His

He had taken her to the bedroom and asked her to strip, and now she stood in front of him, naked except for her black lace stockings and black heels.

He took a length of black rope from the dresser and swiftly bound her wrists. It would leave red imprints with the time. Something she loved about it.

“Lay down on the bed, on your stomach. Get yourself comfortable” he said with a smirk. After all, they both knew the next couple hours wouldn’t be solely about pleasure. Not hers, necessarily, anyway.

He prepared his implements, laying them out in behind her, taking his time. She couldn’t help but try and catch a glimpse of them and he caught her twice, the second time promising her a punishment should there be a third time. She kept her eyes straight, looking ahead at the base of the wall in front of her.

She hated not knowing what he had chosen but it aroused her at the same time, that mix of fear and anticipation. Heaven and hell.

He started lightly, on her back side, with one of his canes, warming her up. Then harder, making her moan. Then a few hard blows, perfectly aimed and perfectly balanced out. She already groaned and found it difficult to stay still.

He moved from her butt to her sitting spot, the top of her thighs, her calves and the top of her back, that area around the shoulder blade where even much more gentle strikes hurt rather badly because of the lack of body fat.

She openly cried, sobbing into the bedding by the time he switched to the leather strap, gasping when it hit her in a certain pattern, always a row of six to eight hard slaps, then a break in which he grabbed and massaged her red skin. Hard. She closed her eyes, loving that more pleasurable, but deep pain.

He always caressed her skin in between the different implements, asking her if she was all right. She knew she could trust him and just let go.

It was another of his canes that made her finally squirm with the pain and turn to her side, to avoid the blow. He pushed her back into position and told her that if she didn’t stay still, he’d tie her down next time so she wouldn’t be able to move at all. She fought harder not to move.

When he started to use the short leather whips on her, she was little more but tears, wails, and curses. The pain flared up sharply initially but then lingered, going deep. Skillfully and determined, he worked her body, unimpressed by her cries and tears but still making sure that she was ok regularly.

And it was ok. She was ok, more than that. She was His and she knew it. She could also feel her own wetness. As could he a little while later, when he put down the whip and reached between her legs from in behind. Sinking his fingers deeply inside…

 

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