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“Open your legs.”
Her lips purse together.
“There’s no fabric to protect your vagina, this time.” I show her the whip. “It’s going to sting.”
Everything flares—her eyes, her nostrils, her fingers—but she spreads her legs like an obedient girl.
“Bend your knees.”
Her eyes go even rounder. Her silence says no.
I drag the whip up the inside of her thigh. “If you follow instructions, I’ll keep my hands to myself. If I have to make you, my fingers will most definitely end up buried inside you.”
“You said you wouldn’t.”
“I said I wouldn’t stick my dick in you. However, I’m not opposed to using other things, such as my tongue.” I tap her thigh. “Bend.”
The threat of my tongue does the trick. She obeys reluctantly, stretching her pussy wide and almost giving me the view I want. Stepping between her legs, I enjoy that almost-view. I like to look at my most prized possessions, and her pretty cunt qualifies for both categories. Most prized, with the emphasis on possession.
The trimmed curls don’t hide much. Using the whip handle, I part those pink lips. I’m still to kiss them, but I know they will be soft under my teeth and musky in my mouth. I stretch her open to see her slit and the nub hidden between her folds. She’s no longer shooting daggers at me with her eyes. She’s got them fixed on the ceiling.
“Look at me,” I command. I want her to watch me while I study her. I want her to see me.
When she complies, I flay her open to the right, then the left, taking my time to imprint the image in my mind. Her inner labia unfold like a flower opening its petals to the night. She’s not a sunflower. She’s a night lily. It’s not in daylight that she thrives, but in the dark hours of the night.
She may not know it yet, but she’s my kind of crazy. We fit together like a pussy and a whip. I trace her slit with the handle as if I’m a scientist and she’s an experiment, but there’s nothing clinical about the hard-on in my pants. She’s biting her lip, embarrassed at my unabashed dissection of her arousal. Yes, there’s no end to my perverse gratification when the folds I’m so diligently inspecting start to glisten. They turn redder, more swollen.
Pressing the stick at the top of her slit, I pull up the skin to reveal the little hidden pearl. Her clit swells and throbs under my stare. I’ve seen everything when she was bent over my desk, but not from this angle. This is new. I have a feeling Lina will always be new.
The urge to touch her is severe. It’s real. It’s not a power game where only one of us gets to play with a whip. It’s a game where I’ll easily ejaculate from visual stimulation alone. Just because I like torturing myself, I flick the stick over her clit to test her reaction. She bites her lip harder. Her pussy clenches around nothing.
I drag the whip handle up and down over the nub. She whimpers, but it’s when I use a circular motion that her back lifts off the floor. All the while, I inspect the button that’s causing her to shiver with pleasure as if it’s a million dollar-painting I’m invested in buying.
“This is sick,” she whispers as she lies there with her legs spread and me probing and watching, learning what she likes.
I don’t care what she thinks. She belongs to me. I can do with her as I please. I earned the right. She deserves the consequences. As long as she comes, it’s not wrong. Not in my eyes. It’s not how she gets there. It’s that I get her there, even if I have to use paddles, whips, and her own fingers.
“Touch yourself.”
“What?” She looks at me as if I asked her to fuck the doorknob.
“You heard me.”
“No.”
“We’re going to work on your vocabulary.” I press the stick at the bottom of her slit, applying steady pressure but not enough to penetrate her. “I’ll give you a choice. You can fuck yourself here.” I move down to her asshole, teasing her rosebud entrance. “Or maybe you prefer here.” Lastly, I give her a soft smack on her clit. “Or here.”
She gasps, her shoulders lifting off the floor.
“Choose, Lina. Cunt, clit, or asshole.”
“I-I can’t.”
“In this house, no and I can’t aren’t part of your vocabulary.”
She’s so flustered, so wet. Red blotches mar her cheeks, and her pussy quivers. If I unfasten the ten little buttons of her bodice, will I find her nipples hard? It’s difficult to say with the thick fabric covering her. Where does she buy these ugly, old-fashioned dresses? I don’t know if she’s wet because I’m standing over her like a schoolteacher with an erection I’m not trying to hide, watching her getting wetter, or because I’m touching her in such a dirty way with an object designed to torture.
