Chapter 2

Brett entered the room through the same door. He wore loose fitting cotton pants, held up at the waist by a cord. His shaved chest was bare showing off his muscles. He approached the stage. Olga took a cat out of the chest and showed it to me. It was a real torture instrument; the hide strips hung ominously from its business end were not the soft cabretta or even velvet found for sale in adult toy stores. My eyes opened wide on seeing this; this thing could maim if used carelessly. Had it been anyone else wielding the whip, but Brett or Olga I would probably have cut Lynette out of her bindings right then and there. I might have succeeded too.

Brett took up the whip while Olga, watching me through her large, exotic eyes, said:

"One hundred lashes," she paused briefly for unneeded effect, "on her back, and thighs."

"Are you crazy?" I interrupted, "there is no way she can take that!"

"Yes she can," Brett simply said.

I could see in Olga's face that she wasn't as sure of that as her husband.

"It has all been arranged already Pete. She agreed to all of this," then, to Lynette, she added. "Count them dear."

Lynette nodded, "I'm ready," she said with a quaking voice.

I stood looking at my girlfriend, hanging from her wrists, her hands clenched into useless fists, her legs trembling from fear, or from trying to hold her weight on her toes, I couldn't tell. I could see the tears brimming in her eyes; I could feel my all too visible erection pulling at the fabric in my pants. Through my shirt sleeve I felt Jane's hand lying lightly on my arm. Once more I caught a whiff of Lynette's acrid fear, mixed with the musky aroma of an aroused woman, not hers; Jane's, I guessed.

The hide tails crashed across her back, the sharp ends flicking at her shoulder. She screamed, her fists pulling desperately at the ropes holding her up. I saw more than fear in her eyes. I saw panic, sheer, cerval panic; I could swear she would have stopped it at that first cruel cut of the whip. If she could...

"Say your safeword!" I ordered.

"There isn't any," Jane whispered at my ear, "she cancelled it."

"One," Lynette said.

She only grit her teeth with the next few strokes, although the splat of the tails cutting into the skin of her upper back told me that Brett was not sparing her. She closed her eyes every time the leather bit into her flesh, but opened them immediately after and always, looking at me. I saw the pearls of sweat beading on her face, and felt the sting of salt in my eyes.

"Fifteen," she screamed.

My shirt was soaked despite the air conditioning; I removed it. I could bear the weight on my pelvis no more yet, I could not bear the idea of Jane blowing me, right there, in front of Lynette. I could not bear the thought of her seeing me, enjoying Jane's mouth, spilling my seed into her, while she hung from her ropes and suffered the sting of the cat.

I moved to her back; the sight of her ruined back, purple and red welts, with spots of crimson blood where the sharp leather edges cut into her soft skin, cooled my ardors for a second; then my cock again demanded its dues. I gestured towards the floor. Jane slipped her dress off at the shoulders. It flowed over her young body before making a puddle on the floor around her feet.

I was right; it was the smell of her arousal that I noticed, just before the session started. She knelt before me and took my hard on between her lips. I barely felt her tongue, licking and sliding along the shaft, nor did I see her face as she swallowed my entire length. My eyes were riveted on Lynette's back, mesmerized by the bright reflection of the halogen lights on the white skin of her back, where it hadn't been turned into purple corduroy, and the tiny droplets of her sweat that splashed from her body with each cut of the whip.

"Twenty five," she gasped.

I held on to Jane's hair as my cock erupted, of its own volition, in the depths of her mouth. I looked down, surprised, to see her, working her throat, swallowing my spunk, while deep inside me, I came, and came, in a never ending orgasm. Only after I was done did I realize that Brett has stopped whipping Lynette and that Olga stood by her side, offering her a glass of chilled orange juice which she drank greedily through a straw.

I approached her, meaning to kiss her, to embrace her, during this break in the proceedings but Brett stopped me, handing me a cane.

"You are not to comfort her in any way," he said. "The only way you may touch her is with a whip, or a cane. You may add to her pain, but not comfort or relief."

I looked at the cane, not understanding.

"We will follow her instructions," he continued, "to the letter. You, on the other hand, may hit, whip or abuse her as you wish; Lynette is yours, after all."

I looked at her tortured body, hanging from her wrists, her hands turning purple from the prolonged suspension.