Her Reward

Just a short fantasy – nobody under eighteen involved, of course.

She was naked but for her stiletto-heeled sandals, five-inch heels she had walked here in with difficulty, but obeying orders to the letter. She was only just supported by them, however, her long legs at full stretch, her arms suspended above head-height, cuffed to chains that dropped from the ceiling. Her ankles were encircled by more heavy cuffs, fastened to chains, anchored to the floor.

Looking around the room, she saw the sparse furnishings, one chair, one wooden table. Across the back of the chair, the black dress she had worn when she arrived, and which had been stripped from her. On the table was a tray, with various whips. That word, 'whip,' was capable of stinging all by itself.

She waited. Waited for her Master, who was about to come and give her his reward. Her reward. She knew she was due to a reward – she had been good, had always followed his instructions, had sucked his cock, swallowed his cum, let him fuck her in every way you can imagine. She had let him loan her to his friends, even his father, who fucked her brutally in the arsehole. And she dressed just how he wanted – never wore panties, and showing her tits off in public.

But now, she wanted her reward, and she could feel the kiss of the whip against her tender flesh in anticipation.

She heard his soft footfall on the stairs, and felt the moisture start to ooze in her cunt.

She knew the relationship between pain and pleasure – it wasn't as if she didn't – she had spent whole days with nipple-clamps secretly screwed down tight, giving her agony, had had her clitoris-hood pierced in the search for a new sensation – and been disappointed: it had only hurt fleetingly. She delighted in wearing the heels, as high as possible, and corsets so tight she could scarcely breathe. But the whip, that was what she craved! The anticipation of it hurt – physically hurt, she could feel its delicious sting, and the subsequent flow of her essential fluids as the very centre of her took up the rhythm of the whip.

He was coming! The door–handle turned, and her Master was in the room. His man-scent was all about her, as he walked around her, owning her, dominating her.

'Are you ready?'

'Yes, Master, she said.

'Then say so!'

'I'm ready, Master.'

'Not good enough. You must ask for the whip. I want to hear it.'

And she wanted to hear herself say it. 'Please whip me Master. Hurt me.' She didn't just want to be hurt, sheneededto be hurt. The very essence of her being cried out for the agony, the ecstasy of his terrible whip.

He walked around her, then picked up a leather horse-whip, and weighed it in his hand.

Without further delay, he sent it swishing audibly through the air, and there was a fearsome 'crack' as it landed across the small of her white, slender back. She took in a sharp breath, but didn't cry out, as a red line appeared on her lovely back.

Then 'crack' again and another red line appeared a little lower. He seemed quite expert in the way he wielded the whip, and this time she gasped as he struck her.

He took careful aim, as if unhappy not to find more reaction from his captive, and lashed her harder, only a fraction lower down. She moaned, a sharp little sound, something combining agony and ecstasy, and he went about his work again, now bringing up red welts on her delicate skin as he made his way down towards the roundness of her buttocks.

He had saved his strength for her softer flesh here, and flogged her with ferocity as he reached her magnificent arse. 'Oargh,' she cried, and he immediately dropped the whip and thrust his hand brutally into her slit. It was soaking.

'Enough?' he asked.

'No,' she said, and he took up the whip and lashed her twice more, giving her bright red welts across her upper thighs, and causing her to scream, the agony now subservient to the delicious orgasm that welled up within her, possessed her whole being,washer whole being.

He knew she could take no more, wanted no more, and took her down. She dressed and walked away from him – she thought perhaps she would never see him again, now that the score was even – and that it was, in some small way,shethat was dominant, really. What, after all, she reflected, was he, without her?