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“Have I not warned you not to contradict me? That merits another twenty lashes with the cat.”
Gayle whimpered. He teased her with the body of lashes, stroking them over her hot and swollen ass. Was he going to whip her there?
He lifted the hand holding her down. Oh, God, he was.
The cat smacked her ass, wrenching a cry from her. She couldn’t endure twenty of those. She couldn’t.
“Seventeen. Eighteen.” The cat smacked the other side of her ass, pulling another cry from her lips. “We never finished the first set.”
She moaned. She was going to die. Her entire body was on fire, rivers of flame coursing through her veins with every pulse, driven by the beating tempo of his strokes.
“Nineteen. Twenty.” He paused, and this time, it was the cessation of blows that made her give a pained cry of helpless need.
Rikard inhaled deeply, his shuddering breath hinting that he was growing as excited as she.
“Yes,” he whispered. “You begin to understand.”
The cat’s lashes landed on her shoulder blade, harder than the previous blows, and spreading further. The tips swept outward from her spine, then outward from her spine on the other side, as if Rikard was tracing giant figure eights. Sometimes harder, sometimes softer, sometimes faster and sometimes slower, he varied the whip’s caress so that she never knew what to expect. Then she stopped trying, and just allowed herself to feel.
Sting. Smack. Pain. Heat. Pleasure, thick and heady, coiling deep within. She began to grunt, low and guttural, with each blow.
Rikard paused, his gentle fingers stroking soft caresses over her ass, reminding her that she was still delightfully sensitive there.
“Do not grunt like a pig,” he admonished. “God gave you a voice. Use it. Sing for me.”
“I don’t understand.” She nearly cried, devastated that she might not be able to please him.
“Relax your throat. Open your mouth. Hold in your mind the sound of a perfect high C.”
The whip fell on her ass, and she released a high, shrill note of pain and pleasure.
“That was more like an E-flat. But much better.”
She was being ravished by a pirate with perfect pitch.
Then his whip landed on her shoulder blades, and she cried out in joy, careful to lower her tone a minor third. Again and again, the whip stroked her with flaming lashes, and she sang out in need and hunger.
She waited, trembling in anticipation, but the whip did not fall.
“That was twenty,” he said softly.
“No. Please. Don’t stop. I’m so close. Please. Don’t stop.”
“Are you begging?”
“Yes. Please. Whip me again. Please. I’m begging you.”
Rikard stroked her shoulders with trembling fingers, then smoothed her skin with his gloved palms. Gayle was certain that he molded her body anew out of sheets of living flame, holding her untouched in the center of the blaze.
“Please, Captain. Please. Let me come. Don’t stop.”
“I can refuse you nothing when you sing.”
The whip fell again, and she sang. Slowly, relentlessly, she climbed the scale, a quarter-step at a time like some strange Indian modulation. Each blow drove her higher, deeper into the heat and flames, surrounded by music that pulsed and rippled like nothing she’d ever heard before. Finally, with a long, drawn-out A above high C, she climaxed, shuddering and shaking as the orgasm thundered through her body like a surging series of arpeggios.
And then the music claimed her, and she was gone.
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