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Miles doffed his suit jacket and hung it carefully on a hanger first and then on a coat tree beside his desk. Serena hadn’t noticed before there was a Natuzzi leather recliner behind his desk also. He retrieved a remote control from the chair arm and pointed it at the wall. Miraculously, it was suddenly a movie screen, and the image of Serena’s shimmering, naked body projected ten feet tall behind him in living color.
She laughed with glee and posed for the camera. She cupped her round, full breasts, pale as ivory, and then circled her apricot nipples with her fingers. She held her hair atop her head, admiring herself playfully, before she let her tresses fall in a fiery cascade about her hips. She pouted her luscious lips like Jane Russell, the sexy siren bombshell.
“Sit down.” Miles pointed to the recliner.
She obeyed without a word. Serena sat primly on the seat with her legs crossed demurely. She folded her arms over her chest to cover herself like a proper lady.
“Arms down.”
She complied.
“Legs open.”
She smiled wickedly, then opened her knees wide, slinging each of her long, shapely legs over an arm of the chair.
Miles unbuttoned his starched dress shirt and loosened his tie. He rolled up the crisp white sleeves to his elbows, then removed his tie completely. He draped it across Serena’s eyes, then tied it tightly behind her head so she was completely blindfolded. She breathed in raggedly with excitement.
“Give me your hands,” he ordered.
She held her wrists together before her. He bound them tightly with the silk scarf that had been in the breast pocket of his suit.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
He pulled them tighter.
The pain stung and she almost cried out but caught herself just in time.
Someone knelt before her, placing his hands on her knees and his face tantalizingly close to her pussy.
“Ah, I love the smell of pussy in the evening.” Caleb’s voice was muffled from between her thighs. “Smells like...victory!”
“Ha!” She hooted with laughter, her sense of humor overriding everything for just a moment. Immediately she regretted it and bit her lips shut.
Caleb pressed on her thighs as he stood before her, making a repeated ‘tsk’ sound while he rose. He placed an object in her hands, allowing her to feel it as much as she could with her wrists bound.
“Do you know what this is?”
She nodded. Even blindfolded she recognized it as a martinet—a small, multi-tailed whip made of leather with a short wooden handle. It was a French-inspired instrument of pain. Like Napoleon Bonaparte, it was a small but brutal device, although the flogger was reportedly used much earlier by Louis the Fourteenth, the Sun King and, of course, Juan Martinet, after whom it was named.
“Then since you seem to love my jokes so much, I have a little game we can play.” Caleb snatched the whip from her hands. “We’re going to try to make you laugh, and every time you do, you get one lash.”
Serena squirmed at the thought of receiving a lash from that unforgiving whip.
“He’s the funny one,” Miles admitted, “so I’ll make it easy for you and go first. What do you call a hippie’s wife?
Silence.
“Mississippi.”
Miles burst out laughing at his own joke, but all Serena had to hold back was a groan. If all they had to offer was dad jokes, she was confident she’d be safe from the whip.
“What did the mansplainer say when he fell into a pond?” Caleb asked.
“What?” Miles replied brightly on Serena’s behalf.
“‘It was a well, actually…’”
