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To remove her bra without removing her blouse required an ingenious little trick most women can manage. She untucked her blouse and reached around to the back, unhooking the bra, then after unbuttoning two buttons at the front, she reached in and drew the bra straps out of her sleeves and looped them over her hands. Finally, she reached back inside and pulled out the brassiere.
The man observed, indifferent to her technique, and when she was finished, he said, “Now tuck in your shirt.”
She tucked the blouse back inside her skirt, giving it an extra tug so that her freed breasts would press against the thin fabric, deliberately showing the outline of her nipples, and as they hardened—which was almost instantly—how they made distinctive indentations in the smooth cloth.
He ran his hand across her chest with such delicacy that her entire body visibly quaked.
“You have nothing to be afraid of. I’ll do no worse by you than any other master you’ve bowed to. In fact, I imagine in the future you’ll remember this occasion fondly.”
Her nipples stood out now unmistakably, hardened nubs, their deep rosy color showing from underneath. He pinched them hard with unceasing force, letting the sensation shoot through her body in a river of pain.
She muffled her anguished gasp, afraid to make a sound.
He pinched the second nipple with the same effect, the same sharp, shooting pain rifling through her body.
“Someone’s trained you,” he said dryly.
An ever-present scowl on his face, he let go of the nipple and pushed her toward a crate, bending her over at the waist, allowing her torso to rest on the hard surface.
“Hang on to the other side,” he said. Then he lifted up her skirt to expose her naked rear. “Open your legs wider,” he said.
She opened them at least two feet apart, knowing that he could now clearly see the evidence of her arousal.
His hands were firm, clear in their purpose, as they aggressively massaged her privates. Nothing went unnoticed. Her pussy was breached by several probing fingers, while the man’s thumb slipped into her anus and began prodding it dry.
“You should grease yourself every morning after you give yourself an enema. It’s not a stated rule of the Marquis, but if you were my property, I would beat you if you didn’t and enter your pretty derriere dry. Trust me, no property forgets that rule a second time.”
The fingers probing her behind hurt, not an ounce of mercy offered as they thrust again and again up the dry channel. Her body clenched as the savage pain got worse.
“Ahhh, god,” she seethed under her breath, her fists clutched so tightly to the table that her knuckles turned white.
“Of course, I can assume you like being beaten,” he said.
He abruptly moved off toward the wall directly in front of her, where three implements of punishment hung in full view: a cane, a quirt and a leather lash. He chose the quirt.
“In another lifetime, de Sade and I drew lots to see who would first beat and bugger our pretty, young maids. We always preferred to go last, since a second beating is always the worst. Too bad that icon is not here now to send you on your way to hell. I’m afraid you’ll get just one beating today.”
There was no answer to his remarks that wouldn’t earn her some reproach, so she kept silent, while nursing the hope that he was simply toying with her mind. Yet his very words caused her belly to spasm with almost painful vigor. He had only to press his hand against her pubis and she’d climax.
Instead, however, his hand ran along the surface of her ass, contemplatively. “No marks?” He sounded surprised.
“It has been some time, sir.”
“I guess it has. And for you, too long. Properties need frequent and repeated beatings to keep them in place. I suspect you’ve been too long without a master.”
He backed off, then taking position behind her, he whipped the quirt’s cutting thongs against her bare ass. She came up howling. “Oh! God no! Pleeeeeeeeeze!”
The shopkeeper raged on her, grabbing her by the hair and shoving her head into the crate. “You come off the crate again, I’ll bind you to it and bring the hoodlums off the street to bugger your sweet ass. You think you can take a dozen, you just try that move again.”
The strikes came on in a quick cadence, each more painful than the blow before. It was hard to believe that two thin strips of leather could be so hurtful, so wounding, so capable of driving her nearly mad with pain. She writhed on the crate, keeping her chest glued to the surface, while muffling her moans by ducking her head.
And the pain didn’t cease when the shopkeeper dropped the quirt, and pulled up behind her, slathering her asshole with her pussy juices—copious by now—and shoving his erection into that back door. There was little finesse in his technique, but still that hammering erection made the sensation in her bloom, transformed from pain to endorphin-driven pleasure.
She cried now for the wonder of it. What remarkable, what horrible things these desires made her suffer. How would she survive Paris, if this was just the first of many?
“You bled a little,” the shopkeeper said, after he pulled out of her rectum. While she lay slumped against the crate, he moved around behind her, disappearing for a time she thought. She heard a toilet flush. Then the man returned. Her ass was suddenly stung with something cold. She smelled the alcohol as he rubbed it over her punished ass. “You’ll stay right here until the bleeding stops.” He dabbed a couple spots on her behind again. “Looks like that’s about it. Maybe a minute more.”
r /> He laid a hand on the small of her back, scant comfort in light of the pain he’d caused, but it did feel warm and grounded her back inside her body.
