Harris’s hand lashed out like a viper, striking much harder this time, a good swing
that connected with the roundness of her ass with a hard, meaty smack.
“Ow! Ow, oh Jesus…God, Sir…”
“Was that good for you, slut?”
“Yes…oh God, yes, Sir!”
Harris nodded approvingly at the fading red stripes his fingers had left on Janet’s
creamy skin. “Damn, look at those marks. I barely touch you, and your skin reddens up.
I could brand you without even lighting a fire.”
The mention of branding was calculated, and immediately had its desired effect;
Janet went weak in the knees, shuddering and barely able to stand. She was a pervy little
bitch, Janet. Fantasies of being branded, of being physically tortured rather than just
teased and spanked, made her light-headed with excitement. It was a useful tool for those
moments, like now, when Harris wanted to take her over the edge.
She had many tattoos—on her shoulders, her back and belly, her thighs and the tops
of her feet; only her ass remained immaculate, a blank canvas for Harris’s lessons. Most
of the tats dated from before their meeting, but not all of them. Harris had been there
to witness her more recent sessions with the needle: the brightly-colored angel’s wings
that decorated her shoulder-blades, the arcane symbols that spelled out SLAVE in antique
languages, the flaming, chain-wrapped rose. Most were discreetly placed so they would be
hidden by the professional clothing she wore for her typist’s job. Those tats were for
Harris’s eyes only, he’d told her, not for the gaping assholes she worked for.
The pain of the tattooing always drove her to near ecstasy, gasping and writhing as
she was marked. He had to be careful of the tattoo-artists they frequented; he needed
them to be professional, unmoved by the sex-show she put on for them. This had led to a
process of exclusion that ensured the art she wore was of the finest quality.
But she always craved more pain…
| 
