Chapter One
My Beautiful Girl
“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in her ear. She clings to the tall, decaying trunk of a
dead aspen, where once in a long ago summer, small green leaves quaked, shivering in the
airy mountain breeze. She shivers in a similar way, a tremor that starts at the top of her
mop-like hair and travels through her firm, naked flesh, becoming more than subtle as it
passes through her rounded bare behind. The flesh there is opulent; it’s natural color a
pearly hue, sometimes a blush of pink, occasionally bluish when she shivers from the cold.
At this moment, however, the color of that rounded, quaking ass has deepened to an angry
red. She has been beaten. Even now, as he whispers in her ear as tenderly as a lover
would, she feels the hot fire of punishment on her skin. It warms her body and will
eventually soothe her spirit in the same way his simple words soothe her.
She sighs, expelling a cleansing breath of air as the pain in her body begins to
dwindle.
“Our days are numbered, just a handful remain,” he tells her. “We have to relish every
second.”
“No, sir, you’ll not go.”
“I have no choice, my darling.”
“But without you…” she starts, her voice full of urgency.
“Hush,” he stops her. “Without me you’ll remain who you are, guided by those who come
after me. They will take you on a different journey, but they will love you, too.”
“How can you say that, when you don’t know?” she looks up pleadingly, whispering her
objection. “When you won’t be here?” Tears form in the corner of her eyes,
threateningly—no different from any other day for the last six months of his illness.
“No crying, love,” he softly reprimands. “The end will be on us quickly enough.” She
sees the pain in his eyes and how the bright bold color of dominion fades a little more
each day. He walks with a cane now, though he still has the fresh exterior of a young and
robust man. And for the moment he is with her, feeling the wildness of her sexual spirit
unleashed by his brutal whip, he is more alive than in his grave.
“The day will come when my tears won’t stop,” she says, with a degree of haughty
self-assurance she rarely shows—though it is essential to her make-up, essential for the
life she leads. Will, determination and self-control are replete in her complicated
personality, just as her desire to suffer, to surrender, to please, and to be this man’s
humble slave forever have defined her.
Sadly, there will be no ‘forever’ for these two.
When he touches her flaming ass with the palm of his hand, the paradox she lives and
breathes each day nags at her again. Her master is cruel, a proud sadist in love with the
act of beating her, turning her skin into ribbons of red wounds, and watching her writhe
under the weight of his floggers and the sting of his whips. Even the way he binds her
causes pain, as her wrists are wrapped with thick sisal, which cuts into her tender skin
the more she struggles at the whipping post. The cruel elements of nature collide with her
this day, as a sharp wind castigates her tormented flesh. She has no idea which sensation
to feel as so many batter her body.
Now that the whipping has ended, the paradox begins in earnest. Her lover, her master,
discards his pompous cruelty in favor of genteel kindness. He kisses her ear, massages her
wounded ass, and takes the steamy heat pouring from her crotch and turns it into a
climactic surge of orgasmic bliss. She whimpers as she begins to come on his loving hand.
She caws and mews. Her body bucks against the post, scratching her pure white breasts on
the splintered wood. Yet, she doesn’t care anymore with this climax crashing through her
like an angry tiger crashing through the jungle. Her head thrashes back and forth and her
lips part as her cries fly aloft like seagulls into the air. Her eyes have brightened into
an eerie glow. Then for several seconds, they roll back into their sockets as the ecstasy
takes her deeper. Her master’s hand, lodged purposefully between her legs, is flooded by
her wetness, bathed in her juices. He holds his fingers to her lips and makes her lick
them clean. She cannot resist his touch, disobey or disappoint him.
He’s pleased. “Such a good girl you are. Such a survivor.”
He talks this way a lot these days… how she is a survivor of her life and every fate
that has tried to slap her down. Fate brought her to him. Now fate will take him away from
her, but she will remain intact, able to go on being the woman she has become. He is
preparing her for his end and her new beginning.
When he removes her from the whipping post, she falls to her knees in the mud—a product
of last night’s rain across the valley. He snaps the collar and leash around her neck and
leads her to a fallen tree, which becomes their makeshift bed. Tying her—arms stretched
above her head, her legs wide open—with her wounded backside against the scratchy bark,
the pain in her shoulders and ass returns. But he cares little about her comfort; a
chameleon to the very end, his sadistic, self-serving desire returns. He straddles the
tree trunk between her open thighs and removes his thick erection from his pants. Impaling
her in one swift thrust, he begins his last vigorous taking of the slut he’s created. She
cries again, and grunts like a common whore, as he stabs her cunt repeatedly. Then she
comes one more time as her master takes his pleasure. For an angry, despondent man this is
the only joy he knows now. He will savor it to the finish, until the last burst of
excitement, the last trickle, the last gasp, the last spasm finally quits his body, and he
is done.
“Thank you,” he silently whispers as he peers into her hooded gaze.
She stares back at him, forever haunted, forever wounded by his love.
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