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I walk over to the racks of whips and consider my choices. Drawing out the moment. The terror will be building up inside her, swelling and swelling with nowhere to go.
I snatch a bullwhip from the rack. Lust vibrates through me as I stalk toward my conquered prey.
Her slim body draws taut like a bowstring, bracing herself for an explosion of pain. If only she knew…the physical punishment is just a warmup for the real torture that’s coming.
I slash her across the back with the bullwhip and am answered by a wail of pain that’s sweeter than any symphony.
“What was that?” I taunt. “I didn’t quite hear you. A little louder?” And I strike her so hard that her body bucks and convulses, and her scream is loud enough to shatter glass. The bullwhip flows like an extension of my arm, and with every strike, I can feel the snap of the leather cutting into her soft flesh as if it were my hand striking her.
This will leave scars. This will draw blood. I am tattooing myself onto her with every blow.
My arousal roars through me like an all-consuming bonfire, and I have to pace myself, holding back so I don’t cause permanent damage. My arm moves without direction from my brain. I’m mesmerized by the sight of the whip splaying across her fair white flesh, painting long lines of red from side to side, from top to bottom. The pop that the whip makes as it breaks the sound barrier, the snap of the leather, the sound of her screams…it’s a wonder I don’t come.
Her back is glowing red by the time I finish, and she’s moaning and sobbing.
I walk up behind her and trail my fingers over the livid red welts, and she jerks in pain.
“This is just the beginning,” I croon into her ear as I undo her cuffs. “You had it so good, baby. You’ll never have it so good again. You should have appreciated my kindness to you.”
“You wouldn’t know…” she gasps for air. “…wouldn’t know kindness if it…bit you in the ass…”
My fingers twist in her hair, wrenching a beautiful wail from her lips as I drag her over to a long, padded bench. She flails at me weakly as I strap her to it, face down, but she doesn’t have much fight left. At least not physically. Mentally she’s as tough as hell; she’s cursing me with all she’s got.
“Remember how much you love the cane, Tamara?” I taunt her.
“Go…” She gasps for breath. “Go swallow ground glass…Joshua Smith. You’re fucking useless. When you die, nobody will miss you.” Her voice is a trembling rasp. God, she’s amazing. I’m never letting her go. Never. She’s my sweet, brave warrior.
“I’ve got a different kind of cane here, and I’m going to go to work on your feet. This type of punishment is called bastinado. The soles of the feet are very sensitive. You know how much it hurts when you step on a sharp rock, barefoot? Well, that’s nothing on this. Think about having that soft skin slashed with a red-hot blade. And then multiply that times a thousand.”
She chokes on a sob. “You piece of…piece of shit, miserable head case…” She sucks in air, her whole body trembling. “Everybody hates you.”
That’s my girl.
I smile as I bring the cane down on her foot, smacking it against the sensitive flesh in the middle of her sole. She rewards me with an agonized shriek. I work my way up and down the bottom of her feet, and she jerks her legs madly against the straps. I’ve heard victims of bastinado describe the feeling as being like having their feet dunked in gasoline and then lit on fire. It’s not long before she’s begging. “No, please, no! Master, no, please, I’m sorry!”
It’s as if God designed human bodies just for me—with their delicate nerve endings and lightning-quick panic-messages to the brain. At times like this, the entire world seems to shrink beneath me. Human beings are tiny, doll-sized creatures that I can scoop up in one hand and manipulate as I wish. I can bend them and break them with sickening ease.
I ignore her pleas, snapping the cane with small, precise flicks of my wrist.
“Master, please, oh God, I can’t take it anymore!”
Oh yes she can. Nobody knows better than me exactly how much agony a person can endure before they succumb, and she has a long, long way to go.
“Oh, now I’m your master again?” I smack the soft, tender flesh of the middle of her foot again, and she screams to the heavens.
“You’re my master! I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!”
“You haven’t begun to understand the meaning of the word sorry.” I move back to the other foot and lay down a flurry of sharp, snapping blows.
“You’ll cripple me! Please! I’m sorry, Master, I’ll never— Ahhhhhh!” Her body is convulsing, her eyes huge and desperate. Her muscles are strung taut, twitching with each new slap.
After a few minutes of this, the soles of her feet are bright red from top to bottom. They’ll be bruised and swollen tomorrow.
When I’m satisfied that her feet are in flaming agony, I unstrap her and scoop her up in my arms. I carry her shuddering body over to the electrified floor plate. She’s shaking her head and desperately trying to rasp out pleas for mercy. She should know me better by now.
I hang her from the overhead chains. The musical sound of sobbing caresses my ears. I walk very slowly over to the switch on the wall, my eyes half closed, listening and enjoying. She’s not begging anymore; she’s just sagging there, whimpering and hopeless.
My hand rests on the switch, and I stare at her, fascinated. Her body is quivering and she’s hanging off the chains, trying to keep the weight off her horribly bruised soles.
