BDSM | WHIPPING | CANING | ILLUSTRATED | KINKY SHORT
Her fingers curled around the handle of the crop, beneath its leather skin it felt firm and unyielding. She placed her thumbs along the shaft and forced it to bend, just a little. It formed an elegant curve as she tested its strength.
She imagined it hissing down, moving with such speed and force that the friction of the air caused it to flex. Then, at the bottom of the arc, contact with the anxiously waiting flesh, the abrupt stop causing the shaft to curve in the opposite direction, melding itself onto the round contours of the obediently bared behind.
If the submissive was new, untested, there would be a shriek as their mind registered the stinging pain surging through their body, every muscle spasming as if they had just touched an electric fence. But if they were well trained, then maybe just a hiss, the sound of a sharp intake of breath passing through clenched teeth as they waited for their passion to build.
She saw, in her mind, the flesh rippling away from the impact as the crop withdrew, arcing back upwards, slower this time, until it paused at its peak before descending again, ploughing a second furrow next to the reddening stripe of the first. Then again, and again, the stripes appearing as if a farmer was working conscientiously across a virgin field.
She smiled to herself, the submissive’s passion would be beginning to fill her mind, for in her daydreams the submissive was always the female. The impacts would send blood coursing between legs, swelling lips whilst juices flowed, silvering them like a ripe fruit sliced open.
They would long for a touch. Open willingly to accept any penetration, no matter how hard and how forceful, as long as it meant being possessed totally. Magnified by the feelings generated by the crop the sensation would cause an explosion, scattering the mind into a thousand sparkling stars as it was released from its physical bounds.
“What are you doing?” The voice was gentle, almost quiet but there was a firm note in the tone that questioned her obedience.
“I . . .” she felt passion rising within her so violently it almost seemed to be choking her; preventing her from uttering the words.
“Place your hands on the dressing table.”
She put the crop down gently, almost reverentially as if it was a sacred object she was resting on an altar; which in a way it was, the altar where her passions flowed through her, overwhelming her, consuming her more than any religion ever could.
She bent forward, her palms flattening against the solid, smooth, wooden surface. She felt the skin tighten across her behind as her muscles tensed and her nerves sparked into life with anticipation.
Looking down she saw, between the long strands of her blonde hair, in the very periphery of her vision, a muscular hand grasp the handle of the crop and lift it from her view.
The crop hissed down burning into the taught skin of her cheeks and the familiar pain surged through her igniting her dreams.
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