The first lash, a molten flick across her bottom, took her feet out from under her. She hung in her bonds, gasping for breath through tears. "Up," he ordered, delivering another one to the outside of her flank. She struggled, she fought, but she went nowhere. The lash kept falling, on the back of her thighs, her ass, her back and shoulders. Jamie was silent, but no doubt he was enjoying watching her take this punishment he'd caused. With that thought in mind, she tried to steel herself to dignified silence, but that only lasted a few minutes before she gave way to whimpers, and soon enough, screams. She never knew where he would strike her next—and each strike was clearly focused. He wasn't just flailing, but hit her in areas calculated to hurt. The sound of the crack of the whip scared her as badly as the searing contact. She started to shake, gritting her teeth to stop from begging for mercy. It had been fifteen minutes at least. Twenty minutes. Half an hour.
Finally he stopped, but only to turn her around and fix her with her front facing out. Still she screamed, jerking in her bonds as he flicked fiery pain on belly, thighs, nipples, breasts. In between screams, she sobbed, and then she fell silent, praying inside her head. She didn't pray to God. She shut her eyes tight and prayed to Master. Please, please, come and get me. Please, I miss you. I love you. Why did you leave me here?
"Look at me!"
Her eyes opened, focused and unfocused. Why did he look so angry? Jamie was watching over his shoulder, aroused, fisting his cock. If he tried to fuck her again she'd gouge his eyes out, with her teeth if she had to.
"Look at me," Mephisto barked again.
She stared in his eyes, flinched and moaned as he landed the lash on each breast. She knew what he wanted, although it was a struggle to get there. She disciplined her face to blank acceptance. He wanted her to acknowledge him as her Master, with the right to hurt her if he wanted, without anger or resistance on her part. She relaxed her body and let her arms fall open to him. I am yours. I am yours. She repeated it in her mind until she managed to convince both herself and him. Once her eyes communicated that submission he sought, he coiled the whip in his fist. He went to hang it up, returning with a set of clamps.
He wiped her tearful face with rough fingers as she stood unresisting. I am yours. I am yours. Use me. Hurt me as you will. Without words he applied a clamp to each nipple, and then drew a center clamp down her belly, down between her legs, where he parted her pussy lips with clinical detachment. He drew back her clitoral hood and clipped the last clamp directly to the throbbing flesh there. From violence and the battle of submission, she was copiously wet. Her breasts seemed to swell and her pussy clenched at the exquisite torture centered on her clit. Again she was climbing to the precipice of arousal. Not a precipice. A plateau, where she would wait and ache and remain unsatisfied.
He left her there perhaps another half hour, retiring to the bedroom with his friend. Finally they came out and Jamie left. It was late. She was hungry and tired, and mentally exhausted from the trial she'd endured. Still four more days to go. The thought of it almost destroyed her. But it was really only three days, because this day was nearly over, and her Master would come for her sometime on the last day. What if he doesn't come though? some part of her whispered. What if he is delayed? What if you have to stay another day? Another week?
That thought brought her to tears again. He stood four or five feet away, just watching her cry.
"It's hard, girl, isn't it?"
The tenderness in his voice hurt almost as much as the lash he’d wielded. He came and removed the clamps, then released her from the cuffs that held her. She didn't want to be touched, but she couldn't stand on her own and so he picked her up and carried her against his chest. He took her to the kitchen and set her on the floor, fixing a dinner in the stultifying silence. Molly was thankful for the speech restriction that had seemed a burden just a couple hours ago. If he had asked her to express her feelings or thoughts, she couldn't have done it. She wanted silence and solitude. She was stuck in a battle of wills between her outraged sense of justice and her desire to be a good slave.
When he sat and offered her food, she took it only with the greatest reluctance. When she almost vomited he didn't give her any more, but he made her drink water, holding the cup to her lips when she would have refused it. After that he soaked her in his tub, in warm, soapy water, carefully inspecting the few whip marks that had broken her skin. Molly knew they would fade by the time her Master returned, leaving no noticeable scars, but he still made her stand while he cleaned and applied antibiotic cream to each cut.
By that point she wished for nothing more than bed. Caged isolation. She crawled in gratefully when he opened the door for her, and was almost asleep by the time she heard the lock slip home. The last thing she thought before she drifted off to sleep was three more days. Please let me survive three more days.