Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
The sound of the first lash is the sweetest, the finest strand of perfect leather burning a line into her skin. Blemishing it. Interrupting all that perfect beauty.
But her gasp, it’s sweeter still.
Her body rocks forward, and she catches herself, hands on the floor in front of her. The dress slides lower down her arms, to her waist, the cups of her bra at the tops of her hard nipples.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. I wonder what I look like to her. Huge as I stand over her, makeshift whip in my hand, cock hard as steel pressing against my pants, my body coiled tight.
The skin around her dark eyes is red from crying. Her mouth is a small O, but she can’t be surprised.
I gesture for her to get back into position. She does, bowing her head slightly, hands small balls on her thighs, her body more tense than mine.
The second lash lines up perfectly beneath the first and this time, when her body jerks forward, she cries out, like the stroke pushed the air from her lungs.
I watch that line of red, thin and angry, striping even the backs of her arms, at the crease of her armpit.
I should make her raise her arms up, whip the underside.
Another time.
Another lash, and she’s on her hands and knees.
“How many?” she pants. Sweat beads on her forehead.
“Back in position.” I may do the bottoms of her feet yet.
“I wasn’t going to go on the train,” she tries again.
“This isn’t about the train.” It’s not and it is. It’s about everything. It’s to punish her for disobeying, for taking the money I’d left behind, for failing my test, for proving me right.
But it’s also about submission. It’s about her being the Willow Girl. My Willow Girl.
My fist tightens around the cord. “Back in position. Now.”
She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes and this time, when she’s back in position, her hands are closed around her thighs, her knuckles white, shoulders tense. She squeezes her eyes shut when I ready my arm.
This stroke is harder. She lets out a scream, and I curse the fact that we’re here in this hotel, that I have to have the television on. That I can’t hear her scream break perfect silence.
I lash her again and again and again, until I count ten lines, not a single one crossing the other, each laid perfectly, neatly, obediently, beneath the last. Helena’s leaning on one arm, half on her hands and knees, breathing hard, trying to keep her position, failing, yet too proud to beg for mercy.
I swallow, adjust the crotch of my pants. Her eyes follow the movement and rage fills them.
Fuck, but I like her like this.
“You’re getting off on this,” she accuses.
“Not yet, but I will.”
“You’re a dirty, sick bastard.”
I snort. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. She’s as dirty as I am. “Put your hand inside your panties.”
She searches my eyes, gives a panicked shake of her head.
“Do it. Put your hand inside your panties and rub your clit.”
“No.”
With one quick flick of my wrist, I lash the bottoms of her feet. She gasps and squeals at once and instinctively reaches back to cover them.
I crouch down, grip a handful of hair, tug. “I said put your hand inside your panties and rub your clit.”
She does it slowly, neck craned at an awkward angle, eyes locked on mine. I watch her face, see her fingers work in my periphery.
“Are you wet?” I ask, fisting my hand in her hair.
“I hate you.”
“But are you wet?” I lean closer, inhaling deeply. “Because I can smell you.” I reach the whip hand into her panties, and from between her fingers, rub inside her folds. I smile. “You’re as dirty as me, Helena,” I say, dragging my hand out, an inch of the leather wet.
I stand back up.
Her eyes follow my movement in the mirror. She’s still rubbing her pussy. I raise my arm and lay the lash across her back. She grunts, but rubs harder, her eyes on mine as I do it again and again and again.
Until the whole of her back is marked.
Perfect in a different way now.
Until I can’t stand it anymore and I grip her arm, the one that’s rubbing her pussy, and raise her to her feet.
She keeps rubbing, and I know she’s close. I should whip her to orgasm, but I can’t wait. I press her to the mirror, her breath fogging it instantly, and shove her panties down. She’s still rubbing, and the wet sounds of her pussy make me harder.
I push my pants and briefs down and lift her dress and bend my knees to get under her, the leather still coiled around my fist when I lift her off her feet and impale her on my cock.