass, and I started to come.

“Open your eyes,” Connor insisted.

My eyelids flickered, fluttered, and he doubled the belt and landed a blow on my upper thighs that made me gasp.

“Don’t test me, girl,” he said, matter-of-fact, not a faux threat. “You obey when I give a command.”

He did what he said. He punished me between my legs as I came, crying out so loudly, repeating his name over and over like a mantra, knowing that it didn’t matter if he leaving.

Tonight—and tonight was forever—I was his.—Alison Tyler

Photography by the amazing Igor Amelkovich, on sale now and worth it.

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