The Camel Whip

Let me tell you about a very precious possession of mine. It is a gift that a dear friend brought to me once from the Middle-East. I am very fond of it and use it only for very special persons and occasions.

It is a luxurious leather camel whip. It must be worth a fortune. The large grip is made of wood, carved and painted in a beautiful pattern with all kinds of Arabic figures and symbols. It is decorated with leather. The end of the whip is about half a meter long and made of loosely braided black leather. It is broad at the beginning and thinner at the end. The tip is a little leaf of black leather that causes a violent 'clapping' sound.

I have trained myself to use it well. I can imagine a hit can be pretty painful but I have learned to control the whip and use it in a very gentle way.

Imagine yourself lying face-down on a bed. You have to be really comfortable and relaxed. No cuffs or blindfold this time, you should be full aware of everything that happens. Maybe I should massage your shoulders and neck first to get all your muscles relaxed, run my fingers all over your back and butt. You should be totally naked. The room is warm and nice, the music soft and relaxing. My voice is gentle and friendly and makes you feel really at ease.

There we go. I take out the whip and show its beautiful shape to you. I let you touch the smooth, flexible black leather. I run the whip all over your back and your butt, just to let you become familiar with the material.

The first hit on your left buttock sets your skin on fire. You feel the leather leaves a red stream on your skin but it doesn't hurt. The tip of the whip stings like hell. 'Thank you Master’, you say to me, to indicate that you want me to go on. At anytime you can use our safe word and I will stop immediately.

I continue to hit you with regular strokes, with intervals of five seconds, so nothing comes unexpected. I hit a little harder right now, but am very careful not to hurt you. There are red streams all over your butt. After every three strokes I rub your buttocks to alleviate the burning feeling. I hear you moan but I know it's from pleasure, not pain. You are allowed to scream loud if you want, cry if you feel like it, just to let all your emotions run free.

Your arousal will trigger mine. Giving my lovely sex slave a sweet punishment, to have complete control over your pleasure, makes me very hot. My cock gets rock-hard as I continue to hit you.

When I have hit you 24 times, I stop. I let you rest, tell you to close your eyes and control your breath, relax. The skin of your buttocks is burning red, bruised and damaged. It makes me very horny and can't resist touching you. Again I run the leather all over your body, ask you to part your legs while you still lie face down, eyes closed. Carefully I slide the braided leather between your legs, rub it between the buttocks, over your asshole, then lower, softly towards your pussy, pushing lightly to open your lips... I notice you are very wet, which makes me even hungrier.

On my command you raise your body, rest on your knees and hands, your pussy all hot and available for me. Before I enter you I put the end of the whip around your neck and hold it loosely, like a leather collar. Then my cock thrusts deeply inside you. I fuck you with long deep strokes, slowly first, then faster, losing control, working to an explosive orgasm...

After I have shot my hot cum inside you, I lie next to you. We are both panting, and look at each other smiling. Then I show you the last secret of the precious whip. With one quick movement of my hand I open the grip and show you what's inside: a long metal pick with a sharp, deadly point.

I see the sudden despair in your eyes but it’s too late. I am on top of you and hold you down by the neck, your face buried deep in the pillows to muffle your screams. You start to struggle when you feel the sharp steel point on your skin, but it’s no use, I am just too strong.

Slowly I carve my message on your naked back. When I am done, you have calmed down and just lie there, sobbing. I lean back and watch the fruits of my work. There it is, in bloody red letters:

W
O
L
F

You’re Mine, darling. It says so.