I have bound my slave over the whipping bench, his hands strung up high overhead. He is hooded in black leather, lost in darkness, he has no way of knowing what's coming next and he cannot brace himself to lessen the pain. I lash at his flesh with my whip, after which I surprise him by gently caressing his back with my leather gloved hand. The erotic pleasure contrasts with the pain and will make it hurt all the more when I start up again.

My short leather quirt is the perfect instrument of dire pain, as I relentlessly strike his back, ass and legs until he is shaking like a leaf i...

I have bound my slave over the whipping bench, his hands strung up high overhead. He is hooded in black leather, lost in darkness, he has no way of knowing what's coming next and he cannot brace himself to lessen the pain. I lash at his flesh with my whip, after which I surprise him by gently caressing his back with my leather gloved hand. The erotic pleasure contrasts with the pain and will make it hurt all the more when I start up again.

My short leather quirt is the perfect instrument of dire pain, as I relentlessly strike his back, ass and legs until he is shaking like a leaf in anticipation of the next strike. But no amount of anticipation can prepare him for the searing pain of my quirt, as it burns his tender skin like a red hot poker. He of course begs profusely for mercy, but I am not feeling merciful. And I am not quite done tormenting him yet.

The pain is agonizing as each strike of the whip reaches its mark. And believe me, I have the accuracy of a surgeon with this whip. I strike his flesh over and over again, harder and harder, until he is a quivering, sniveling, pathetic excuse for a man. I adore the smell of his fear. It turns me on and fuels my sadistic nature.