Master's Mark on Submissive Flesh

Unseen hands tighten the leather restraints, pulling her arms taut against the cold, hard cross. The air shifts, carrying the scent of aged leather and the faint, sweet tang of her own anticipation. The first lash sings through the air, a sharp, stinging kiss against her bare back. She gasps, arching slightly, her body alight with the unexpected pleasure-pain. The Master's rhythm is steady, each strike a deliberate, measured caress, leaving a trail of heat and red welts. She bites her lip, moaning softly, her hips grinding against the empty air as her pussy throbs in time with the whip's dance.

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