“Slut,” he said, and brought the whip down harder. “Turned on by being tied and beaten.” He whipped her with even, steady strokes, a thousand pinpricks caressing her, a million razor-sharp kisses, and she arched her back and was ashamed of how wet it made her.

He stopped, stepped toward her, and placed his hand between her legs. “You do like this.”

She whimpered and felt she would explode if he moved his hand.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I think these can come off now.” He pulled her panties down to her knees. “Spread your legs,” he said, and she did. “You’re to keep these at your knees; don’t let them drop. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He took a step back, and she could hear him sit on the bed.

“You look lovely tied up, your legs spread and your ass red.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then he sighed.

“You’re going to require much discipline, I see.”

She could hear him get up, then the trunk again. “Discipline and deportment.”

She ground the balls of her feet into the rug and tried to slow her breathing.

“What does one normally say when one is given a compliment?” he asked

“Thank you … Sir,” she mumbled.

He stepped toward her. “Yes; one says thank you.” He pressed something harder than the soft leather of the whip into her back and ran it over her behind and down to her panties, which she realized she had let drop to the floor.

“I thought I told you to keep these where they were.” He tickled her ankle with the object. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and whimpered. She knew whatever he had in his hand was going to hurt more than the whip.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “it’s just a crop.” He held it on her naked skin. “A different sensation.” He put his hand on the small of her back and whispered in her ear, “I’m going to give you five strokes; do you think you can take five strokes?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

“Good girl.” He ran his hand through her hair, pressed his thumb into her mouth, and before she could kiss or suck or taste, he brought the crop down in quick succession, five searing strokes that made her cry out. The pain after was almost worse than the strokes. It burned and pulsed, and she stood up on her tiptoes and gripped the iron. Still, she could feel her body craving more, could feel the almost instant rush of need.

“Good girl,” he said and stroked her hair, “good, good girl.”

She pushed her head into his chest and half wished it was over and half wished he would never stop.