In The Room

"Pain. The deal is your pain for my pleasure. Is that clear?"

The naked girl kneeling on the carpet nodded slowly, never lifting her eyes from the floor. She needed to serve, to give, and if her pain was required, so it would be given.

She remained kneeling, mute, as her Mistress's hands slid over her shoulders, down her breasts to home in on her erect nipples. She remained mute as they were pinched between thumb and forefinger, then crying out as they were twisted and pinched.

"Tender little titties are they? Delicate little things? Well let's see how tough they are shall we? Will you do that for me, give me your tits as a present?"

The other nodded, blinking away the traces of tears that were already gathering.

"Well offer them to me then. That's right, stick them so that I can get at them.."

The slap of the whip, six tails of soft black leather; the soft sounds of pain, sob and cry, mingled in the still air of the shuttered room. The kneeling one raised her head, chin lifted by the handle of the whip. Spot lighting caught the diamond tears welling.

"That was a taster, a morsel to whet my desires: have you more to give me?" The old, deep hunger was welling up in her; breathing slow and deep she felt alive, her skin sang. Bending low over the offering before her she drank in the aroma of fear and of pain, tasted the air, moistened her lips, bloody with intent.

The silent one was held by her Mistress's eyes, but betrayed by her own hands that pushed forward her tender gifts. Her Mistress pointed with the whip to a floor cushion, rich blue velvet, draped with pure white cords. A jewel cushion, to display a rare gem. Once seated she would be giving herself utterly.

Seated she was, and a fine display. Bound, still kneeling, thigh to ankle and wrist to thigh, her breasts harnessed by virgin cords, gleaming against the dulling red of the flesh. She looked straight ahead: she looked up at her Mistress and her body opened to let forth its offering.

No hurried slashings or dull beatings, but each stroke measured to make the pain sing. Left and right, downstroke and up, painting her with an even coat of fire. Her moans became cries and her tears coursed freely.

"Lean back, tip your head back." Her Mistress's voice was becoming shaky and ragged.

Through the haze of tears she saw the broad strap: she felt her Mistress's hand on her stomach and her muscles knotted. Her tears congealed and set into iron, she threw back her head and thrust herself screaming into the stroke. Doubled up and then offering herself wildly again.

Her Mistress lunged over, body taut, engorged with power; her nails dug into the bruised flesh and their howling mingled as she forced the open screaming mouth onto her own aching body in a shattering crescendo.

The Mistress lying drained and sated on the bed looked heavily at the figure, still bound and jerking spasmodically on the velvet cushion.

"That was a good gift, thank you...."

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RRW

 

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