He's bound to the hook in the ceiling. His hands are tied in front of him, wrapped together at chest height. His legs stand just far enough apart to give him balance. He is naked, the room is dark and behind him somewhere footsteps tap gently on the wooden floor.
The whip moves back and forth like a cat's tail, pushing a breeze across his skin. His chest heaves with slow, deep breaths as he waits. The whip moves closer. Now the tip brushes his bottom cheeks, bringing it's sting. He gasps as the strokes weave across his cheeks. The whip moves faster. He moans. The whip makes no noise, but as each stripe appears they both know a fire is building in his skin.
"Please," he whispers, "please." The strokes land harder. The rhythms changes. Now the lash bites into one cheek or the other. The blows come more slowly, but they burn all the worse. "Please," he moans again. The whip answers; a searing stroke across both cheeks. He lowers his head as the tears come...
1 comment:
we share the same dream mistress. but from different vantage points.
I cannot wait to be naked before you, again. To feel the white hot fire of the whip. To sing for you, my song of pain.
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