Thanks go, as always, to Ang the Sweltering Celt (although she may be a Shivering Celt lately) for the weekly inspiration.
She stands spread proudly as an eagle, cuffed wrist and ankle to the St Andrew’s cross set up for display in the middle of the room. She is naked but for a pair of leather stiletto boots laced so high they’re nearly kissing her pussy lips. She keeps her eyes on me as I circle her, shifting uncomfortably when I’m behind her, in her blind spot. I can see a muscle in her side twitch every time the handle of the whip taps my palm.
She’s scared. She’s ready.
The survey of my prey is finished. She is a fine specimen. Her breasts stand, high and firm, unmarred on her chest. Nipples jut forth defiantly, silver bars catching and toying with the flickering light of candles on shelves around the room.
I smile. My arm rises then strikes out, wrist flicking. The tail of the whip cracks and she flinches, lips parting, a cry escaping followed by a hissing intake of breath between bared, clenched teeth. The stripe appears, diagonal over her right nipple, a badge of honor. Her eyes glance down, take in, then raise back to mine. The corners are crinkled and the pupils shine, matching the quirked corner of her mouth.
She has served so well, and has earned her stripes many times over.