F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

He stood and calmly surveyed his work. Stacie was sure her wracked nudity must appear bizarre, grotesque, a caricature of her normal loveliness, but how well delivered to the whip!

“Why should I not whip you, lady?”

There was no satisfying answer, of course! Stacie did her best. “I’m in agony now. Isn’t this enough?”

“You do not scream.”

“I’m trying hard not to.”

“I give help.” The lash snaked out and wrapped itself around her totally offered thigh.

Yousef listened judicially to Stacie’s screams with the same grave attention a wine taster gives his vintages. Thoughtfully he sought for better effect, his whip snapped and curled its twin wound on her other side. She now had two flaming circlets of fire to prompt her choice. Yousef listened attentively to her pealing cries, he was a connoisseur.

“Don’t hit me again, Yousef. Oh please . . . ! Do something else . . . anything, but not the whip.”

“An iron heated in the fire perhaps?” he asked solicitously.

“Please, don’t whip me, I can’t stand it.”

“Little lady has no choice.”

“On my back then . . . whip my back.”

Yousef made a gesture of contempt. “A girl’s back, pouf! It is as nothing, you would laugh.”

“No, no, no! Please, Yousef, my back! I’ll scream. Don’t hit me down there again . . . oh please!”

“Right up through cunt, pretty lady. Yousef most clever.” A third party might have appreciated the skill. Stacie could not. Her whole world exploded as the leather bit up at her from below, kept Yousef’s promise, and spent itself within the cleft of her bottom. She could not scream fast or loud enough to voice not only her agony but also her outraged anger that any girl should have to bear such punishment in such a place. Yousef nodded in deep approval. Here was a girl worthy of him, already his erection was demanding. He looked longingly at Stacie’s strained breasts. How lovely they were! What satisfaction a man would have in whipping them! What noises would the charming child make as they bounced beneath his tong! But they were proscribed . . . ! He sighed contentedly enough, sooner or later all things came to the man who held the whip. He had thought he had lost this one, but here she was screaming her head off. He knew himself a lucky man.

“I will not whip your back, pretty lady.”

“My bottom then. Won’t that satisfy you?”

He laughed at her earnestness. “Your bottom is split, lady, you have two halves: one cheek at a time perhaps?”

Stacie moaned. He was laughing at her. She was tied so tightly she could not even twitch. He could whip her to death. “Oh yes, yes please . . . do it as you said.” It would be better to be whipped there than have her loins sliced to shreds.

“Pretty lady ask Yousef to punish.”

Stacie was desperate. She threw her head from side to side and gazed hopelessly up the slender taut arms by which she was held. She was pitiably unable to move, if Yousef wished to whip her in strange ways she was wonderfully stretched for his purpose. Somehow she must try and divert his interest, hating herself she tried the age old bribe. “Yousef, don’t whip me. I’ll be very nice to you.”

“You do not bargain, lady. Yousef fucks you or whips you as it pleases him. You now be much whip.”

She moaned with the hopelessness of her plight. Her screams pealed out afresh as a new stroke bit at the junction of hip and thigh and lapped over one cheek of her bottom with a cruel thunk. Yousef laughed his pleasure.

It was frightening to be so totally robbed of response. Her legs and arms were pulled out and tied so that not even a flinch or a quiver could result from the cuts as they fell upon her skin. She was as the inanimate metal placed upon the anvil beneath the pounding hammer of the smith . .

The man who was whipping her was an artist. She knew he would now match the last lash by a similar infliction over her other hip. He would mark her beautifully and geometrically. She tried to close her eyes but could not. There was an element of disbelief she must appease by watching Yousef draw back his arm and measure distance, his target was herself. The long lash snapped and scored her scaldingly in the precise spot she had known it would. She lost herself in screams which Yousef drank in with hungry ears and eyes.

“You are very beautiful, lady,” he said after a long time. It was a simple tribute to a loveliness he was uniquely equipped to judge.

“No more . . .” Stacie shook her head slowly in negation. “No more . . .”

“All girls being whipped say that, lady,” he laughed reminiscently, “and offer to fuck: always they do that. They think most valuable their slit inside their hair. Last girl I whip she offer her little arse too: as though I could not take it when I wish.”

Smilingly tolerant of feminine weakness the torturer circled her tractioned nudity with one arm and with his other hand cupped the sexuality within her pubic hair, he plied his palm and fingers thoughtfully as on familiar ground. Stacie gasped at the unexpected attention.

“All girls like this while being whipped.”

Stacie could believe it. Even though her vulva was swollen and sore from the vicious cut of Yousef’s whip the respite of this half amorous fondling was welcome, anything was better than the continued sibilance and cracking impact of the lash. She closed her eyes, she could think of nothing suitable to say, she hoped her panting gasps were enough. He would always milk a girl of her pride, it was part of his trade. “Are you not grateful?” he insinuated.

“Oh yes Yousef, you’re wonderful. Thank you.”

He inserted a blunt finger. “Can make scream this way too.”

Stacie was sure he could. She increased the tempo of her moans, only part of them were simulated.

Suddenly it stopped. Yousef backed away laughing at her flushed and bewildered face. “Now I whip your cunt again.” He was totally omnipotent, every part of her was his to hurt.

“No! Love me . . . love me! Don’t whip me there again.” How silly it sounded! Trite, childish, demeaning. The words had formed themselves. She looked at her torturer in wide eyed appeal. “Don’t whip me there . . .”

He whipped her there, not once but twice, glorying in his power and her panicked screams. Stacie believed herself split open by the impacting thong, yet even at her peak of agony she could not move, nor twitch nor shrink so tightly was she bound. Looking down across her breasts she saw her flesh drenched with the sweat of torment.

This time when he cupped his hand across her pubes she screamed in genuine hurt. He had whipped the labia skilfully so that, for the moment, they welcomed nothing male. But the naked girl ground her teeth determinedly against protest, if he would play with her there it was still far, far better than fresh new cuts upon her skin. Yousef’s whip was a greater enemy than his hand. No matter how pathetic a weapon her femaleness might be she must use it to the full. She moaned in what she hoped he would hear as pleasure.

“Thank you, Yousef.”

“You are most pretty lady, such fine screams.”

The captive gasped and moaned in the bizarre blend of emotions his busy hand generated in her youthful flesh. Yousef the Torturer was too old a hand to be deceived or influenced by feminine wiles or female agony, but she could try. Without ceasing her vocal acknowledgements of his skills, and at the expense of pain, she leaned forward enough to enable her to kiss the bare skin of his shoulder. She made her lips linger and breathed hotly on the wetness made by her mouth. “Please, Yousef My Master, whip my bottom, save me elsewhere,” Stacie Blair made her voice soft with love, she too had skills!