“How did you feel the week before the whipping?”
At first I tried to get away with giving a vague answer, but he was having none of that. Lewis was highly intelligent, and very intuitive – and I realized in that moment that fooling him would never work. He demanded my full and unfiltered honesty. And he made it very clear that if I wasn’t willing to trust him, disclosing my inner-most feelings, our relationship as pimp/whore was doomed to fail.
He repeated the question: “How did you feel the week before the whipping?”
“I was on edge all week. I was nervous. At times I was certain I’d back out. In moments of weakness I worried I wouldn’t have the courage to go through with it. Then, a few minutes later, I’d be wildly excited by the prospect of being whipped.”
“How did your pussy react, during this emotional roller coaster?”
“I was highly aroused. My pussy was almost always wet. I would masturbate, at the mere thought of what was going to happen, which brought some relief. Then, five or six hours later, I was horny again – and could barely keep my fingers away from my clit.”
“You were masturbating at the anticipation of being whipped?”
“Yes. Yes, Sir. I would. I would cum, just thinking that this woman I had yet to meet would soon be whipping my body.”
Lewis smiled. He tried to hide it. But I noticed his eyes smiling. He was pleased. My answers were music to his ears. But I also knew that, as I disclosed more about my masochistic nature, I was basically giving Lewis a green light to push my limits further.
“Tell me then, what happened on your date with Ms. Donovan?”
I told Lewis about how my first few hours with the woman were not at all what I expected. She arranged to have me picked up by limousine, and we went shopping. Shopping! She was quite delightful, very polite and respectful toward me, and extremely generous. She took me to the most exclusive shops in the city and we picked out a beautiful and very sexy little number. For me, no less. Next, we enjoyed lunch at a high-end Asian fusion restaurant downtown. It was in the limousine on the way back to her condo that she finally started to flirt with me, and touch me.
“Why do you think she spent a few hours with you, shopping and lunching?”
“I assume she was sizing me up, Sir?”
Lewis explained that it wasn’t so much that she was sizing me up, as she was building up anticipation. It was foreplay for her. I blushed when Lewis informed me that Ms. Donovan had told him that she in point of fact developed a little crush on me in those few hours together, which made whipping me all the more pleasurable.
“What happened when you got inside her condo?”
“At first, Ms. Donovan was as sweet as anything. She opened a bottle of wine, and midway through her first glass, she started to slowly remove my clothing. Once nude, she led me toward her den. The room appeared to be a reading space, but when she removed a hanging plant, a mobile, and a few other things I realized it quickly and easily transformed into a make-shift punishment room. I was adorned with lengthy ankle and wrist cuffs that easily fastened to the strategically placed eye-hooks in the ceiling and floor. She patiently adjusted the straps until I was pulled taunt, my arms and legs stretched wide apart.”
“Were you afraid, or excited, or how were you feeling in that moment?”
“I was uneasy. Like the calm before a storm. I noticed it in my breathing, short shallow breaths, so I had to consciously remind myself to breathe properly. I was nervous, and yet – yes, I was aroused too.”
“Pathetic, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Sir.” I lowered my gaze and could feel myself blush.
“What happened next?”
“She beat me. She started in on my shoulders with a rawhide knout. The way she transitioned smoothly between a forehand and backhand swing alerted me to how skilled she was with a whip. Each strike was delivered with power and finesse. My entire upper back was in agony in no time at all.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not right way. But a few minutes in she made comment about the ritual of athletes in every sport. How they warm up before the game begins. Pitchers pitch. Hockey players skate around. Basketball players shoot hoops. At first I thought she was comparing herself to an athlete, but then I realized her intended point.”
“And what point was that?”
“That the rawhide knout was nothing more than a prelude. The real whipping was yet to begin. She was just warming-up, like an athlete before a game.”
“Was her warning valid?”
“Oh yes. That knout laid into my shoulders without compromise, and yet the worst was yet to come, by far. She moved through a variety of wicked instruments, and enjoyed the reaction of my skin to each one. This went on for some time. Occasionally she stopped to sip her wine, or feel my pussy.”