Dominant on the Dusty Naga Trail part 5
ow the pendulum had swung back with crushing force.
Clementine got on all fours and leaned in close, her face inches from his, her eyes dancing with wicked delight.
"You’re mine now, baby," she whispered, pressing the tip of her nose against his, rubbing it playfully. Her breath was hot against his lips.
“One point. That’s all it took to own you."
She pulled back slightly, trailing a finger down his chest, letting it linger over his heart.
"But first," she said, her tone shifting from gloating to administrative, "we can't forget the rules of the game. Prairie had the second-lowest score. That means she has to pay up too."
Prairie rolled her eyes, but a smirk played on her lips.
"Fine by me. Less clothes for me means more distraction for him."
She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. The hook clicked open, but she didn't let the straps fall immediately. Instead, she moved her hands to her shoulders, hooking her thumbs under the straps. Prairie locked eyes with Christopher, holding his gaze as she began to slide the left strap down, agonizingly slow. The fabric peeled away from her skin, revealing the tan line underneath.
She repeated the process with the right strap, taking her time, drawing out the anticipation. Praire knew what was coming for Christopher, and she seemed to relish being the appetizer before the main course. The leopard-print fabric loosened, hanging precariously from her breasts. She bit her lip, teasing him, letting the silence stretch until it was taut as a bowstring.
Finally, Prairie let the garment drop. It slid down her arms and pooled on the floor at her feet. Her breasts were bare, pale and soft in the dim light, her nipples hardening as the air hit them. She stood there, unashamed, letting him look his fill.
"There," Prairie said, kicking the bra aside toward the pile of discarded clothes. "Now we can get to the real fun."
Clementine, still on all fours, crawled over to where Christopher‘s clothes had been piled and picked up his belt. She stood up, folded in half and then cracked it. The snap made him flinch, which she along with prairie reveled in.
“Pin him down, Prairie!“ Clementine exclaimed. Her friend didn’t hesitate, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him to his feet. She took two steps sideways, so he wouldn’t be laying in the cards and then push him to his knees and then flat on the ground. Prairie finished by sliding both of her legs under his arms and tightening them so he couldn’t escape, while her butt press down on his shoulders.
Clementine walked towards her prize, step-by-step, stepping over his legs and then bending down so that her knees and calves were pressed against his. And she tightened her limb so that he could not break his free.
“I’m gonna fuck your ass up! If you thought my hand hurt, this pretty build of yours it’s gonna feel like I’m hitting your ass with a flaming torch over and over and over again! You’ll feel the burn deep inside your glutes, honey!” She taunted him. Christopher shiver at her words, which neither Prairie nor Clementine missed car and both of them greatly enjoyed.
“Whip his cute little ass, good and hard, Clementine, just like you said you would! Don’t you worry, this handsome boy toys is not going anywhere!“ Prairie assured her friend.
Clementine gave Prairie a sharp nod—gratitude and wicked gleam rolled into one—before raising the folded belt high above her head. Her fingers tightened around the tip, ensuring the leather would bite deeper upon impact. Christopher barely had time to tense before the first lash came down diagonally across his bare ass with a crack that echoed off the hut’s walls. His body jerked violently against Prairie’s hold, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat before it shattered into a ragged scream.
She wasn’t lying. The belt was *so much worse*. The pain didn’t just sting—it *seared*, like a branding iron pressed into flesh. Before he could even process the first strike, Clementine swung again, crossing the first welt in a perfect X. This time, the sound that ripped out of him was something between a gurgle and a howl, his fingers clawing at the wool-carpeted floor as Prairie’s thighs clamped tighter around his arms.
Clementine didn’t pause. Her strikes came rapid-fire, each lash fueled by her entire body—shoulders rolling forward, hips twisting, every muscle channeled into the flick of her wrist. By the fifth strike, Christopher’s vision blurred with tears. By the eighth, his voice had gone hoarse. And at the tenth—just as the welts began to darken from pink to an angry crimson—his resolve snapped.
"Stop—*please*—I can’t—" he choked out, his forehead pressed to the floor, sweat dripping onto the woven rug beneath him. His voice was raw, broken. "I thought I could take it—*fuck*—it’s like my skin’s *burning*—"
Prairie turning around to pat his head, sadistically grinning at him, and said, “Nice job begging baby! You’re not putting on a tough-guy act like most other guys would!" she cooed.”
“You’re right Prairie, he’s not,” Clementine added, also giving him a cruel smirk.
“He’s a real guy, it’s bad that there aren’t more people like him. This world is overflowing with fake guys and gals.”
As soon as she was done talking, Clementine resumed belting his ass, having only paused because she knew the danger of continuing a beating if she wasn’t looking at the target area; she didn’t want to accidentally hit him in the leg legs or hip bone, which would be even more painful than getting hit on the butt. She continued to torturing his bottom for a long time, only stopping because her arm was tired and she was sweating and exhaling heavily. By then she had whacked his backside, an incredible 600 times or 600 seconds, or 10 minutes. Christopher had lost all the energy to yell or wriggle during the final minute or two of the whipping, only slightly flinching as the belt continued to thrash his buttocks and letting out little whimpers each time it struck.
Prairie crouched low, her dark eyes scanning the deep violet welts crisscrossing Christopher’s ass like a grotesque latticework. She whistled through her teeth, shaking her head in something between awe and dark amusement. "Damn, sister," she muttered, reaching out with tentative fingers—only to jerk her hand back instantly, shaking it in the air like she’d touched a hot stove. "Jesus fuck, Clem! His ass looks like a fucking plum—all purple and swollen. And that *heat*—" She pressed her palm to her own thigh, testing the residual burn. "Feels like dipping my hand in a fresh pot of chai."
Clementine, still panting from exertion, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and crouched beside Prairie. She pressed the back of her hand against Christopher’s ravaged skin, yanking it away with a hiss. "Shit, you’re right," she admitted, grinning despite herself. "I *thoroughly* baked his biscuits, didn’t I?" She poked one particularly angry welt, watching Christopher flinch. "Might’ve overdone it. Poor baby might actually need to eat standing up for a month."
Prairie snorted, but her expression softened as she watched Christopher’s tear-streaked face press into the rug, his breath hitching in ragged little hiccups. Without a word, she hooked her hands under his armpits while Clementine grabbed his waist. Together, they hauled him upright, his legs wobbling like a newborn giraffe’s. Prairie steadied him, cupping his jaw to force his glassy-eyed gaze up. "Hey. Look at me," she murmured, thumbing away a tear. "You did *good*, Christopher. Took it like a champ."
Clementine leaned in from the side, her lips brushing his temple. "Don’t you worry, cutie pie," she cooed, her voice a startling contrast to the fury of moments ago. "I messed up your adorable ass, and now I’m gonna fix it." She slung his arm over her shoulder, nodding for Prairie to do the same on his other side. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him out of the mission hut, hissing in sympathy whenever he stumbled.
Outside, the late afternoon sun painted the baobab’s bark in gold. Clementine guided Christopher facedown over her horse’s saddle, hissing when he groaned at the pressure on his battered skin.
“Almost done, baby," she promised, digging into her saddlebag. Prairie mirrored her, pulling a familiar bottle from her own pack.
Christopher blinked blearily at the items—Clementine’s jar of eucalyptus-olive oil hair grease, Prairie’s lemon-aloe vera gel bottle—and let out a weak, disbelieving laugh.
"You… brought *gel* and *hair grease* ?" he croaked.
Prairie smirked, unscrewing her bottle’s cap with a theatrical flourish. "We came prepared," she said, squeezing a dollop onto her palm. The sharp citrus scent cut through the dusty air.
"Always."
"We believe in aftercare," Clementine said simply, opening her own scooping out a glob of the herbal-scented balm.
"Hurting you is fun. *Healing* you is intimate. Praire and I might be sadists, but we’re also nurturers. care is a big part of the intimacy and trust that’s crucial in BDSM, for us anyway. The two of us are loving mistresses, not degrading or demeaning or humanizing ones. We could never act that way, not even to a masochist who wanted it.”
Her fingers, warm from the sun-warmed grease, ghosted over the worst welt first—a raised, plum-dark stripe crossing his left cheek. Christopher tensed, then exhaled sharply as the grease’s soothing heat seeped into the abused skin. Clementine worked methodically, her thumbs circling outward from the center of each welt, dispersing the balm until it vanished into his pores. Beneath her touch, his muscles quivered like a spooked horse’s flank.
Prairie didn’t wait for permission. The moment Clementine withdrew, she slapped a cold glob of aloe directly onto the small of his back. Christopher yelped, his spine arching involuntarily as the gel’s icy shock clashed with lingering heat.
“Breathe, bunny,” Prairie murmured, spreading the gel downward with deliberate, flat-palmed strokes. Her nails—filed blunt—dug in just enough to knead the inflamed tissue without reopening wounds.
They fell into an unspoken rhythm: Clementine targeting the deeper bruises with her thicker salve, Prairie following with cooling relief. The only sounds were Christopher’s hitched breaths and the slick slide of their hands. Once, when Prairie’s thumb brushed the crease where ass met thigh, he groaned—a ragged, involuntary noise that made both girls exchange glances over his prone form. Clementine smirked; Prairie bit her lip.
The two girls did not stop rubbing his ass until their jar and bottle respectively were both completely empty. Clementine made sure that only a thin film of grease remained in the jar, while Prairie made sure that no more gel came out of the bottle when she squeezed, banged the bottom of, or tapped the top of it into her palm.
“Your butt’s like a washed plum,” Praire mused, tracing a welt that had faded to lavender.
“All shiny and ripe.”
Clementine just patted his left cheek—once, twice—earning a flinch and a muffled whimper.
“There we go,” she crooned.
"Thanks ladies," Christopher murmured, his voice still raw from the earlier torment.
"My butt feels so much better now."
The girls exchanged a glance—one of those wordless communications perfected over years of friendship—before answering in unison: "You're welcome." Prairie reached up, gripping his waist, while Clementine grabbed his thighs, and together they slid him off the horse with practiced ease. Christopher landed with a slight stagger, his legs still shaky from the ordeal, but steadied himself.
He exhaled slowly, then looked at them with an expression that was equal parts exhaustion and curiosity.
"What do you think," he began, wiping sweat from his brow, "about the idea that everybody’s racist, sexist, classist—whatever—because we’re constantly bombarded with stereotypes? That we should try to be actively *anti* those things, you know? Acknowledge our own bullshit before we spread it." His voice was hoarse but earnest, like he’d been holding onto this question for a while.
Clementine’s lips curled into a slow, approving smirk.
"Oh, *absolutely*," she said, her tone losing its usual teasing edge.
“You don’t grow up in a world this fucked up and come out spotless. Prairie and I *know* we’ve got blind spots—we just try not to let them steer."
Prairie nodded, picking up the thread effortlessly.
“Like, yeah, we’ve dealt with misogyny that could choke a horse. But that doesn’t mean we don’t catch ourselves judging some guy for liking ‘girly’ shit before our brains catch up. Difference is, we *notice* it now."
Christopher exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "That’s—" He swallowed, voice rough. "That’s exactly what I mean. You *get* it."
Prairie reached out, ruffling his sweat-damp hair. "Course we do, bunny." Her grin turned wicked as she added, "Now let's see if you still think we're 'nice girls' after we get you back inside." Clementine winked, taking his hand to steady him as they guided him toward the hut.
Christopher limped slightly, the ghost of the belt's kiss still lingering on his skin despite the balms. The girls flanked him, their earlier dominance softened into something warmer—firm hands guiding rather than restraining. Inside the dim hut, his clothes lay where they'd been discarded. Prairie scooped up his boxers, shaking them out with a theatrical flourish before kneeling to help him step into them.
"Rabbit parade, coming through," she teased, but her fingers were gentle as she tugged the fabric up his thighs.
Clementine handed him his trousers, her knuckles brushing his hipbone as she buckled his belt for him.
“There."
She patted the leather strap, now harmless around his waist.
"All put back together."
Praire, meanwhile, had gone to get his shirt and told him once she returned with it, “lift your arms up.”
He obeyed and she slid the fabric down his arms around his neck and down his chest and stomach.
“Good as new!”
Clementine got on all fours and leaned in close, her face inches from his, her eyes dancing with wicked delight.
"You’re mine now, baby," she whispered, pressing the tip of her nose against his, rubbing it playfully. Her breath was hot against his lips.
“One point. That’s all it took to own you."
She pulled back slightly, trailing a finger down his chest, letting it linger over his heart.
"But first," she said, her tone shifting from gloating to administrative, "we can't forget the rules of the game. Prairie had the second-lowest score. That means she has to pay up too."
Prairie rolled her eyes, but a smirk played on her lips.
"Fine by me. Less clothes for me means more distraction for him."
She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. The hook clicked open, but she didn't let the straps fall immediately. Instead, she moved her hands to her shoulders, hooking her thumbs under the straps. Prairie locked eyes with Christopher, holding his gaze as she began to slide the left strap down, agonizingly slow. The fabric peeled away from her skin, revealing the tan line underneath.
She repeated the process with the right strap, taking her time, drawing out the anticipation. Praire knew what was coming for Christopher, and she seemed to relish being the appetizer before the main course. The leopard-print fabric loosened, hanging precariously from her breasts. She bit her lip, teasing him, letting the silence stretch until it was taut as a bowstring.
Finally, Prairie let the garment drop. It slid down her arms and pooled on the floor at her feet. Her breasts were bare, pale and soft in the dim light, her nipples hardening as the air hit them. She stood there, unashamed, letting him look his fill.
"There," Prairie said, kicking the bra aside toward the pile of discarded clothes. "Now we can get to the real fun."
Clementine, still on all fours, crawled over to where Christopher‘s clothes had been piled and picked up his belt. She stood up, folded in half and then cracked it. The snap made him flinch, which she along with prairie reveled in.
“Pin him down, Prairie!“ Clementine exclaimed. Her friend didn’t hesitate, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him to his feet. She took two steps sideways, so he wouldn’t be laying in the cards and then push him to his knees and then flat on the ground. Prairie finished by sliding both of her legs under his arms and tightening them so he couldn’t escape, while her butt press down on his shoulders.
Clementine walked towards her prize, step-by-step, stepping over his legs and then bending down so that her knees and calves were pressed against his. And she tightened her limb so that he could not break his free.
“I’m gonna fuck your ass up! If you thought my hand hurt, this pretty build of yours it’s gonna feel like I’m hitting your ass with a flaming torch over and over and over again! You’ll feel the burn deep inside your glutes, honey!” She taunted him. Christopher shiver at her words, which neither Prairie nor Clementine missed car and both of them greatly enjoyed.
“Whip his cute little ass, good and hard, Clementine, just like you said you would! Don’t you worry, this handsome boy toys is not going anywhere!“ Prairie assured her friend.
Clementine gave Prairie a sharp nod—gratitude and wicked gleam rolled into one—before raising the folded belt high above her head. Her fingers tightened around the tip, ensuring the leather would bite deeper upon impact. Christopher barely had time to tense before the first lash came down diagonally across his bare ass with a crack that echoed off the hut’s walls. His body jerked violently against Prairie’s hold, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat before it shattered into a ragged scream.
She wasn’t lying. The belt was *so much worse*. The pain didn’t just sting—it *seared*, like a branding iron pressed into flesh. Before he could even process the first strike, Clementine swung again, crossing the first welt in a perfect X. This time, the sound that ripped out of him was something between a gurgle and a howl, his fingers clawing at the wool-carpeted floor as Prairie’s thighs clamped tighter around his arms.
Clementine didn’t pause. Her strikes came rapid-fire, each lash fueled by her entire body—shoulders rolling forward, hips twisting, every muscle channeled into the flick of her wrist. By the fifth strike, Christopher’s vision blurred with tears. By the eighth, his voice had gone hoarse. And at the tenth—just as the welts began to darken from pink to an angry crimson—his resolve snapped.
"Stop—*please*—I can’t—" he choked out, his forehead pressed to the floor, sweat dripping onto the woven rug beneath him. His voice was raw, broken. "I thought I could take it—*fuck*—it’s like my skin’s *burning*—"
Prairie turning around to pat his head, sadistically grinning at him, and said, “Nice job begging baby! You’re not putting on a tough-guy act like most other guys would!" she cooed.”
“You’re right Prairie, he’s not,” Clementine added, also giving him a cruel smirk.
“He’s a real guy, it’s bad that there aren’t more people like him. This world is overflowing with fake guys and gals.”
As soon as she was done talking, Clementine resumed belting his ass, having only paused because she knew the danger of continuing a beating if she wasn’t looking at the target area; she didn’t want to accidentally hit him in the leg legs or hip bone, which would be even more painful than getting hit on the butt. She continued to torturing his bottom for a long time, only stopping because her arm was tired and she was sweating and exhaling heavily. By then she had whacked his backside, an incredible 600 times or 600 seconds, or 10 minutes. Christopher had lost all the energy to yell or wriggle during the final minute or two of the whipping, only slightly flinching as the belt continued to thrash his buttocks and letting out little whimpers each time it struck.
Prairie crouched low, her dark eyes scanning the deep violet welts crisscrossing Christopher’s ass like a grotesque latticework. She whistled through her teeth, shaking her head in something between awe and dark amusement. "Damn, sister," she muttered, reaching out with tentative fingers—only to jerk her hand back instantly, shaking it in the air like she’d touched a hot stove. "Jesus fuck, Clem! His ass looks like a fucking plum—all purple and swollen. And that *heat*—" She pressed her palm to her own thigh, testing the residual burn. "Feels like dipping my hand in a fresh pot of chai."
Clementine, still panting from exertion, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and crouched beside Prairie. She pressed the back of her hand against Christopher’s ravaged skin, yanking it away with a hiss. "Shit, you’re right," she admitted, grinning despite herself. "I *thoroughly* baked his biscuits, didn’t I?" She poked one particularly angry welt, watching Christopher flinch. "Might’ve overdone it. Poor baby might actually need to eat standing up for a month."
Prairie snorted, but her expression softened as she watched Christopher’s tear-streaked face press into the rug, his breath hitching in ragged little hiccups. Without a word, she hooked her hands under his armpits while Clementine grabbed his waist. Together, they hauled him upright, his legs wobbling like a newborn giraffe’s. Prairie steadied him, cupping his jaw to force his glassy-eyed gaze up. "Hey. Look at me," she murmured, thumbing away a tear. "You did *good*, Christopher. Took it like a champ."
Clementine leaned in from the side, her lips brushing his temple. "Don’t you worry, cutie pie," she cooed, her voice a startling contrast to the fury of moments ago. "I messed up your adorable ass, and now I’m gonna fix it." She slung his arm over her shoulder, nodding for Prairie to do the same on his other side. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him out of the mission hut, hissing in sympathy whenever he stumbled.
Outside, the late afternoon sun painted the baobab’s bark in gold. Clementine guided Christopher facedown over her horse’s saddle, hissing when he groaned at the pressure on his battered skin.
“Almost done, baby," she promised, digging into her saddlebag. Prairie mirrored her, pulling a familiar bottle from her own pack.
Christopher blinked blearily at the items—Clementine’s jar of eucalyptus-olive oil hair grease, Prairie’s lemon-aloe vera gel bottle—and let out a weak, disbelieving laugh.
"You… brought *gel* and *hair grease* ?" he croaked.
Prairie smirked, unscrewing her bottle’s cap with a theatrical flourish. "We came prepared," she said, squeezing a dollop onto her palm. The sharp citrus scent cut through the dusty air.
"Always."
"We believe in aftercare," Clementine said simply, opening her own scooping out a glob of the herbal-scented balm.
"Hurting you is fun. *Healing* you is intimate. Praire and I might be sadists, but we’re also nurturers. care is a big part of the intimacy and trust that’s crucial in BDSM, for us anyway. The two of us are loving mistresses, not degrading or demeaning or humanizing ones. We could never act that way, not even to a masochist who wanted it.”
Her fingers, warm from the sun-warmed grease, ghosted over the worst welt first—a raised, plum-dark stripe crossing his left cheek. Christopher tensed, then exhaled sharply as the grease’s soothing heat seeped into the abused skin. Clementine worked methodically, her thumbs circling outward from the center of each welt, dispersing the balm until it vanished into his pores. Beneath her touch, his muscles quivered like a spooked horse’s flank.
Prairie didn’t wait for permission. The moment Clementine withdrew, she slapped a cold glob of aloe directly onto the small of his back. Christopher yelped, his spine arching involuntarily as the gel’s icy shock clashed with lingering heat.
“Breathe, bunny,” Prairie murmured, spreading the gel downward with deliberate, flat-palmed strokes. Her nails—filed blunt—dug in just enough to knead the inflamed tissue without reopening wounds.
They fell into an unspoken rhythm: Clementine targeting the deeper bruises with her thicker salve, Prairie following with cooling relief. The only sounds were Christopher’s hitched breaths and the slick slide of their hands. Once, when Prairie’s thumb brushed the crease where ass met thigh, he groaned—a ragged, involuntary noise that made both girls exchange glances over his prone form. Clementine smirked; Prairie bit her lip.
The two girls did not stop rubbing his ass until their jar and bottle respectively were both completely empty. Clementine made sure that only a thin film of grease remained in the jar, while Prairie made sure that no more gel came out of the bottle when she squeezed, banged the bottom of, or tapped the top of it into her palm.
“Your butt’s like a washed plum,” Praire mused, tracing a welt that had faded to lavender.
“All shiny and ripe.”
Clementine just patted his left cheek—once, twice—earning a flinch and a muffled whimper.
“There we go,” she crooned.
"Thanks ladies," Christopher murmured, his voice still raw from the earlier torment.
"My butt feels so much better now."
The girls exchanged a glance—one of those wordless communications perfected over years of friendship—before answering in unison: "You're welcome." Prairie reached up, gripping his waist, while Clementine grabbed his thighs, and together they slid him off the horse with practiced ease. Christopher landed with a slight stagger, his legs still shaky from the ordeal, but steadied himself.
He exhaled slowly, then looked at them with an expression that was equal parts exhaustion and curiosity.
"What do you think," he began, wiping sweat from his brow, "about the idea that everybody’s racist, sexist, classist—whatever—because we’re constantly bombarded with stereotypes? That we should try to be actively *anti* those things, you know? Acknowledge our own bullshit before we spread it." His voice was hoarse but earnest, like he’d been holding onto this question for a while.
Clementine’s lips curled into a slow, approving smirk.
"Oh, *absolutely*," she said, her tone losing its usual teasing edge.
“You don’t grow up in a world this fucked up and come out spotless. Prairie and I *know* we’ve got blind spots—we just try not to let them steer."
Prairie nodded, picking up the thread effortlessly.
“Like, yeah, we’ve dealt with misogyny that could choke a horse. But that doesn’t mean we don’t catch ourselves judging some guy for liking ‘girly’ shit before our brains catch up. Difference is, we *notice* it now."
Christopher exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "That’s—" He swallowed, voice rough. "That’s exactly what I mean. You *get* it."
Prairie reached out, ruffling his sweat-damp hair. "Course we do, bunny." Her grin turned wicked as she added, "Now let's see if you still think we're 'nice girls' after we get you back inside." Clementine winked, taking his hand to steady him as they guided him toward the hut.
Christopher limped slightly, the ghost of the belt's kiss still lingering on his skin despite the balms. The girls flanked him, their earlier dominance softened into something warmer—firm hands guiding rather than restraining. Inside the dim hut, his clothes lay where they'd been discarded. Prairie scooped up his boxers, shaking them out with a theatrical flourish before kneeling to help him step into them.
"Rabbit parade, coming through," she teased, but her fingers were gentle as she tugged the fabric up his thighs.
Clementine handed him his trousers, her knuckles brushing his hipbone as she buckled his belt for him.
“There."
She patted the leather strap, now harmless around his waist.
"All put back together."
Praire, meanwhile, had gone to get his shirt and told him once she returned with it, “lift your arms up.”
He obeyed and she slid the fabric down his arms around his neck and down his chest and stomach.
“Good as new!”
31-35, M