Chapter 4: The punishment

When Parker whips me however, there is no one to enjoy it. He definitely does not. I know that he does not get erect during a session. Mr. Marshall is not there either, and neither is Paul. I have asked Paul if he sees the sessions, or if they are taped and he said no. He does know what happens in them, although, when he sends me, he does not know if Mr. Marshall will use me or not. It is so frustrating. If at least Paul could see me being whipped, it would at least count for something. I strangle a sob. I lift my eyes and Parker stands in front of me.

In his hands, the whip.

Oh my God! It is been a long time since he's used the whip. Hanging from the beam, spread eagled, I tremble, and I start crying. I cannot contain my tears. The anticipation, the fear, the tension of these past few days, since Paul told me "You have an appointment with Mr. Marshall on Thursday" have caught up with me, on seeing the whip.

I am to be whipped mercilessly, until all of my body is covered with red stripes. And for what? No one who cares is here to see my pain; no one will see me struggle. Not even Paul, who is away for a meeting. By the time he comes back, all the marks will be gone. I cry and cry. Parker lets me cry without interruption until only intermittent sobs shake my frame. He has his first and only nice, spontaneous gesture to me. He brings some Kleenex and puts them to my nose. With his help, still spread-eagled, I manage to blow my nose. I try to smile at him.

"Thanks" I whisper.

He moves behind me. I can no longer see him. He waits for my signal. He will not start until I ask him to. The cruelty of this is incredible. For every phase of my torture, for every area of my body that is to be whipped, I must ask for it; to make me a willing accomplice, no, an instigator, of the torture that will fall upon me. I can barely speak, but I must; otherwise I may hang here until the morning. I gather whatever willpower I can muster.

"Please whip my back" I hear myself say.

The bullwhip cracks. It hits just below my neck, across my shoulders. The tip flicks the side of my right armpit. It hurts like hell. I scream. He waits as the pain rises in a crescendo, peaks, and starts to subside. Crack! A second slash, just below the previous one, and a scream, heart rending. Again a pause, and a third stroke, and a fourth, and a fifth. I scream for the lash, and cry between lashes. He works his way down my back; as he reaches my waist, I swear to myself, for the hundredth time, that I will never again come back here. But I know that I will.

He stops after whipping my waist. I continue to cry, for a long time. He gives me sugared water. I hadn't even realized he had left. I drink the water greedily. Screaming and crying is thirsty work. He moves again behind me. How many lashes have I received? I lost count, but I can remember. Twenty to my back. Eighty more to go. I feel like I will die here. I cannot survive eighty more.

"Please whip my thighs"

Ten to the backs of my thighs, five to each thigh. The whip curls around the thigh and the tip snaps against the tender skin of the inside of the thigh. The pain is unbearable.

He moves to front and to my right.

"Please whip my thighs"

Ten more strokes to the front of my thighs. Again, the worst is the tip of the bullwhip snapping at the inside of my thighs. I manage to take these ones only with whimpers. I know the worst is yet to come.

"Please whip my ass"

Twenty lashes to my ass. I scream for all of them. The tip of the lash twirls around my hips and hits the soft, tender skin of my belly, or it snaps at my pussy. I scream and cry. I try to keep count, to keep a certain measure of control but after the fifth whip, I lose it. I scream and thrash my head about. My voice is hoarse. My muscles cramp as I try to thrash against the unyielding ropes. Finally when I think my sanity is about to crack, he stops. Broken, my head falls on my chest, twin rivers of tears flow from my eyes. He gives me some more sugar water. I realize it's been sixty already. We are more than halfway there. But these were the easy ones; back, thighs, ass. I shudder again as I think of what yet remains. Belly, breasts, pussy.

He stands to my right.

"Please whip my belly"

Ten strokes to my belly. Slowly, one after the other, he gives them to me. Letting me savor each one, I scream again, and again. I just want this to end. Then he stops.

I cannot say it. I cannot bring the words out. He stands there, whip in hand, waiting.