He stepped forward, swung his arm back, and hit her.
The whip, a firm riding crop sort of tool, paralleled the crack of her ass almost exactly, making a loud, fleshy, smacking sound. It left a light red line across both ass cheeks. She squirmed and writhed, pulling on the wrist and ankle cuffs, soundlessly opening and closing her mouth. She threw her hair back and rolled her head, looking like a fish thrown on a bank, helpless and sucking in foreign oxygen. She pitched forward as best she could, undulating and shifting her buttocks. She struggled but there was no escape.
He aimed carefully and hit her again, this time a little harder, and she made a noise, a deep exhalation, and quivered. With the third hit she reared back, hard, and cried out, a wordless exclamation. To his shock he found the sound intensely arousing, and, feeling his growing cock, he swung the whip again, feverishly anticipating her outcry. When it came he had to stroke his cock in a feeling of desperation.
"Oh god, STOP!" she said, breathing heavily.
Her ass had four marks on it, criss-crossing each other in a pattern; they were the color of a light pink rose. She was panting and tugging on the cuffs, swaying from side to side, and she begged him again.
"Please, stop it!"
He paused, thinking. They'd discussed this at length, carefully and in great detail: she had a safe word. She knew what it was. There was no doubt at all. There was no way she'd forget a word like "hypochondriac." Her pleas were part of the game, the process, the road to her surrender and his dominance. He swished the whip through the air, forcing her to listen to the sound, and swung it near her body without touching her. She shrieked and flinched, pushing forward into chair. She had almost recovered from the shock of not being struck when he hit her again, without warning, this time fairly gently.
She made a quavering noise, an undulating, visceral, high-pitched moan, and flung her head around, making her hair wave and flounce. When the whip came down again she jerked madly, then sagged into the restraints. From there, for another five strokes, making eleven in all, she spasmed crazily when the crop hit her, then relaxed like a rag doll. When he stopped, she didn't say another word, but lay passively.
