Page 84 of Their Master

“Yes, I’m sure of that, too. It will feel exquisite on my chest and stomach.”

“Oh. You don’t want your back—”

“No. I want to look at you while you whip me.”

She smiled—or tried to—but it was more of a rictus.

Smith cocked his head. “If you don’t wish to do this, you don’t have—”

“No! No, Idowish to do this,” she said, giving him a smile that was almost convincing. “I will enjoy it.” She swallowed and then raised her hands with the gag.

“Might I have a last swallow of wine?” he said. “I’m feeling parched.”

She turned abruptly and brought him the glass.

When she held it up to his lips, he drained it in one long swallow and sighed. “Thank you. I am ready.”

Smith had allowed her to remain clothed, even though he normally preferred to have his lovers naked. She looked lovely in blood red, a color he’d not been sure of with her hair, but it looked magnificent.

And he adored seeing his collar around her elegant neck.

Ever since their first evening together at Bernina’s, Moira had exhibited complete confidence in their sexual interactions. It was true she sometimes blushed or looked confused about other matters—like personal questions or when he became vulgar—but when it came to sexual pleasure, she had the poise and grace of a much older woman.

But tonight, she was so very, very anxious.

Smith yawned around the gag in his mouth, or at least he tried to, swamped by a sudden wave of lassitude.

While his mind was hazy and sluggish his cock was rock hard and weeping in anticipation of his whipping.

The crop was a dangerous implement in the wrong hands. It required finesse to give pain without damage.

Moira’s first few blows were uncharacteristically timid, but somewhere around the fifth or sixth strike she fell into a rhythm that employed just the right pressure.

The bodice of her dressing gown was low, exposing her chest and the gentle swells of her small, raspberry tipped breasts.

Smith sighed at her perfection, watching with increasingly heavy eyes as her skin became slick and mottled.

She worked him with the skill of a virtuosa, until each strike with the unforgiving tool was exquisite agony.

Smith didn’t notice that tears were running down her face until she tossed aside the whip and wrapped her arms around him and pressed her body to his burning torso. She hugged him hard enough to make his ribs creak.

“I love you,” she whispered against his temple.

Or that is what Smith thought she said, but there was an odd buzzing sound in his head, so he might have imagined the words.

Indeed, he must have.

When she pulled away, he wanted to look at her, but his head had become strangely heavy on his neck and kept falling back.

She slid a hand around the back of his skull and held him upright.

“Mo—Mmm—” Smith lost track of what he’d been trying to say.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, choking on the words, tears streaming. Almost as ifshewere being punished.

Something moved in the corner of his blurry vision.

“Step away from the bastard, girlie,” a flat male voice ordered.

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