Colette stands, her hands bound above her head, almost suspended from the pillar.
Her immaculate back offering itself as a target for my whip. A wide, thick, black
blindfold covers her eyes and holds back her blonde-brown hair. Underneath the blindfold,
she is deaf and blind; her ears are plugged with heavy duty ear plugs, the kind you use in
enclosed firing ranges, and on top of that, the blindfold is padded over them. She can see
nothing, and she will not perceive any sound to warn her of the lash about to strike her
unprotected flesh.
She knows what will happen; twenty lashes to her buttocks, followed by ten to her
breasts and ten more to her unprotected pussy; she shaved off her unruly bush today, to
prepare her most tender area to be whipped for the first time.
She knows what instruments will be used, she brought them here herself, on my
instructions. The long, single tail bullwhip for her back, the fine tip braided leather
crop for her breasts and pussy. Yet she stands, calm, unmoving. Her perfect, tanned, back
tapers to her waist and then flares to the beautiful, white globes of her ass. She shifts
her weight, uncomfortable on her tiptoes, first to one, then the other, perfectly shaped,
tanned, leg.
I hear her breathing, slow, even. I observe her perfect lips. I wish to touch her
delicate skin, before its beauty is marred by the cruel lash. I restrain myself. I know,
if I touch her, I shall have to kiss her skin, and once I do that, I shall not bring
myself to cut into it with the lash, or the crop.
Aside from her mask, she wears only the six inch stiletto sandals, tied at her calf
with a black silk ribbon. How her calves must be cramping, wearing those high heels,
suspended as she is, for already half an hour. I smell her. I would recognize her smell
anywhere. It is the smell of love, of surrender, marred only by the faint, acrid, tang of
fear. Her discipline is perfect. Not a whisper out of her luscious lips, not a shiver of
complaint. Even though, for the last half an hour, any moment could bring the start of her
torture, and her only warning would be that of the cut of the whip, burying itself on the
flesh of her back. What docility! What man can resist her?
She switches her weight once more, I swing the whip; it seems to move in slow
motion. I swear I see the lash hit the soft flesh of her buttocks and its thin strip of
leather bury itself in her softness. I see the ripples spreading out and hear the crack of
the impact. Most of all, I hear her scream, bloodcurdling, I see her head shake, her feet
trip, her body, suspended from her wrists, all of it in slow motion. Her screams ring in
my ears, as she struggles to her feet; she resumes her position, her buttocks thrust out.
Her pussy resting against the adjustable cattle prod; she cannot hear my voice, had her
buttocks not been presented properly as a target, the cattle prod on her pussy would
remind her, painfully, to correct her position. It is, as of now, unnecessary.
I hear her voice, “One.”
I take my time before striking again. I wait for the burn to subside, two minutes,
then a third, before striking again. She does not lose her footing this time, although she
screams again.
“Two.”
And I wait again before I hit, over and over. Disciplined, docile, she takes lash
after painful lash, until her buttocks are ruled; like the pages of this notebook, only
they are ruled in red; they are ruled in pain, they are ruled in agony.
“Ten.”
Her screams are shriller now, her voice agonized. She falls off her shoes again and
struggles to get up, her shoes slip on the floor, wet with her sweat. She struggles, she’s
got only one minute to resume position, her feet on the floor, her bottom thrust out, her
pussy pressed against the cattle prod. She does not know how much time she spent
floundering, she cannot see the clock on the wall. But I can.
One minute and thirty seconds.
She has regained her position and presses her pussy against the cattle prod. I see
the tension on her arms and legs, on her shoulders, on her whole body. She shakes in fear.
She knows. I have no choice. She cannot hear me, her ears are plugged.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I press the button.
Her body jumps back, her belly muscles spasming, hanging from her wrists, she folds
into a ball. I hear her cries, her whimpers, her uncontrollable moaning. It takes her a
long time to recover her control. To regain her feet, to, once again press her sensitive
mound against the insensitive, uncaring, cattle prod.
I let her breathe, “Eleven.”
She maintains her position, “Fifteen.”
She loses her position at nineteen, but regains it before I have to zap her.
“Twenty.”
I am so proud of her. Her ass is a mass of painful red welts, she does not
complain, not even a whimper. Her tears must soak her mask.
“Thank you,” She says.
She turns around. The tip of the cattle prod is against her anus now. As she
stands, her breasts are thrust out by her arms chained up and behind her, and her pussy
thrust forward by the prod. She waits. I change instruments.
Her face tilts back. I can only see her firm pink lips. I cannot see her eyes; the
two large, forest pools of green are hidden behind the black fabric. I can never get
enough of them. I get lost in their depths every day. I am glad that, today, they are
invisible. I must not think of her eyes looking at me. If I did, I wouldn’t strike her.
Her breasts await my crop. They are small, round, firm yet yielding. Her nipples
are small nubs on the two perfect, strawberry sized, areolas. They tremble only the
slightest, at the peak of each breath. I have the crop in my hand. It is made of braided
leather, tapering to a stiff, rigid, sharp tip. A steel wire provides stiffness. She
cannot see me, but she has seen the instrument. I must start.
It comes, fast, but I see it in slow motion, the crop cuts deep into the soft,
feminine skin of her breast. I see it enter, deep, into her flesh. I hear her outwordly
shriek, I see the splash of blood, I see the kick of her feet. I do not see her eyes. I
hear her screaming, but I do not see her eyes.
She struggles for a long time to regain her position, she knows. Regardless, she
presses her ass against the tip of the cattle prod. It’s been two minutes; she must know
that. I have been sobbing for the last one; that, she doesn’t know. She cannot hear me. I
press the button. Her body jumps, her legs flail, a screeching wail comes out of her
throat. Tears would come out of her eyes, if I could see them. She regains control and
resumes position, her breath comes in irregular sobs. She is crying. I wait.
“One.”
I strike again; I do not wait much this time. I want to get this over and done
with. I aim for the soft curve of her bosom, above the nipple. My eyes are full of tears;
I miss. Her animal scream leaves her hoarse; she breaks position, but only for a moment.
Her ass is again pressed against the prod, her thighs open, her sex exposed. The crop hit
right across her nipples, smack in the center of them. It again drew blood from the skin
of her breasts but the thicker skin of the nipple, bred to resist the suckling of a babe,
resisted the crop’s cut, did not split; the skin of the nipple, bred to respond to the
touch of the babe’s lips, or to a lover’s mouth, had to respond instead to the cruel slash
of a stiff crop.
“Two.”
I take my time. I do not want to miss it again. I know I shall have to strike again
at the nipple, eventually, just not now.
“Three.”
She no longer loses position with my strikes. She maintains her posture, docile,
exposed, defenseless.
“Seven.”
I can no longer delay it. Her breasts bleed from all the cuts, but the last two
ones must be in the nipple. I wish I could hold back but she’ll notice it if I do. She
must not. I wait, unable to bear what I must do. She waits, thinking, perhaps that I want
to prolong her agony. I take aim; I strike with all my strength.
She writhes in pain, her contortions are pitiful to behold, her desperate screams
torture my ears. She doesn’t even try to regain position. No, not for four minutes. When
she finally does, when she pushes her ass against the prod, when the prod touches the
sensitive tissues of her anus, she is shaking, like a leaf. She knows what must come and I
am powerless to prevent it. I hit the button.
It takes her even longer to recover. She resumes position, again, her anus against
the tip of the prod. She stands up, bleeding breasts exposed, pussy thrust out. She
speaks:
“Eight.”
She twists on her chains. Her legs curl and uncurl. Her hands make small, powerless
fists, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her throat cannot form the sounds of her pain.
It takes her three minutes to resume position and I must hit the button again. My tears
fall to the ground; I have no mask to soak them. She resumes position. There is pride in
her shoulders now; there is triumph in the curve of her bleeding breasts.
“Nine.”
She screams again, once, but holds position.
“Ten.”
She waits for my pleasure. My pleasure is to leave this room, to set her free, to
go far away, both of us. Her legs apart, her ass, deep against the prod, her undefended
pussy folds splay open, a little; enough that whatever protection the sensitive nub
received from them, is no more.
Again, it happens in slow motion. I see the crop burying itself in the folds of
flesh, beads of sweat and, perhaps, other moisture, splash. Her wail, long, sustained, her
thighs shaking; she resumes position, 55 seconds. She waits; I cannot tell her that she
won, that she will not get zapped again in her sensitive anus. After about a minute, she
dares believe.
“One.”
She only needs to get zapped once, after the fifth stroke.
“Ten.”
My tears are dry; there is, I hope, no trace of them on my somber face. I free her
wrists and remove her mask. She embraces me and stares into my eyes. I lose myself again
in her deep pools, in her deep green eyes. I kiss her lips; I take her into my arms.
We leave.
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