“You asked for this,” Angela reminds herself, hanging spread-eagled and naked.
He’d let her hold the lash, long, slick, heavy as an eel. It could cut her. Scar her. He’d promised she would not bleed.
It hisses through the air, then bites. A sting of surprise, then a line of pain burning across her buttocks.
She is breathless when the second strikes. Tears flow. Screams echo.
By the fifth she is aflame, unable to stay still, bathed in sweat and pain.
At eight the come starts, flooding her.
After ten, he enters her, pushing her beyond pleasure and into prayer.