Connie's Crop

CONNIE'S CROP, a novel by Jason Pinaster copyright 2016

Connie surveys the scene she has set up with satisfaction. Her slave's legs are spread, his ankles chained to bolts imbedded in the floor. His manacled wrists hold his arms up and out from his torso. His body is totally nude. She watches a droplet of sweat trickle down the taut muscles of his back and disappear between the soft white cheeks of his buttocks.

Connie smells herself starting to sweat. She had known that the aroma would make her even more horny so she has worn a black cotton/polyester shirt to trap her odor. Black leather panties are capturing other scents among strands of her curly red hair. Her right hand caresses her left breast and pinches the nipple just below the point of pain.

In her left hand she has a full-sized riding crop. The heel of the handle is a large golden globe. The handle itself is covered with spirals of rubies and diamonds. She slaps the end of the whip into the palm of her right hand, then puts its shaft between her legs, drawing it slowly forward and up. A shiver runs up her spine. She transfers the crop into her right hand.

The soft tinkle of chains returns her attention to her prisoner. "You may answer yes or no only. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

She smiles. "If you cry out, I will stop." She slaps the crop lightly across his buttocks. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, mistress." His voice is subservient, soft.

She raises her arm and brings the shaft of the crop down hard across his ass. He makes no sound but his muscles, his glorious muscles, tighten against the restraints.

"Do you want a gag?"

"No."

"Now be quiet. If you make any more than a whimper, I will stop."

She tucks the crop into the side of her panties and moves next to him. Her fingers trace the outlines of his muscles, especially the separations between the sinews in his arms. She drops to her knees behind his right thigh and hugs his leg as hard as she can. Rising to her feet, she puts her left hand between his legs and squeezes his balls. She smiles at his tremble. Her right arm moves around him, her hand grasping his erect phallus which she strokes. She continues stroking for several moments until he moans.

Stepping back, she withdraws the crop and rains blow upon blow onto his back, legs and buttocks until they turn red. No blood is drawn. He makes no sound. She bends and kisses a red mark on his right buttock. When she feels him relax, she pinches the spot she has kissed until it turns even redder and she feels his muscles tighten. She steps back and targets the spot with a stinging swat. He stifles a half-yelp.

Connie throws her long red hair back and laughs. Her right hand reaches around his torso and begins to stroke his hardness up and down. Fast then slow then fast until hot slippery liquid dribbles over her fingers.

Marsha

As soon as I'd seen the sign announcing the turnoff for Interstate 75, the most direct route north into the city, my hands had started shaking uncontrollably. I'd been fine on the flight, fine loading my suitcase into the rental car, fine studying the map of Atlanta, fine pairing my phone to the car's bluetooth. But now I just wanted to escape. I clenched the steering wheel as hard as I could, maintaining control of the car, but not of my nerves. If I met Sheila, if her story panned out, if there was evidence, if, if, if—it would be the biggest story of my career.

My body wanted to return the car and climb back onto a flight north to home, to safety. But my mind was determined to see this through. I compromised, turning onto the I-285, reminding myself that the locals called it 'the perimeter' because it surrounds the city.