Chapter 2: A punishment

In his hands, the crop.

"Forty today" He says; his only words to me today. He moves to my left.

I nod, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I hear the hiss of the rattan crop through the air, and the crack against my skin, before I feel the burn of the first cut on my ass. I throw my head back but manage to contain my scream.

He waits for the burn to subside, a few seconds and then "Crack" a second cut on my ass. I stifle a whimper. A pause, then a third strike, I whimper again. It will get much, much worse. A fourth, a fifth, a tenth. I whimper with each strike. He stops.

I catch my breath. I see him on my right side now. I shudder. It will be my front now. He draws his arm back and strikes, before I can close my eyes. I scream. My right breast is on fire. The crop hit the top of my mound. I cannot help it and look down, to see the angry red stripe, crossing the front of my breast. He pauses, to let it sink. I know the drill; nine more on my right breast; the last three on the sensitive areola and the last one smack on the nipple. Again the crop falls, and again I scream; two stripes cross my breast, then three, then four; each one closer to my nipple; each one more painful, my screams more shrill, more pitiful. The fifth takes my breast at the bottom, where it joins my chest, then the sixth and the seventh. Sweat mixes with my tears. I have lost count, but Parker reminds me.

"The last three" He tells me, letting the anticipation build.

I am trembling in fear. He strikes, I scream. The top of my pink areola bears now a red stripe. A pause, I start screaming before the crop hits, and then a new stripe grows under my nipple. He stops for perhaps a minute. He lets me compose myself.

"You bastard" I think "Get it over with"

But I hold my tongue. Only whimpers come out of my mouth, until he strikes my nipple, with all his power. The rattan crop hits the tip of the nipple, I scream, maddened by the pain. A drop of blood beads from my nipple. My right breast is on fire. I shake my head.

Drops of sweat fly off my forehead. My wet hair has come undone and falls down my back. He moves a little forward. My left breast will now bear the brunt of his crop. I gaze at him. He stands, tall in his black vest and white shirt. He has loosened the neck of his shirt, but otherwise is as calm and collected as he was when he opened the door for me hours ago. His black pants, perfectly pressed, show the bulge at his crotch, but no erection there. Now if I was a guy, instead of a girl, it might be different. He takes aim and repeats the show, on my left breast. Is it my imagination, or is he hitting me harder?