Far away, I could feel the sharp teeth penetrate my flesh. I saw my body jerk wildly, tugging at the handcuffs, trying to retreat. But Michael slipped a finger into the chain dangling from my balls and held my body in check. He watched my chest spasm and writhe, touched his fingers to the knotted muscles in my arms and belly. Then he attached the second clamp.

My body twisted so violently the cock chain snapped from Michael’s knuckle. I watched the body stumble to its knees, scramble up, and stagger blindly into one of the mirrors, crazy with pain.

Michael picked up the riding crop and walked with long slow strides to the crouching, trembling body. He raised the leather high above his head and slashed it across my shoulders.

My body jerked, spun, rolled away—staggered to its feet, tripped over my pants on the floor, rose desperately, ran blindly into a wall—turned and took a defensive stance, hiding its stinging shoulders against the wall. Tits clamped and cock hard. I couldn’t understand that, the way my cock stayed so stiff the whole time—not yet.

Michael followed slowly. He looked at the crop. Looked at my chest, muscles in high relief, tense with pain. He touched the crop to my cock. My body flinched. Michael squeezed his hard-on. Then he raised the crop and slashed it backhanded across my stomach. I saw my body double over and run, reeling with pain and confusion, trying to escape. Michael followed it patiently around the room, taking his time, stroking his thick white cock and wielding the crop. Like a hunter, exhausting his trapped game. Playing with me.

At last the pain-wracked body collapsed kneeling in the center of the room. Shoulders against the floor, heaving—ass thrust in the air.

Michael stood over the broken body. He slowly masturbated as he beat my ass with the crop, blow after blow, until the pale buns were red and blistered.

Michael discarded the crop, grabbed my body by the clamps, and forced it to stand. In the reflections I could see every mark—the long red stripes across my shoulders, the back of my legs, my stomach. My cock—a slave’s cock, rock hard after the beating, veins pulsing, dribbling from the tip. I suddenly knew why—the body craved it, but so did my head, watching, crazy with excitement at the spectacle. Two places at once. Masochistic victim, and sadistic observer of my own humiliation, wanting more.

Michael played with the clamps—twisted, pulled the hard flat muscles into sharp peaks, watched my body twitch and heave. He pulled the clamps off, one at a time, and tossed them away. He caressed my body, watching the skin writhe when his fingertips brushed over the tender stripes.

He cocked his head and flashed me a cryptic smile. “Good slave body. Takes it well. Ready for whatever’s next. Shall I fuck it?”