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Giggling nervously, Tessa pulled the tiny garment down and tossed it to the floor, leaving her cunt bare and vulnerable to his eyes.
“No more panties, Tessa,” he informed her.
“Never?”
“Never,” he confirmed, and he resumed his work, laying charcoal strokes vigorously across his sketchpad.
The exposed triangle of Tessa’s pussy moistened as she began to play, a layer of soft dew coating the neatly-groomed golden hair. As she watched Miles’ hand move across the blank sheet of paper, her fingers slipped between her plump labia, finding the center of her sex engorged with blood and sensitive. Using both hands she spread her pussy wide, two fingers gliding into the hole, another pressed at her anus below. Closing her eyes, her head fell back against a pillow, as she pushed rapidly toward a climax. The warm sunshine, Miles’ eyes, exposure, the naughty exhibition had her at an edge in minutes.
Miles could see her body agitation rise, “Don’t come yet,” his next command.
She opened her eyes to flirt, her mouth drawing itself into a sensuous pout, her eyes dancing with sexual invitation. But he gave no indication that he found the tease pleasing. Miles’ work was sacred, silent, serious seconds of studious activity. Did he enjoy the seduction, or not? He wouldn’t say.
Instants, strokes, a breath, release and she fell quite naturally over the edge…
“I think we need a break,” he said, to interrupt the miraculous end.
No! Her mind screamed otherwise, even as she jerked her playing hand away. “Sir, please,” she tried to counter him.
“No,” he snapped. He turned away from her and washed his smudged hands in a sink by the wall.
Rising from the bed, Tessa strolled to his side and pressed herself against him, one leg wrapping around him. “May I see the picture?” she asked.
Shaking himself free of her, ignoring her attempts to woo him to bed, he turned back to the easel, showing her the remarkable likeness of the slut—hands in her cunt, mouth exuding desire.
“This one’s finished,” he said, as he wiped his hand on a towel. “You are a nasty little tart,” he added.
She had to agree that he’d captured the essence of a sexual tease. “You plan to do another today?” she asked.
“Several,” he answered. “But I intend to punish you first.”
Her body reacted to the word as if an electrical current had just run up her back. “Punishing me? You’re fulfilling your promise of the other day?”
“I said I would.”
Her body fluttered, excitement and fear pouring through her in equal volume. The desire to flee and the desire to be consumed equal companions in her nervous form.
Yet, she didn’t have time to respond. Miles took her hand, leading her to a steamer trunk on the far side of the room. As he opened the lid, Tessa gazed in morbid fascination at an array of whips and paddles and leather thongs. There were chains and clamps and strange devices Tessa had never seen before. Miles removed the first tray of implements to reveal more beneath. Again there were whips and paddles of ruthless design. On top of them all was a collar with a leash attached, which she was sure was for her. Instead, Miles pulled a strange looking leather implement from the bottom of the trunk.
“This one,” he said, gripping the handle. Two-dozen soft leather strips, nearly eighteen inches long were bundled together, braided into a heavy handle. “It’s more mild than you might think,” he told her.
Tessa viewed the implement in silence.
Turning back to the trunk, Miles pulled out a second implement. “And this one,” he said. Tessa stared at the nasty thing, at the long, lean shaft that ended with a flexible tasseled end, she guessed a buggy whip.
“The thongs will warm your backside with a slow burning fire, but this will mark you.” Tessa shivered looking from the whip to Miles and back to the whip again. Lifelong fantasies surfaced in her imagination, thoughts of woodsheds, razor strops and bending over chairs to submit to punishment. Her anxiousness, desire and fear crescendoed.
“I’ve always dreamed of this,” she whispered her confession.
“I know,” he said, eyes seeming to rip deeply toward her soul.
She smiled self-consciously. Such a foolish thing to say—that she’d dreamed of being whipped. It was a wholly witless admission; but it was so true. Any protest was squelched without a prayer. Besides, protesting would be foolish with Miles’ intention was clear. Being whipped was unavoidable.
“To the podium,” he ordered her.
Tessa scrambled quickly toward the bed, waiting as Miles sauntered forward, both implements hanging from his left hand.
“Remove your blouse,” he ordered. On the surface he was calm; but his eyes gleamed with fire, a quickened passion fueling his purpose.
