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Linda and the Lash Ch. 01

By: adoration



I had been in Los Angeles about a year when my boss told me he wanted me to attend an annual librarians' conference. The only snag was it was to be held in LA!

"Don't worry, Linda," he laughed, "I'll make it up to you by putting you up in the swank hotel next to the conference venue so it will seem like an out of town trip."

Which was eminently fair, I thought. After all, though I was only 21 and young for a librarian, I was possibly the best researcher on his staff. I deserved a "perk" for a change.

On the evening before the conference opening I checked into the hotel, put on my favourite little black dress, brushed my long fair brown hair - I'm almost a blonde - till it shone, put on my glasses and went to the cocktail bar.

I'd hardly been in my seat after ordering an old fashioned for a moment or two than a tall, dark-haired man smiled down at me and with what I thought was real forwardness said: "I hope you don't wear those glasses all the time!"

"If I didn't I wouldn't be able to make out your features, you smooth-talking hunk," I replied, trying to match his banter.

The tall man with the almost gaunt face and long but handsome features laughed aloud and sat down opposite me, clutching what looked like a glass of white wine.

"Hi, my name's Brad and I think you look absolutely wonderful but for those god-awful glasses," he said. "Pardon me for my bad manners. But you know what Dorothy Parker said."

I've heard the line so many times. "I think I do. 'Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses', is how it goes, isn't it?" I smiled. Then I removed my glasses and his features became slightly blurred. "How's that?"

He leaned forward, allowing me to inhale a slight but obviously hugely expensive after-shave and inspect his beautifully cut Italian suit. "You are absolutely gorgeous," he smiled. "From ugly duckling to swan. I shall call you Leda."

I accepted the compliment, then put my glasses back on. "My name's Linda and I'm a librarian," I told him.

"Hmmm," he pondered, "then I shall call you Linda the Librarian. From the public library?"

"No," I replied, "I work for a large publisher and he has sent me to a librarians' conference."

His face fell, though whether it was mock disappointment or not I couldn't tell. "So you're not from LA?" he asked, his voice tinged with what I hoped was not feigned disappointment.

"Yes - well, yes and no. I work here, and my boss is footing the bill for me to stay in this swanky hotel to make up for the fact that I'm not getting a trip out of town for the conference. But I'm a country girl - I'm from just outside Des Moines."

"And you find books for people?" said Brad.

"No, silly," I chided him. "Being a librarian these days is much more about finding information, or being able to access information than finding dusty old books."

"I stand corrected," he said. "Now I shall continue with my bad manners and invite you out to dinner. Or don't librarians do dinner?"

"They do and I'm famished," I said. "Where?"

"I know a nice little steak joint nearby, let's go," he said.

It was both. Nice, the steaks were superb. And little, five tables, maybe six.

He told me all about himself. His name was Brad, he was single, aged 40, and a famous writer, only he wrote under a pen name. He lived out in the valley and was just in town to get away from the computer and work, since he was between books. His top-selling character was a private eye called Brad Bradley. 

"I use my own name for my favourite character's name, I hope you approve," he said, after he placed his black Amex card on the waiter's tray for the bill.

"I approve," I said, "I think it's a lovely name."

After he had walked me back to the hotel and I got my key from the desk, I made an instant decision. I knew he liked me, and although he was 19 years older than me he was handsome, seemed gentle and I hadn't had sex with a man for almost a year.

"Would you like to come up for a ... er, a nightcap?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"It would be my pleasure," Brad smiled, and then we were in the lift, down the corridor and into my room for the start of the biggest adventure of my life!

No sooner than the door behind us had swung shut, than Brad removed my glasses and took me in his arms. He was tallish, about six foot, which made him three inches or so taller than my coltish 5 feet 9.

His mouth brushed against mine, gently, then harder until our mouths were locked in a kiss which was one of the tastiest I've ever experienced.

I broke off, my heart thumping wildly. "Let me get ready," I whispered, "and you get into bed." Putting my glasses back on I made it to the bathroom without fainting from excitement.

He was removing his jacket as I rushed into the bathroom, stripped nude and looked at myself in the mirror. My breasts were perky, nipple hard and despite the fact they're not 36 or 37 inches, they'll have to do at a tidy 34. I'm quite proud of them.

I dabbed some toilet paper on my sex and looked at my pussy in the mirror. Thank goodness I'd shaved down there this morning! I'm not hairless, but I like to keep it trimmed neatly back.

I swung round and looked at my smallish buttocks, like a boy's I thought. I placed perfume behind my ears, dabbed some between my breasts and walked as steadily as my legs would allow me into the bedroom.

Brad was lying on the sheet, on his side, wearing a slight smile, otherwise stark naked. My first look was at his equipment and I liked what I saw. He wasn't a monster, but it looked about seven inches long and I saw that his shaft and balls were shaved. He wasn't circumcised, but I noticed with interest that his foreskin was slightly pulled back from the top of his knob, giving the impression of a semi-cut cock.

Then things got a bit blurry as I put my glasses on the bedside table and lay beside him. In an instant his hands were on my shoulders and he was pressing me down towards his groin. At that distance I couldn't help but see every detail of his lovely cock. Pre-cum was seeping from his slit and I opened my mouth and sucked and kissed his helmet gently - it was only our second kiss!

Then I plunged my mouth down on his shaft and started to suck. His hands went to my head and he tugged on my long hair, dragging me further down onto his stiffness.

"Ooooh, baby, you suck so sweetly, oh yes Linda, love me!" he said in a rasping voice. Surely he wasn't sex-starved too!

But no sooner had I resumed my cock sucking than he pulled me, firmly but gently, from his groin and laid me on my back. "Do I need a condom?" he asked, huskily.

"No," I breathed, "I'm on the pill."

He plunged into me, his seven inches of raging manhood sliding smoothly all the way to the hilt.

As he settled into a steady tempo I felt I should explain. "It's not that I'm a little tramp," I said, hurriedly, "it's just that the pill helps ease the pain I get from my periods."

"Of course it does," he panted, as he plunged up and down in my sex. It was then that I noticed his gold chain and the little dog tag hanging from it. On it, as I could make out even without my glasses, was the outline of a curled whip.

"Is that just for decoration, or is there a story to it?" I asked.

Brad grunted: "Linda, there's a story to everything. Now stop talking and enjoy your orgasm."

And with that, his wiry but strong hands cupped my buttocks and the next thing I found myself in the dominant position, so I had to drive up and down on his rampant cock.

As I did so, he pushed my upper body upwards until my breasts were hanging free above his face. He opened his mouth and started to suck and nibble at my erect rosebud nipples. The sensation was startling, I'd never experienced such a feeling before. It was as if my nipples were conduits to my clit, little shafts of energy rippled down through my rib cage to my pussy and ended at my clit as I plunged it up and down on his pubic bone.

The effect of his oral adoration of my titties was soon to drive me inexorably to a magnificent orgasm, an orgasm of such intensity it forced extremely unlibrarian-like words as "Fuck me, oh you lovely stud, fuck me, yeeeees, I'm cuuuuming!" I don't know about the spelling, only the sounds I made as I exploded to a shuddering climax on his lean, wiry body.

After I had composed myself and rolled off his lithe figure, Brad once more pressed my face down to his shaft, his foreskin now rolled back to its thick ring due to the tightness of my cunt.

"My turn now, lovely Linda," he breathed in a hissing voice, and I started to suck on his erection, savouring the wonderful taste of my pussy on a man's cock, a taste that excited me and - I hoped - drove me to perform as fine a session of fellatio as I've ever delivered.

He came with several loan-pitched grunts and I swallowed down what seemed to me to be almost a cupful of cum, although of course, in reality, it would only have been a few spoonfuls. He tasted great, as I knew he would.

As we lay back, Brad told me: "That was such a wonderful fuck - pardon my French, Linda, but it's the perfect word for what we just did."

Then he switched into a business-like gear. "When does your conference end?"

"Friday afternoon," I told him.

"When do you check out?" he pressed me.

"After the closing speeches, about 3 o'clock," I said.

"I want you to spend the week-end with me," he said. "Any problems with that?"

I kissed him softly on his sensually cruel lips. "None at all, Brad. Will you pick me up?"

"I'll be in the hotel forecourt at 3.30 on Friday," he said.

"What will you be driving?" I asked.

"I drive a Ford GT40," he said.

"Means nothing to me," I said, honestly. "Describe it."

"Well," he smiled, "it's about 40 inches high, it's bright red and it's got a white racing streak down the middle of the bonnet and the roof."

"What's the racing streak do?" I asked, teasingly.

Brad laughed: "Makes it go 10 miles an hour faster, stupid!"

On Friday afternoon, I couldn't wait for the conference to end through its dreary closing speeches, and I almost sprinted back to the hotel, packed in a flash and was outside the hotel at 3.20pm when I saw a racy little red sports car drive up.

Brad climbed from behind the wheel and looked in my general direction. "I'm looking for a woman who looks like a librarian but fucks like a whore," he said rather loudly, I thought, as I approached.

"There's no such person, sir," I said, "but will I do?" Then I flicked my glasses off and fluttered my eyelashes.

"Oh, will you ever," he laughed, and we were off to his valley mansion.

He cooked superb medium rare steaks on his barbecue, and accompanied the meat with a delicious green salad and a bottle of Penfold's Hermitage Grange, which made me decidedly squiffy.

"It's better than anything we can make, as I would put it, and it's got far more guts than anything the French can make, as the Aussies would put it," he informed me. "And it's a delightful leg opener!"

After we had made love, he told me: "This is, as you can see, a very secluded spot. Tomorrow you can walk around the house in the nude, only I'd like you to wear high heels. I love the way they accentuate a woman's calves."

"And if I may, I'll also wear my glasses," I said, "or I'll be crashing into all the furniture."

"Perfect," he said, "which means I won't fancy you at all and I'll be able to get started on my next Brad Bradley adventure." I punched him in the ribs.

The next morning, we awoke and I dressed only in my black high heels and glasses. Brad went naked and told me he wanted to sketch out a preliminary plot for the new book, and just to wander around the house.

I investigated and then, when I wandered upstairs again to his large bedroom, I spotted a little office set off it. I stepped inside and found a computer screen, printer and all the usual components that make up a small office.

But what really caught my eye was the shelf of books at shoulder level as I sat nude in his large leather chair. I looked idly at them at first, but then the titles - all by the same author - really grabbed by attention.

Titles such as Loving the Lash, Kiss the Rod, Taste of the Tawse, Her Flogged Flesh and so on, dozens of them, all by Lash Linklater.

I pulled one titled Slashed Into Submission from the shelf with trembling hands and read the blurb on the dust jacket: "Lash Linklater at his pulsating best. You will thrill to every stroke of the flogger as it burns the nubile captive's back, sigh as her every scream is music to the cruel whipmaster's ears. Another Linklater masterpiece!" The critique was accredited to Flogger's Fortnightly.

Opening the book I read an extract. It burned my ears, but it also excited me in a strange way, and I found my free hand straying to my pussy, which was gushing juice!

The words I read went: "The 20-year-old struggled vainly against the cruel bonds as the whipmaster's next stroke curled around her sweat-streaked young body, the tips of the flogger cutting wickedly against her throbbing and previously tortured nipple.

"The whipmaster licked his lips as he observed a slow trickle of urine slide down the woman's sun-tanned inner thigh. There were murmurs from the audience as they, too, noticed she was starting to lose control. The whipmaster's arm drew back for another sadistic stroke and ...."

Suddenly I was jerked from my erotic reverie by the sight of Brad standing by my side, his naked body gleaming in the strong Californian sun streaming through the wide office window. His penis was fully erect, the funny foreskin pulled slightly back from the helmet.

"So you've discovered my little secret, have you, my darling Linda?" he asked, in a quiet but not annoyed manner.

"These are by you, Brad?" I asked, waving Slashed Into Submission in front of me.

"Every one of them, my dear," he replied, standing closer and stroking my hair. "I trust you admire my style?"

"It's very, er, how shall I put it? Arousing?" I told him.

"I'm glad you like it, Linda," he smiled. "And now you know the little secret behind my gold dog tag with the whip etched into it.

"You see I'm a member of a small but elite literary group, there's 12 of us, and we all write books which deal in the main with flagellation - flagellation of lovely young women, to be precise.

"I tear one or two off in between the Brad Bradley books, I find it helps me relax. And once a year we have a convention - last year's was in Salt Lake City, believe it or not, only we don't hold our convention in large city hotels. We're rather more discreet."

I was curious. "Do you make money from it?" I asked.

Amazingly, yes," said Brad, still stroking my hair and occasionally stroking a breast. "We've banded together to form a publishing house - we call it Punishment Publications and after printing costs are deducted it pays for the annual convention, plus one or two delightful young ladies to be flogged!"

"You flog young girls?" I asked, incredulously.

"My darling Linda," Brad smiled down at me with a somewhat condescending look, "of course I do. You don't expect me to write stuff like this without doing some research, do you?"

I put the book back in its place and stepped into his arms, feeling his erection brush against my belly. "And I suppose you want to flog me?" I asked, kissing him gently on his cheek.

"Most certainly," he said.

"Will I like it?" I asked, feeling my heart thumping wildly.

"I don't know that 'like' is the correct term, my dear," he replied, "but I can promise you the most earth-shattering sex at the end of it all. You ready?"

Hardly believing my ears I heard a small voice which was obviously mine reply: "Yes, Brad, but please go easy on me. I've never been whipped before."

Brad took me in his arms, lifted me up and carried me into the bedroom, down the stairs, through the lounge and then the kitchen and down another flight of stairs to a corridor in the basement beneath the house.

Finally, he stopped in front of a heavy oak door and swung it open. He let me down and pushed me gently on my buttocks into a large, high-ceilinged room. The hum of air conditioning was the only sound.

"On the bench, and I'll strap you down, darling," he said, in a soft, gentle voice.

I walked slowly to a large leather contraption which stood in the center of the room. It was shaped like a letter X and had straps along each side of the X. My buttocks settled on the central padded seat, then Brad quickly walked around me, strapping me down.

Each arm had three straps, one at the wrists, one at elbow height, the third through the armpits and across the shoulders. The legs straps were just below groin level, just below knee level and across my ankles.

After strapping me down so I was utterly helpless, Brad ran his fingers softly through my sex trench. "Aroused, in fact dripping wet - interesting," he said.

He then fetched a padded leather pillow, with metal poles which he slid into apertures set in the padded area beneath my buttocks, thus allowing my back and head to rest on the pillow. It was angled so I could look down past by breasts towards my pussy.

Brad went out of sight, then returned clad in an open-fronted pair of black leather shorts, his cock still stiff and waving in front of him.

"These are my punishment pants," he informed me. "That's punishment for you, not for me. Whenever you see me wearing them, Linda, you kneel before me and I will instruct you as to what I wish to do to do. Do you understand?"

His voice now had a steely ring to it.

"I understand, Brad," I breathed.

"Yes, whipmaster," he snapped.

"I understand, whipmaster," I obeyed him.

Then he picked up a leather implement from a table behind the X and showed it to me. "This is a pussy punisher - or, as our English friends, the lovely old things, like to call it, a quim quirt," he told me.

"Since this is a fetishistic sport, there are rituals involved, Linda. Kiss the punisher," he said, placing the cool leather against my mouth.

I kissed it, observing that the leather was about pussy-width and about a foot long from where the golf-club type grip ended.

"Now I'm going to switch on the tape recorder, my dear," he said. "Normally, with one of my experienced slaves I would get a girl friend along to videotape the session, but since you're just a beginner I shall merely tape your voice."

"What for, whipmaster?" I asked, my heart still thumping wildly as I was both excited and apprehensive about my fate.

"Silly girl," said Brad, "so that I can play it back at my leisure and masturbate while I recall our first flogging session!"

"Now," he said, placing the leather against my oozing wet pussy, "feel free to scream as much as you like. We're totally sound-proofed down here."

I tensed, sensing that the first stroke was about to be delivered. Brad stood, prick swaying stiffly, in the bottom space of the X, a foot or so from my naked, defenceless pussy. Then he flicked the punisher up in a sharp, jerky movement.

I screamed as the blow struck me, sending an electric shock of torment through my pussy, the searing throb shooting up my body to my mouth from which emerged a yelled "Aaaaargh!"

"Lovely my dear, music to my ears, as I believe I've written somewhere," Brad said.

Then his arm jerked again. Again a stunning shock jolted my pussy as the leather splatted against my sex lips and labia, the pain coursing through me, until I again let out a shouted "Ummmmf" as the blow delivered its delicious agony.

Then Brad changed his plan of attack. Standing a little closer, he moved the paddle so it was going "Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat" on my poor pussy, five, six, seven blows landing one after the other, only far less heavily than his first two strokes.

I gave out little sobs after each stroke, then the whipmaster paused and looked at my contorted face. "Excellent my dear," he grinned, "you are doing so well. Such control - I wonder how long you can keep it up?"


Linda and the Lash Ch. 01



And then he lengthened his stroke strike so the punisher travelled quite a way before smacking home against my pudenda, producing a long, howling "Owwww-aaargh" from my lips.

Next he switched his position, so he was standing beside me, facing down to my pussy and he delivered the strokes in a downwards motion, as opposed to the upwards sweeps he had employed before.

This had the effect of placing the leather's caress against my inner buttock cheeks, my anus, my cunt, my labia and my clitoris. The effect was, of course, even more brutal.

Some 10 strokes burned onto me this way before Brad dropped the flogger and turned to face me. Stepping closer to my head, he pressed his turgid penis to my mouth and whispered: "Thank the whipmaster, my darling!"

I sucked on his seven-inch prick, tasting the copious pre-cum which seeped from its head.

Then Brad returned to the bottom of the X shape and knelt before my pussy. I felt his tongue probing my chastised flesh, first at my anus, then my cunt, then across my labia lips before alighting on my engorged clit, engorged thanks to his attentions with the pussy punisher!

As he licked and kissed me down there I felt hundreds of little shocks flooding through my groin. For a while they were almost unbearable, like electricity surging and punishing me even more. In one ghastly moment I felt as if I was going to wet myself and flood his face with my urine.

Somehow I controlled myself, clamping my teeth together as the pain from his tongue and lip contact punished me, even though his flogging had stopped.

Then, gradually at first, then faster and faster, I began to enjoy his oral attentions. The pain had died to a dull numbness, then I felt my pussy starting to moisten again, to become alive, only this time it was not alive with pain but pleasure!

I heard a hissing voice, then realised it was mine!

"Yessss," I heard myself plead. "Yessss, don't stop, yessss, oh yessss, whipmaster, lick me, lick me!"

And lick me he did, his tongue now flashing around my cunt, labia and clit, until as I tried to writhe and wriggle on his mouth he concentrated on my clitoris, licking, laving and sucking until I lost control totally and screamed at the top of my lungs: "Tongue fucker! You fucking lovely tongue fucker! Tongue fuck me, tongue fuck me!"

And as he complied with my urgent, screaming request I crashed into the most shuddering, stunning, gut-wrenching orgasm I had ever experienced in my life!

Brad stood and smiled down at me, his cock still thick, heavy and erect. "And how was that, my darling little librarian?" he inquired, as I panted still from the delights of my monster Big O.

"Well, darling," I gasped, still feeling the intensity of my climax, "I'll tell you one thing. It's got lectures on the Dewey Decimal System totally fucked!"

To be continued...



Linda and the Lash Ch. 02



I sat gingerly throughout lunch – Brad insisted I remain naked. My pussy was still glowing, although nowhere near as on fire as it had been when he brought me to a huge climax via cunnilingus after my pussy punishment.

When I asked why I had to remain nude, he replied: "Because it turns me on and provides me with ideas for the book I'm going to write about you."

He told me this as we sat, both of us naked, sipping on a lovely Californian white and munched on open salmon and tomato sandwiches.

"You're going to write a book about me?" I asked incredulously. "Little ole librarian me?"

"Of course," the dark-haired author replied, sipping his wine. "I think the tale of an ugly duckling turned magnificent swan who learns to love the rigors the lash will go down very well with our flagellatory group. I must think of a catchy title, though."

I laughed and leaned over to kiss his full, sensual mouth, my breasts brushing against his naked upper torso. "Lashing the Libriarian?" I asked, laughing at the very thought.

"Hmm," said my 40-year-old "whipmaster", "that's not bad. Alliteration is always good in a title. Got any more?"

I nibbled on a sliver of salmon and teased him. "Librarian Loves the Lash. Librarian Learns to Love the Lash. Librarian Linda Loves Being Lashed."

"Silence," he roared, although his shout was softened somewhat by the fact that he was laughing. "Enough alliteration already, for that I will flog you this afternoon."

"Where?" I asked, innocently fluttering my lashes at him.

"On your breasts, you little hussy," he grinned, kissing me tenderly on the mouth, "I don't think your superb little pussy could take another session of the quim quirt today."

I writhed, pressing my thighs together and feeling a lovely dampness in my sex. But he was right. The thought of another session with my thighs spread wide for the cruel caresses of his pussy punisher was possibly too much to bear.

"Oh, OK, you big softy," I smiled, "then I guess it's my tits. Where will you inflict this performance of pain?"

"I said enough alliteration already," laughed Brad.

"Or what?" I said, as cheekily as I could.

"Or I'll start you off with some nipple clamp torture before I flog those pert little titties, you lascivious little librarian you," he told me.

"And you were complaining about my alliteration," I mocked him.

"That's it," he rumbled. "Now you're for it." And with that the lovely big man swept me off my feet and carried me up to his bedroom, me kicking my legs and thrashing around in his arms, but also trying to kiss him as he hauled me off for my punishment.

Once in the bedroom he tossed me onto the bed. I bounced, legs splayed, and Brad dived onto me, grabbing my arms as I tried to pummel his back in mock desperation. When he had me pinned, his tongue traced a slippery path down the middle of my chest, into my navel and down my abdomen before flicking gloriously onto my sex trench, still slightly tender from his morning's attack.

The glow was still there and millions of little thrills ran through me as he licked and laved at my moistness, occasionally stopping to make sure I was enjoying it. "You OK?" he asked, during one respite from his oral adoration.

"Get off me, you big brute, let me go," I gasped, desperate, of course, for him to continue his tongue tracery along my pussy.

Soon his attentions had me where I wanted to be – on the verge of another thrilling climax. As his mouth worked on me, I heaved a sigh and pulled on his hair to drag him up towards my clitoris.

"Bring me off, Brad, for fuck's sake bring me off!" I pleaded, and the lovely man obeyed, flat-tonguing my clit with a hot, fleshy and moist tongue. I exploded on him in a paroxysm of lust, humping my hips against his face as hard as I could when I felt the waves of my orgasm wash through me.

At last he was done, and he fell off me, panting from his exertions at my pussy as I, in turn, gathered my composure after his wonderful work.

"Fuck me, you lick good pussy," I groaned, coming down from the peak of my excitement.

"And your pussy is very, very good," Brad replied, before raising his head from my belly, where he was resting, to plant a long, lingering kiss on my mouth, his lips tasting tangily and tastily of my own sex. It was a taste I thrilled to.

"But now," he said, in a deep, dark voice, "you have to be punished. Wait while I get dressed!"

I lay back and watched as he pulled on his black leather, open-fronted shorts, his cock standing superbly out from its front.

From a bedside table he extracted a sturdy pair of rubber handcuffs and ordered me to place my hands behind my back. He then tugged the cuffs onto my wrists, using all his strength to widen them so they could be slipped over my hands. With his strength he could get them on, but there was no way I was going to get them off.

Next he took a little wooden implement from the drawer. It was two lengths of wood some 18 inches long and three or so inches wide, held together at each end by a deep metal bolt, with screws at the tops. It was, I quickly realised, a breast pillory. I felt a tingle of excitement run through my pussy as he placed it over my perky 34-inch titties.

While the lower wooden length supported the bottom of my breasts, the upper strip went across the tops of my globes. Brad regarded my breasts thrusting through the strips. "Comfy, my darling?" he asked, solicitously.

"Yes, thank-you, whipmaster," I replied, quite truthfully.

"Well then," he grinned, "we'd better do something about that, don't you think?"

And with that he indicated that I crawl to the edge of the bed so as to be closer to him. I obeyed and he then started to screw the two sides of the pillory down, so the wood started to press against my pert breasts, gradually tightening them until the veins started to stand out as my globes became tighter and tighter in the constraints.

"There," he said, standing back and looking at his handiwork, "that's much more like it. Now, I promised you nipple torture and nipple torture's what you're going to get, you little tramp."

I felt tremors of excitement run through me on hearing the words "torture" and "little tramp". I knew my pussy was wet and I knew he was turning me into a wanton hussy – and I didn't care.

From the seemingly inexhaustible supply in the bedside table drawer, Brad now produced a pair of nipple clamps on a chain, which went through the center of a rubber ball.

Kneeling close to my titties he sucked on one nipple, bringing it to an even tauter erection than had been caused by the pressure of the breast pillory. He then applied one of the nipple clamps, its tiny teeth sinking into my hard nipple flesh and drawing a gasp of pleasure from me as the pain nipped into my tit.

"Now the other one, my dear little slut," Brad smiled, and he bent to suck the other nipple to erection before clamping the second metal teeth to the pink hardness. Again I dragged my breath in with another intake of pain mingled with pleasure.

Brad stood back and let the rubber ball fall against my chest. I gave out a small cry as the weight of the ball dragged down on the lengths of chain, jerking at the nipple clamps and sending torrents of torment through my titties.

"Oh dear," he said, in mock sympathy, "is that painful on your poor little titties?"

"Yes, whipmaster," I replied, through gritted teeth as the weight of the ball served to intensify my torment.

"Then let's see if I can alleviate your suffering, my little lash lover," he said, taking the ball in one hand and placing it towards my mouth. "Open wide, there's a pet."

I obeyed and as I did he pushed the red rubber ball into my mouth. All this did, of course, was move the position of the ball. It did nothing to "alleviate" my suffering as the chains, instead of dragging downwards had the same effect by being dragged upwards to continue the throbbing in my tormented tits.

"Now," said my tormentor, with a sadistic smile, "I'm going to start on my new book about Linda, a librarian who learns to love the lash. I don't want to hear a peep out of you for at least 20 minutes, gottit? If that ball's not in your mouth when I get back, you're in even greater trouble."

"Mmmmmf," I replied, through the ball in my mouth, which was also operating, of course, as a gag.

Brad then turned and walked into the office alongside the master bedroom and I heard him start tapping away at his keyboard. As he did I tried to drag my mind away from the cruel pain flooding through my nipples and breasts. The initial sharp, shooting pain had now subsided into a constant dull throbbing. I brought my knees together and felt the dampness at my crotch. I was becoming a total pain slut!

After some minutes, Brad called out: "Listen to this, Linda. 'The lissom young nude woman struggled in a futile protest as the large guards dragged her body to the whipping frame. Her breasts were nipple-hard, and although she knew she was on display to an audience of naked men, Linda felt a shiver of excitement mingled with embarrassment course through her slender figure at the knowledge that her pussy was seeping torrents of sex juice'.

"How's that Linda, read OK?"

"Mmmmmmf," was all I could respond.

Twice more during a 20-minutes that I thought would never end, Brad read me lascivious excerpts from his story about Linda, then he called out: "Now, before I get to the part where the big black guard flogs her naked breasts, I guess I'd better do some research. Agreed, my little slut?"

"Mmmmmmf," was my totally inadequate response, as Brad returned to the bedroom, his cock jutting out from his open-fronted leather shorts, pre-cum glistening from his slightly pulled-back foreskin.

This time he did not need to delve into his "equipment" drawer from the bedside table as he was carrying a little rubber flogger which he ominously swished from side to side as he approached the bed.

"And now, my little pain slut, it's time to test your titty endurance," said Brad, smiling at my still rubber ball-gagged mouth, "so you may spit the gag out."

I did, then winced and almost yelled out aloud as the ball fell beneath my breasts and dragged the chains down, jerking the nipple clamps and sending fresh rivers of pain through my punished nubbins.

Brad then removed the clamp clips from my nipples and watched carefully as I reacted to their removal. Soon he was smiling broadly as he saw my reaction.

The clamps may have been gone, but the blood rushing back into the nipples sent agonies afresh rippling through my titties and breasts. Then he made it even worse for me.

Leaning over my breasts he sucked first on my left nipple. The sweet sucking sent more agonies through me, as he knew it would before he performed his suckling. Then he switched his attentions to my other nipple, delighting in my jerking as his licking and kissing and sucking added exquisitely to my torments.

Finally he stood and smiled down at me. "Oh, a little tender are they, my lovely little slut? Ah well, never mind, I've got something to take your mind off that, my dear."

And with that Brad swung the rubber flogger smartly across my taut breasts. The implement's half a dozen lashes cracked against the smoothness of my globes, making a cracking sound as they caressed my flesh.

"Aaaargh," was the only sound I could hear myself make as the rubber made contact. Then the flogger was sweeping down once more, and once more I yelled out an agonised "Aaaargh" as the punisher inflicted a flurry of six shocks through my boobs.

As Brad continued to flog my breast-pilloried mammaries with the flogger in one hand, he began to massage his stiff cock with the free hand, pulling his foreskin back almost to the ring, then letting it release back towards his helmet. He was so aroused that his cock head was dripping pre-cum on the carpet.

Then he moved to my other side, switched the rubber martinet into his other hand, while his former flogging hand now stroked his seven-inch hard-on.

"Enjoying this, my pet?" he asked, draping the robber thongs of the whip across my heaving breasts.

"Yes, whipmaster, thank-you, whipmaster," I replied obediently, as I gasped from the pain flooding through my poor battered breasts.

"Good, my darling, then I'll continue," he laughed, and swung the flogger sharply down onto my sorely compressed breasts once more.

Finally, after another five strokes had burned their way onto my fiery flesh, Brad dropped the flogger and bent to remove the pillory from my breasts. I felt as if a huge weight had been removed from my poor titties as he did so, then he reached behind me and freed my rubber-cuffed wrists.

Pushing me down roughly onto my back, Brad then grabbed my right inner thigh and dragged it away from its mate, making my sopping wet pussy totally available to his lust.

I felt a burning cock head press against my cunt, then he was driving into me, his shaft strong and smooth, its urgency sliding sweetly into my vagina until he was completely in me, our pubic bones bumping.

"Fuck, I just love the way you jerk and writhe for the whip," he whispered into my ear as he started humping and pumping, his chest crushing my pain-wracked breasts.

I grabbed his taut buttocks and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, as if to transfer my pain to him. Suddenly, Brad rolled me expertly onto my back and I went into a kneeling position, keeping his cock firmly in my cunt but sitting away from his torso so my breasts and their pain would not remain in contact with his heaving chest.

Slowly, the sharp shooting pains in my globes began to subside, and as they did I had this sudden, huge urge to have his cruel, sensual mouth on my nipples.

Putting my bunched fists on the side of his shoulders and keeping my arms straight I lowered my breasts to his face, fearing the effects his tongue and mouth would have on me, but knowing that I had to have their adoration or I would burst.

Softly he kissed first my left nipple, then my right, before beginning to suck on my left. As he did so, sharp torrents of pain stabbed through the nipple, then into my breast. After about a minute, he transferred his attention to my right nipple. As he sucked the nubbin the pain began to slowly ebb from the other nipple.

Then Brad began moving his head back and forth across my hanging breasts, sucking first one nipple, then the other, interspersed with kisses on my flogged inner globes as he switched from one erect nipple to the next.

The pain then went from sharp shootings of agony to one long sort of electric shock, flowing from my nipples down through my chest to my clitoris. I knew I was seeping sex juice like there was no tomorrow and then there was no pain, just a huge building of anticipation as I knew my climax was only seconds away.

Brad, sensing my impending orgasm, increased the tempo of his suckling on my breasts and then I was carried away with the Big O, crying out gasping words of encouragement and frenzy as the sexual surge splashed all over me before I collapsed, breasts heaving on his chest.

After a while, he kissed me tenderly on a cheek, them climbed from the bed. He returned some minutes later bearing a tray with a bottle of Bollinger and two champagne flutes.

"Now," he said, after we had clinked glasses and drunk some of the sparkling bubbly, "tell me about your job. Surely you're young to be a librarian, aren't you? Don't you need some sort of degree for such a job these days?"

"Not if your father is one of the major stockholders of the publishing house and is a very good friend of the chief publisher," I replied. "And anyway, I'm more of a researcher than a librarian, although the modern librarian is mostly a researcher these days."

"And what have you been researching lately?" he asked, stroking my still throbbing breasts.

"I'm collaborating with an east coast author on baseball's urban legends, baseball's urban myths, I suppose you'd call them," I told him.

"Such as?" said Brad, sipping his Bolly.

"Well, the very first run scored against the awful Mets in their very first game."

"That's easy," smiled my author-whipmaster. "Pitcher – Roger someone or other – drops the ball with a runner on third. It's called a balk, umpire waves runner home. Everyone knows that."

"An urban myth," I said, "perpetuated by Jimmy Breslin's brilliant book. Roger Craig was the pitcher and Bill White of the Cardinals was on third, but the very first run scored against the Mets came from a Stan Musial bloop single – that's how White scored."

"Stan Musial never hit a bloop single in his life," said Brad.

"Yes, he did," I told him, "and I've looked it up."

Amazing," said Brad. "I've read Breslin's book, Can't Anybody Here Play This Game? and I've always thought it was a balk."

"Nope," I said, confidently. "Want to know something else?"

"All right, disappoint me again," said Brad.

"Casey Stengel never said 'Can't anybody here play this game?' aybe he should have, it certainly sounds like something he would have said. But Breslin made it up."

"Tell you what," said Brad.

"What?" I smiled, confident I'd impressed him with my knowledge of a baseball myth.

"It's time you had a spanking," he said. "Only unlike baseball it's not gonna be three strikes and you're out. In fact, after three strikes, I'll hardly be into my warm-up!"

I kissed him and stood up. "Where do you want me?"

"Wonderful, a woman who knows her place," Brad grinned. "Over my lap, hands on the floor. Now get here!"

And with that he swung his legs over so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. I settled down across his lap, his erection sticking into my belly as I arranged myself. My feet grazed the floor, my fingers grabbed at the carpet.

I felt his finger probing between my thighs, and opened them slightly wider to accommodate him. What felt like a forefinger slipped into my dripping wet cunt, then traced back over my anus before I heard the sounds of sucking.

"Fuck you taste good," Brad said, but suddenly his compliment was removed from my mind by a stinging, thwacking crack as his hand struck my buttocks.

"Ouch," I yelped.

Brad's response was another cracking blow: "Ouch, thank-you, whipmaster!"

"Ouch, thank-you, whipmaster," I responded, trying desperately to suppress a giggle as I did so.

Then another blow fell, followed by the delicate tracing of his finger through my sex, across my anus and up to his mouth. I heard an inhalation, then a sucking sound, and another compliment: "This is the sweetest tasting pussy I've fingered all day!"

I yelped in outrage: "Whipmaster, really – what a back-handed compliment!"

His response was another stunning blow which made my buttocks jounce from its force.

"And that was a forehand, my sweet-assed little tramp," he said, as the blow burned its way into my posterior.

Brad continued spanking me, announcing from time to time that my buttocks were turning a nice shade of pink. In between each stroke, his finger slipped into my sex trench, travelled from cunt to anus, sometimes from cunt to clit, and by the time he had rained some 20 blows onto my backside I was throbbing with lust.

"Now get up, suck my cock and thank me for your first spanking, then get into the reverse position for your second," he instructed me in a no-nonsense tone.

I stood, ruefully rubbing my buttocks, then bent over and sucked on his rigid manhood, its tip gleaming with pre-cum, its foreskin pulled slightly back and presenting a little glimpse of pink helmet flesh.

"Thank-you whipmaster," I whispered, "please continue with my punishment." 

Then I arranged myself so I was across his lap facing in the opposite direction. This time he spanked me with his other hand, but that made no difference – his hand was just as strong as the first, his finger still continued its probing of my dripping sex between strokes and soon I was trying hard to maintain my composure as he fingered me towards a climax.




Linda and the Lash Ch. 02



Finally, he was satisfied and ordered me to stand with my buttocks towards him. I then felt his tongue run a slippery slide of tracery over my cheeks, before slipping between my ass crack and licking at my anus. I bent over slightly, allowing him easier access to my brown bud.

"Now get your hands on the bed, feet spread wide," he said huskily.

As I complied with his directive, Brad went to a large jar sitting on a dressing table. Unscrewing the top he returned to my position and dipped five fingers of one hand into the creamy, cool solution and smeared it all over my breasts. The cool sensation was heaven for my poor breasts. Brad massaged the cream into my globes, paying special attention to my teased titties, then dipped his hand into the cream jar again.

This time his cream-covered fingers placed the stuff all over my burning buttocks. He repeated it, the coolness of the cream feeling like balm to my flesh.

Then he smeared his fingers once more and rubbed the cream all over his abdomen and upper thighs, before using his dry hand to grasp his cock head and guide it to my totally receptive cunt.

As he thrust into me his cream-covered abdomen splatted against my similarly covered buttocks. With each thrust there was a sensual splatting noise as our bodies made contact.

As he punched his cock into me, Brad's non-creamed hand slipped around my front and its fingers traced along my sex trench. His stroking soon brought me towards my climax, and then I was shuddering and shaking as the climax hit home, making me graunch and grind my buttocks against his belly.

As I subsided from the thrill of my orgasm, Brad pulled his cock away from me and then I heard him panting with lust. Next a splotch of cream fell onto the small of back, then another, and another. Only it was a different cream from the one he had massaged into my titties and buttocks.

And it was a lot warmer.

To be continued... 



Linda and the Lash Ch. 03



I chose a deliberately provocative outfit for the next Friday as Brad was due to pick me up from work to take him to his "floggery" up in the valley.

I put on a tight red blouse which hugged my breasts. I was wearing a black bra with high uplifts. My only other outer garment was a tight little black PVC miniskirt, which hid a little black thong – hid, that is, unless I bent well over, something I fully intended to do in front of Brad! My legs were bare, my feet shod in ridiculously high-heeled shoes, red like the blouse.

My boss was intrigued. "You look a hooker dressed for a date with a sex maniac, Linda," he laughed, as we discussed an item on the baseball myths story, which he disagreed with. I was able to show him sufficient records to prove that me and our author were right.

Brad drove into our car park just before 5 o'clock, and I dashed from the building and leaped into his little Ford GT40 and gave him a swift kiss and a big hug.

"Fuck, Linda," he laughed, "are you going to some hookers' convention?"

I grinned and retailed my boss's remark.

"Well," said Brad, as he drove out of the car park and headed for the freeway, "it's just perfect. I've got a couple of guests here from London – they arrived on Wednesday and they're dying to meet you."

I felt a twinge of disappointment. I craved for Brad and the discipline of his lash, then the tender strength of his fucking. I didn't want guests slowing me down.

"Who are they?" I asked, pouting somewhat petulantly as Brad negotiated the rush hour madness that's LA traffic.

"The man is a university professor from Cambridge," Brad informed me. "He's a member of our authors group in Punishment Publications and – and I hope you don't mind this – he's black. I hope you've got nothing against black men."

I tried to shrug off my disappointment that there were visitors at Brad's home by making a joke: "The only thing I've got against black men is usually their faces on my pussy. Or their cocks on my cunt." Total lies, but Brad laughed.

"Good then you'll like Gary – his given name is Garfield, but to spare him we abbreviate it to Gary," said my author-cum-whipmaster, as he gunned the Ford into a gap.

"What's he lecture in?" I asked, tightening my seat belt a tad.

"He specializes in 18th century American history, with emphasis on the slave trade, hence his interest in aspects of flagellation," said Brad. "And you'll like his wife – Carmen, she's black, beautiful and 40. He's 50, but young for his age."

"And she's his flogging interest?" I asked, curious now.

"Any naked woman tied down to a torture bench is Gary's flogging interest," said Brad, sliding his hand under the hem of my miniskirt and pushing it up to my now rather moist black thong.

Then Brad changed the subject. "Tell me, what baseball myths have you been working on to further disillusion me over our national sporting pastime," he asked.

"Nothing much," I said, "but I found out something interesting about Hack Wilson."

Brad nodded. "Chicago Cubs, 1930, 191 runs batted in, will stand as a record for all time," he said.

"Correct," I nodded. "But a lot of people think that 1930 with his ribbies and his 58 home runs was a fluke. A lot of people in Chicago still call him 'a one season wonder'."

Brad smiled sideways at me, his eyes still on the road. "And you are going to disabuse me?" he asked.

"Certainly," I said, smugly. "Between 1926 and 1930 he averaged 35 homers and 141 RBIs a season. Then, sad to say, the booze got to him."

The rest of the ride went in near silence, Brad no doubt thinking what a smarty-pants I was, me wondering if I was going to get on with Gary and his wife, Carmen. I needn't have worried!

On arrival, I stepped from the car, Brad took my bag and we walked into the air lounge. Seated on a long leather couch, their arms wrapped around each other, their mouths locked in a lingering kiss were two black people. Two naked black people.

"Ahem," Brad coughed and the pair disengaged and stood to greet us.

"Linda this is Gary and Carmen – I guess you can work \out which is Gary and which is Carmen," he laughed.

Gary, a tallish, silver-haired man with a ripplingly-muscled body, sparkling brown eyes and a massive erection which displayed his lovely circumcised cock, stepped towards me and kissed me gently on the cheek.

"My dear," he said, in a deep, heavily-accented English voice, "I've heard so much about you and I'm hugely interested in seeing you suffer under the lash. Meet Carmen."

And he stepped aside and his wife also held out her hand. "Hi honey," she smiled, as I admired her wonderful nude figure. "Take no notice of Mr Hard-On here, he's just getting excited at the thought of giving me my daily whipping."

Like her husband, Carmen had a well-educated English accent, and also a well-toned body. Her breasts were full – they must have been 40 inchers, I thought. Her buttocks were lush, her thighs large, her calves well-muscled. But everything was in proportion. Big but beautiful. At her pussy her pubic hair was shaved back into a severe crew cut, and the blackness gleamed there like ebony, the pubic hair stubby and crinkly. Her head was cut in a similarly short style, cropped severely back. She exuded sex appeal.

"Well, we're off to get changed," said Brad. "We'll come down to the chamber to watch you work on her, Gary," he added, then took me by the arm and led me upstairs.

In his bedroom, Brad quickly stripped off, revealing his open-fronted "whipmaster" briefs, his seven-inch erection standing out stiff and proud from his bunched balls.

I stepped out of my skirt and threw my blouse on the bed. "Magnificent," said Brad, "you look good enough to eat. But that will have to wait. Leave the bra and thong on, it will excite Gary to see you in your sluttish lingerie."

Then he took me by the hand and we walked downstairs to the basement. At the door of the "floggery", Brad pressed his mouth against my cheek and whispered: "Don't worry, I'll look after you. And remember, it's just some erotic fun and games."

He opened the door and we stepped inside the torture chamber. There, lying strapped down on the leather-padded X-shaped bench was Carmen, her lush large body looking superb. At her splayed open thighs he sex lips gleamed garishly pink in the strong light, a shocking contrast to the rest of her deep brown skin.

Gary stepped away from his wife and smiled at us. "Ah, lovely, quite lovely," he said to Brad. "I quite see what you mean. A charming, coltish young creature."

Then, with a wave of his hand towards his wife, Gary said: "I'm afraid Carmen here is quite dry, Brad. I wondered if you'd like to get her rather more aroused before I get started? Say 'no' if you wish, and I'll do the job myself."

From where I stood it was obvious that Carmen's pussy was fully aroused prior to her punishment, but Brad and Gary obviously had other ideas!

"It will be my pleasure, dear chap," said Brad, in an irritating mock-British accent, and with that he moved to where he was standing between Carmen's totally accessible pussy. With one hand he guided his erection so that it grazed along the bound woman's sex trench.

"You have no objections to me lubricating you a little, do you my darling?" he asked Carmen, in an obsequious tone.

"No master, please feel free," came her whispered response, as Brad continued to rub his cock's helmet against the naked woman's minge.

Brad then knelt to the lushly-carpeted floor of the chamber and placed his mouth against Carmen's pussy. As he did so, Gary stepped beside me and placed a proprietorial near hand against one of my bare buttocks, while he brought his free hand around to cup my right breast and stroke it with gently, feather-like touches.

Soon Carmen was sobbing in delight as Brad's lips and tongue worked her towards a climax, but before she could enjoy the delights of an orgasm, Brad – his cock thicker than I'd ever seen it – stood and stepped back from his fellow author's wife.

"I think she's ready now, Gary. Give us a good display, there's a good chap," he said, and moved to me, kissing me softly so I could taste and smell the pussy juice on his mouth before he gently took me to a large easy chair, set off at a slight angle and providing a perfect view of Carmen's naked and bound body.

Brad sat and indicated I should settle in his lap. I did, nuzzling up to his manly features, licking in his ear, kissing him, stroking his stiffness. I wanted him, but I was intrigued to watch what was about to unfold with Gary and Carmen.

From a bench of implements, the hard-cocked black man selected a little lash with two thongs and a short leather grip. It was black and shone evilly in the light.

Then he walked to the area between the lower arms of the X-bench and traced the flogger's two tips along his wife's sex trench.

"And now, dear Carmen, would you care to tell us why you're here and about to be punished?" asked Gary, stroking the implement up and down Carmen's luscious-lipped labia.

"Because I refused to be taken by Master Brad, master," Carmen intoned in a quivering, frightened voice. I also noticed that she pronounced the words "master" as "massuh".

Brad kissed me on the mouth and whispered: "Great little actress. Deserves an Oscar – or a whipping!"

Gary continued with his "interrogation".

"But Master Brad is the plantation overseer, he's allowed to 'take you' as you so genteely put it," said Gary, the two-thonged quirt still tracing a delicate path along his wife's sex lips.

"I'm sorry, master, I'll behave from now on, I promise, only please don't flog me, please!" The begging seemed legitimate.

Suddenly Gary's hand moved back and the quirt cracked home with a splat on Carmen's pussy.

"Don't flog you? Stupid child. Refuse the advances of my overseer and that's all you will get."

And the quirt struck home again. I looked at Brad. His gaze was transfixed on the flogging take place in front of him. Carmen had started to moan, then sob. Gary continued his attack, the quirt making splatting sounds as it cruelly caressed the lush labia lips.

Finally, after some 20, possibly 25 strokes, the 40-year-old woman broke out into pleas for mercy.

"Please massuh, mercy, please, massuh, no more, pretty please," Carmen called out as her pinioned pussy continued to take the full brunt of the flogger's strokes.

And then Gary was done, stepping stiff-pricked away from his victim.

Gary stepped over to the chair where Brad and I had witnessed his whip work. "And now Overseer Brad, you may have your way with the little slut. But I suggest before you take her you taste her punished pussy. I daresay you'll find it extremely tasty."

"Thank-you, sir," said Brad, standing and moving towards the naked woman.

Gary then sat in the easy chair and pulled me onto his lap, his mouth seeking mine as he did so. As I sat on him I felt his cock pressing between my thighs, hot and sticky at the tip. I ran my hand down and stroked its superb thickness.

As I caressed his manhood, I watched as Brad knelt in front of the "slaves" bare pussy and resumed his oral adoration there. Only now, Carmen's pussy must have been throbbing like crazy after Gary's assaulted with the dual-tipped quirt.

As Brad's mouth began its work on her minge, Carmen began to moan and groan, occasionally crying out "Oh for fuck's sake, no more, please, no more" but Brad was inexorable, licking and laving at her sex trench.

Gary's free hand was roving around my right breast, cupping my bra and thrusting gently with his cock as my hand worked on it. Then he kissed me softly and smiled: "There, that was fun, wasn't it?"

I broke from his kiss and looked at his extremely handsome face. "Fun for whom?" I asked.

"Why, for Carmen and me and – I hope – for Brad and you, my dear," he said in that upper-crust accent.

Then we both watched as Brad's oral attentions were now bringing Carmen to a climax. It had taken him a while to arouse her past the pain that must have been throbbing and tingling in her pussy but slowly the pleasure began to exceed the pain.

"Oh fuck, that's gorgeous Brad, tongue fuck me, tongue fuck you brute!" Carmen cried, and then she was coming on his mouth, noisily – one of the noisiest climaxes I'd ever heard.

As her sobbing ebbed, Brad stood and placed his cock against the panting woman's cunt. All pretence of master-slave roles were gone as Carmen smiled up at him with a beatific grin.

And then Brad was sliding up her cunt, thrusting, his buttocks flexing, then relaxing, flexing, relaxing, as he moved his cock up and down her sex tunnel. It took him only a minute or two to reach his own, much quieter, climax.

As his excitement peaked, Brad jerked away from Carmen's pussy and with a swift double jerk of his hand on his sex-smeared slippery shaft he shot a spray of spunk onto her beautiful brown belly, then another shorter plume, then a third, which merely dribbled from his cock head to splat onto her mons.

After both had recovered, Brad moved around the bench, unstrapping Carmen's body from her bonds. As she rose from the bench she stepped into Brad's arms and kissed him slowly on the mouth, rubbing her cum-stained belly and crotch against his.

"Thank-you, darling, what a lovely way to end a flogging," she grinned.

Then she moved to her husband where I was still seated in his lap, stroking his hard-on. "And thank-you, you darling plantation owner, where would I be without you?" she asked, planting a kiss on his mouth.

Gary laughed and told her: "A darn sight less sexually fulfilled, you hussy."

Brad joined in the laughter and announced: "Come on, time for dinner. We can work on this little piece of trash after." And he held out a hand to assist me from my seat on Gary's stiffy.

Over dinner – rare fillet steaks, green salad and another of those big Australian reds that Brad described as "a real ball tearer" – Gary discussed the politics at Cambridge, his wife spoke of similar machinations at BBC television where she worked as a presenter, Brad railed against the international laws on copyright.

For my part I repeated my stories of baseball myths. I thought I sounded shallow alongside the others but Gary, especially, seemed very interested in my New York Mets stories and was particularly keen to read up on the flawed Cub, Hack Wilson.

After clearing away the dishes, Brad announced: "And now for the dessert, gang – I present Linda and her lovely little librarian's pussy!"

I was still clad in my lingerie, the others were totally naked – you couldn't count Brad's cock-revealing shorts as a garment. Brad led the way downstairs and while Carmen and her husband snuggled up on the spectators' chair, my lovely whipmaster removed my bra and then my thong.

I stood nude, displaying my breasts and shaved pussy for the inspection by the audience.

"Lovely," said Gary, in a low murmur. "Perky young breasts, slim pussy lips, but long legs. Charming, my dear Linda."

Then I was strapped down to the X-bench. Like last week, Brad produced his favourite pussy punisher for my chastisement and walking around in front of my exposed pussy he placed one hand on my minge and ran his fingers from anus to mons in a slow, teasing movement. My pussy was, I knew full well, dripping wet.

"Oh dear," said Brad, turning to Carmen and Gary, "I'm afraid we have a problem. Linda is obviously very scared at what's about to happen to her. Her pussy is very dry – far too dry for me to commence with her punishment yet. Gary, would you be a chum and lubricate her for me?"

The word "chum" and Brad's mock English accent when he spoke it, irritated me but that irritation was quickly forgotten when I felt Gary's hot breath on my minge and then his tongue lapping at my sodden sex. For some minutes he sucked and laved at my labia until I was starting to rise towards an orgasm.

Sensing my impending excitement, Brad stepped to his "chum" and said: "Thanks, Gary, I think that will do for now."

The university lecturer stood, his cock swaying stiffly and displaying pre-cum dripping from its circumcised helmet, and smiled down at me. "Thank-you, my dear, such a tasty little twat," he grinned before resuming his place in the chair, his naked wife curled up on his lap.

Now Brad took charge, stepping to behind the head of the bench and pressing his erection down to my mouth. I took the first two inches or so in, but the position was awkward to get any real sucking going. Realising this, Brad tweaked my right nipple with a painful little pinch, then stepped off until he was level with my waist.

Unlike the scenario chosen by Gary and Carmen for their exhibition of pussy punishment, Brad had no intention of inventing a "story" for my torment.

Placing the punisher against my minge he drew it back then brought it down sharply so the leather splatted against my sex.

"Aaargh," I cried, feeling the stunning shock of the flogger's impact.

"Oh how glorious, she screams," cried Gary from the chair. "So sweet."

Another blow fell on my defenseless pussy, sending myriads of little electric shocks through my labia and clitoris. "Ummmmf," I called out, trying to choke back the pain.

"I'm sorry about this," said Brad, stroking the flogger against my sex with a slow stroke. "I can gag her if it's annoying."

"Please don't," said Carmen, this time. "It's lovely hearing her cry out. Let her vocalise her pain."

And Brad continued with my discipline. The flogger came down once more, sending more shock waves through my genitals, shock waves which punched up into my belly. I gritted my teeth and managed to remain silent.

Then Brad flashed the flogger down but at the last nanosecond pulled it up and away from my minge. "Ummf," I called.

"Really, Linda," my punisher laughed, "crying before you've been hurt. You want something to cry about?" And with that he swept the leather splat across my sex lips. The shocks stormed once more through my pussy, thrilling – yet painful.

Brad continued to work on my poor pussy for about another 20 strokes, interspersing them from time to time with "fake" approaches which had me tensing every muscle in my body, a sight not lost on Gary and Carmen who chuckled at my trepidation.

At last my torment was over and Brad bent over to kiss me on the mouth.

Then, standing, he turned to the black bystanders. "Now Gary, if you would like to give her some cunnilingus I'm sure she would be most appreciative."

"No!" came a sharp cry. It was Carmen who stood up from her stiff-pricked husband's lap. "Gary has already tasted her. It's my turn, Brad."

I looked at the magnificently-bodied Amazon woman, her breast full and hard-nippled, her crinkly little patch of pubic hair gleaming at her dark sex. Although I'm no lesbian, I must confess she looked stunning!

"Be my guest," smiled Brad, bowing slightly to the big-breasted beauty and he walked away from the X-frame.

Carmen approached the bottom arms of the frame and knelt carefully in front of my punished pussy. She placed her nostrils inches from my lips and inhaled.

"Hmmm, what a glorious aroma," she whispered, her mouth so close I could feel her breath on my pussy.

Then her tongue traced from my tight little anus up to my cunt, between my throbbing labia lips and on to my sore little clit.

"And what a gorgeous tasting little quim," said Carmen, in her upper-crust BBC accent.

Then she started to pay superb oral attention to my poor little pussy, her lips and tongue inflicting glorious pangs of pain as she worked over the area so recently flogged by my whipmaster. 

At first tingles of electric-like pain flashed through my pussy at every touch, every kiss, every lick, but gradually the pain ebbed and the pleasure started to replace it.

As Carmen began to arouse me towards my orgasm, Brad and Gary stepped to either side of my upper body and unstrapped the bonds which held me down. Then, pulling up two little stools, they sat on either side of my upper chest and each took a nipple in their mouths and to augment Carmen's exquisite cunnilingus they began to suck and kiss each erect little nubbin.




Linda and the Lash Ch. 03



Then, with the twin titty sucking by the men and the pussy worship by the wonderful woman, I became excited and felt a tingling running through my sex – I was going to piss myself!

"Oh fuck, Carmen, please, I'm going to wet myself, I can't control it," I informed my big-breasted cunnilinguist.

Carmen's reaction was to increase the speed of her tongue tempo on my pussy, it was now fairly racing across my cunt lips, my labia and my clit, up and down, faster and faster.

"Carmen, for fuck's sake, I'm going to piss!" I cried out.

Carmen continued her oral adoration but Gary and Brad ceased their nipple sucking and both went to where they could watch my total degradation as I emptied my bursting bladder.

"Let it go, Linda, let it go!" Brad urged and half-sitting up from the bench where my head lay I looked down at Carmen's head, bobbing up and down as she traversed my pussy. She showed no signs of stopping – and I had to pee!

With a sob of relief I cried out "Yeees" and a stream or urine jetted from my urethra. Carmen didn't miss a beat. As I expelled my golden stream I heard a sound of gulping as the big black woman drank me down!

Finally I was done and I fell back on the bench and Carmen looked up at me with a smile. "And now, madam, are you going to fucking come?" she asked, the word "fucking" sounding so out of place in her beautifully modulated and high-class English accent.

Carmen's mouth resumed its work, and then I was coming on it. The pressure gone from my bladder, I revelled in the wonderful feeling of release as the 40-year-old licked and laved me to a screaming, shouting Big O.

The lovely lady stepped away from my sweat-stained body and placed a warm pair of lips onto mine. "Thank-you Linda, your golden cocktail was gorgeous – it must be that lovely Australian wine," she smiled.

"And now, my dear," I heard Brad say. "it's time for Gary to get his rocks off."

I looked down towards my pussy and saw the silver-haired black man standing, his prick level with my cunt, a big grin on his face.

"Just a modest little nine inches but I trust I won't disappoint you my dear," he announced as I felt the helmet of his cut cock press against my cunt lips.

Then, as I gave a sharp intake of breath, the biggest prick I'd ever experienced began to move slowly but inexorably up my vagina. I breathed out and tried to relax as his huge muscle kept thrusting into me, then his crinkly-haired pubic bone was against mine. Slowly, but gently, he began to perform up and down thrusts, his hands reaching out to cup and stroke my breasts as he fucked me.

"Fuck, she's got such a tight little cunt, Brad," said the professor, as he continued his fuck strokes.

His cock was massive, but by now magnificent, as well.

"Oh fuck me," I gasped, a remark which was a comment of awe as well as a request, as I relaxed and began to enjoy his thrusting strokes.

Then, after a seemingly short time, but which in reality was about three minutes, Gary pulled out from my cunt and placed his shaft against my sex trench, its helmet lying just above my mons, its one eye peeping up at me. Then a plume of spunk erupted and landed just beneath my breasts. Then another splattered onto my belly, then a third dribbled out onto my mons. Then he was done.

Brad produced some tissues and cleaned me, while Gary sat back and sprawled in the easy chair. Carmen walked around the lower arms of the X-frame and freed me. Then we all walked upstairs.

On reaching the lounge, Carmen whispered in my ear: "Time for some girl talk. Let's go upstairs." Then she turned to the men: "Linda and I are going upstairs for a woman-to-woman chat. Why don't you watch one of those flagellation movies you're both so fond of?"

Then, taking me by the hand, Carmen took me up to the guest bedroom and knelt to slip my high heels off – I'd worn them throughout my session in the basement – and patted the bed.

"Hop on the bed, Linda," she said. "Those two will be stroking their hard-ons down there for hours. I want to know all about you."

The lush-breasted beauty lay beside me and kissed me sensuously on the mouth. "And I don't mean Des Moines, or wherever you're from, I don't mean fucking Hack Wilson or Casey Sodding Stengel.

"I mean your love of the lash. Tell me!"

I snuggled against her, marvelling at the full firmness of her big breasts as they mashed against my firm, but far smaller, pair.

"It's like electricity," I said. "It's a sort of tingling. And the wonderful feeling of apprehension in your belly before the stroke. Then the hundreds of little shocks – especially when it's your pussy being punished. It's all so shocking, so decadent, but they way Brad does it, so fucking exciting."

"And the sex? What about the sex?" asked Carmen, her hand straying to my pussy, pulling one leg away so she could gain easier access.

"The sex is electric, too," I confessed. "I've never had better sex. Such fantastic orgasms. It's so exciting."

Then I remembered my "accident" on the X-frame. "Oh, sorry Carmen, when I said 'exciting' it's just that I couldn't control myself down there – I just had to piss."

Carmen smiled and pressed her mouth against mine. "Forget it, I have a thing about urine, guess I'm a bit kinky that way. Anyway, the men found it hugely arousing, I bet."

Then she lay back and widened her thighs. "I've licked you, like to try me?"

I looked at her, trying to frame a reply. "I'm, I'm – er, I'm not a lesbian," I said. "I've never done it."

Carmen's face broke into a soft, reassuring smile. "Trust me, you'll like it," she said, placing a strong, firm hand on my neck and pressing me down towards her minge.

As I neared the target the most exquisitely powerful perfume invaded my senses. It was that sexily female scent that every woman who's fingered herself to orgasm has smelled after pressing her fingers to her face in the post-Big O delight.

I placed my tongue onto her large labia lips, licking inside them on the bright pink inner flesh. Her cunt was dripping wet and inviting. Then I abandoned all reserve and began to work her over like a total whore, like a slut.

What had the boss said that morning? That I was dressed like "a hooker who had a date with a sex maniac"?

Well, if he could only see me now!

To be continued.



Linda and the Lash Ch. 04



Towards the end of breakfast the following morning - Carmen and I sat naked, the men in thongs - Brad looked at Gary with what I thought was a malicious grin. "What say we give Linda a double F?" he asked.

The term "double F" meant nothing to me, but Gary was obviously fully aware of what his host was talking about. "What a wonderful idea," he said, pouring himself another black coffee from the big pot in the center of the table.

Then his wife piped up: "And how about a videotape of the proceedings?"

Brad looked at the lush-breasted black woman. "You good with a video camera, Carmen?"

The big woman laughed. "Good? Brad, you don't work for the BBC for as long as I have without being able to operate the play and pause buttons. I'm pretty good with the zoom, too!"

The men laughed, but I was still intrigued to know what the fuck a "double F" was. So I did the natural thing – I asked.

Brad looked at the Cambridge University professor. "What d'ya reckon, Gary? Shall we tell her, or let her find out?"

The handsome silver-haired black man smiled and looked at me with amusement. "Keep her in suspense, Brad, old boy," he said, in his upper-crust Limey accent. "She'll soon work it out once we've started."

"That's settled then," said Brad, all business-like. "Let's clear up this mess and we can get started. Carmen, take our lovely little lash lover down to the basement. Gary and I will sort all these plates and things out. The camera's by the television."

Carmen and I then went down to Brad's beautifully-appointed torture chamber and once inside I asked her: "What the fuck is a 'double F' Carmen?"

The beautiful black bird grinned, as she looked the video camera over, making herself au fait with its operation.

"What two things, starting with 'f' do our boy friends like most, sweetie," she said in her BBC accent.

That wasn't a question that took much thought on my part. "Fucking and flogging?" I said, "but not necessarily in that order."

"Precisely," said Carmen, but any further conversation was made impossible by the arrival of Brad and Gary, both now naked, both sporting hard-ons. Brad's seven-inches of uncut cock was beautiful, but dwarfed by Gary's nine-inch circumcized monster.

Then, as Carmen focused the camera and pressed the record button, the two naked men took me to the leather flogging bench and soon had me strapped over it, my thighs dragged wide as my ankles were pinioned at the wide bottom legs.

They then went to the equipment bench and returned to my bound body each carrying small whips. The handles were about as long as the width of a man's palm, the six lashes on each flogger were no longer than one foot in length and gleamed, made as they were of red rubber.

Brad took up his place in front of my face, his cock hovering only inches from my mouth. Gary stepped behind me.

"She'll probably need some lubrication, Gary," Brad informed his fellow flogger. "She's all yours."

There was, of course, no way I needed any lubrication down there. I was extremely aroused and I knew my pussy was simply streaming love juice. Not that that, of course, was anything to do with matters. It was simply that before they began my flogging I had to be licked towards arousal.

Carmen moved around with the camera and filmed as her husband knelt behind my displayed pussy and began to lick and kiss at my wetness. Soon I was panting from delight, but I was immediately quietened by Brad who pressed his seven-inch prick into my mouth and hissed: "Suck me, bitch!"

As I began to fellate Brad's lovely penis, I felt Gary rise from his kneeling position and then experienced the wonderful thrust of his monster as he pushed it deep into my cunt.

Carmen stood off to one side filming my double penetration when Brad nodded to his partner in punishment: "Time to start, I think."

And then I felt the floggers begin their stinging, exciting work. Gary laid the first blow on me, it fell with a splat of the thongs across my shoulder blades. When the flogger had been dragged back down to my buttocks and away from my body, Brad took his turn – only his stroke cracked against the upper crests of my heaving buttocks, before tracing a path back up my back over my shoulder blades.

And so my fiery flagellation continued. First Gary would flog my upper back, then Brad would attack my buttocks, one stroke, then another, as they continued to fuck me in my cunt and my mouth.

After several minutes of this, Brad pulled his stiffly-swaying cock from my compliant mouth and in a husky, excited voice, said: "Time to switch, I think."

The men moved around my strapped, naked body and then I was confronted with Gary's massive, sex juice-smeared nine inches, its circumcized helmet purple and gleaming. I took about half of it into my mouth as Brad's smaller but no less satisfying cock invaded my cunt.

Then, when they had both established a steady tempo of thrusting, Brad obviously nodded to his partner in pain, because I heard no oral instruction, but the floggers resumed their punishing attacks to my upper back and buttocks.

Soon, Brad was gasping and he announced to Carmen: "Get ready for a money shot, Carmen, I'm just about there."

Carmen's camera was aimed at my pummelled posterior, then Brad was out of me, his cock was poised against my burning buttocks and his spunk was shooting out in a plume of semen onto my back.

He had hardly finished, than Gary told his wife: "I'm coming round to give her some more."

Carmen nodded and aimed her lens at my gaping cunt as her husband's monstrous weapon thrust into me once more. Then, after about a minute of humping and heaving, the university lecturer withdrew to shoot his seed above the now cooling splotch of spunk that Brad had deposited so recently.

As Gary was spunking on my back, Brad had pressed his cock – going limp but still quite stiff – into my mouth for a final clean up. Gary did the same after his ejaculation, then my ordeal was over.

Both men released me from the bench, both gave me long, lingering, smoochy kisses.

Afterwards, Brad hugged me and asked: "Now, my lovely little librarian, you know what we mean by a 'double F', don't you?"

"Double flogging, double fucking?" I grinned.

"Go to the top of the class, my dear," said Brad.

"And that's a take!" Carmen cried and pressed the stop button on the video camera, and we all trooped upstairs.

Later, after Brad had transferred the film to a videotape which could later watch on the big screen, he looked at Gary and asked: "Time for Carmen to enjoy a little of the lash?"

Gary nodded enthusiastically. "I think it's time she had a taste of the prancing pony," he said.

Brad broke into a broad smile. "Oh that's just so fucking sexy – and so punishing," he said. "Linda, reckon you can operate the video camera?"

"You betcha," I said, eager to witness the "prancing pony". The "double F" had me unawares, but I thought I knew what the prancing pony would be like.

After a period of rest and recuperation, spent frolicking in the lovely blue waters of Brad's pool, with its wonderful view out to the valley, we all towelled down. Brad then produced a piece of chalk and made a mark on the paving stones off to one side of the pool.

"That's where you'll prance, Carmen," he said, then we all went inside and got ready.

I was given the camera with a fresh one hour tape. "Should be long enough," said Gary.

I put on a baseball cap to shade my head, then some high heels and went out poolside to await the arrival of Brad, Gary and Carmen.

From inside the house I heard Brad call out: "Start filming now, Linda. We're bringing her out through the lounge sliding windows."

I brought the camera's viewfinder to bear on the windows, then Carmen emerged from the room. She was a stunning sight.

A sort of leather band had been placed around the top of her head and springing up from it was a deep black feathered plume. In her mouth was a red rubber bit, which was strapped around the back of her head. Her wrists were encased in black leather cuffs with D rings, which had been clipped to a black leather choker around her neck. Her elbows thus pointed out straight ahead and horizontally.

Carmen's luscious 40-inch breasts were thrown into mouth-watering uplift by a black leather quarter-cup brassiere. Nipple clamps had been attached to her large, erect nubbins, linked by a chain which hung down below the bra thanks to a little lead ball through which the chain was threaded.

On Carmen's feet were black shoes, the patent leather gleaming. The shoes had thick, chunky high heels. Her pussy and buttocks were bare, her body was shining all dark brown and choclatey in the warm Californian sunshine.

Then I heard a call from Brad: "Walk on!" Next came a sound of a whip cracking. Then Carmen began to move out towards the spot where Brad had marked with chalk. She walked – no, make that pranced slowly, with each step she brought a knee up until her thigh was horizontal with the ground. Her tits wobbled deliciously as she advanced towards me. Then, when she reached the marked spot, she halted but slowly continued her prancing, bringing her knees smartly up to the horizontal each time.

Behind her, walking slowly so as to stay behind her came Brad and Gary, both naked, both aroused, their cocks swaying as they jutted out from their groins. Each carried buggy whips, thin, supple implements which must have been almost five feet long!

Gary moved to his wife's left and with a sweeping cut of the buggy whip across her bouncing buttocks he ordered: "Halt!"

I moved around to behind the black woman's back and took a three-quarter shot of Gary bringing back the buggy whip and then slashing it across his wife's buttocks, leaving a thin line where it had bitten into her flesh. On receipt of the stroke, Carmen smartly lifted her right foot until her thigh was level with the ground, her foot pointing daintily down to the ground. Then she held it, perfectly balanced, her left calf and thigh rippling with the strain of the stance.

Gary then moved behind her until he was off to her right. Again the buggy whip slashed. Down went Carmen's right foot and up came her left, until this time her left thigh was horizontal to the ground, her foot again pointing down. This time the calf and thigh of her right leg strained under the pressure of one-legged stance.

Now it was Brad's turn to whip his persuader against Carmen's beautiful big bottom. As he did so, Gary moved in front of his wife and indicated to me with a jerk of his head that I should film from the front. When I was in position Gary spoke: "Now, my lovely little prancing pony, shall we see if you are ticklish? That'll be fun, won't it?"

And without waiting for any nod of indication from his wife – she obviously couldn't speak with the rubber bit in her mouth – Gary placed the tip of the buggy whip against Carmen's sex trench, flicking it along the lips, teasingly.

Carmen's face was already sweating in the sun, and her body was also taking on a lovely sheen from her perspiration. She obviously had to concentrate like crazy to maintain her balance as her husband ran the tip of his buggy whip along her sex. Then Gary moved off to his wife's left side ready to inflict his next two strokes after Brad had landed his two.

When Brad reached the front of the sweat-stained "pony" he also teased her by running the buggy whip up against her sex lips.

This torment went on for 10 or 15 minutes, the two stiff-pricked men circling their prey, sometimes tickling her minge with their whips, sometimes ignoring her, so she could never be sure if the whip was going to flick between her thighs.

Then, after their first flagellation foray, Brad called out: "Gary, I don't know about you, but I'm finding this thirsty fucking work. What say we break for a beer?"

Gary had just struck a blow from Carmen's left side, so her right thigh, leg and foot were in the air in the pony pose.

"Great idea, let's go – and Linda, keeping filming so we can check later that Carmen doesn't cheat while we're gone and lower her foot!" And with that the two laughing men walked back into the house where their voices could be heard as they enjoyed cold beers inside.

Meanwhile, I was finding it extremely hot out in the sun simply holding the video camera and recording Carmen's punishment. For her it must have been far worse. She was sweating under the full brunt of the sun and she was maintaining what I was sure was an excruciatingly difficult pose. I timed the wait she had, poised on one foot, at four minutes, before the men returned to enjoy continue the torment of their lovely plaything.

Gary stepped off to his wife's right and snapped: "Right, time you worked up a decent sweat, my darling little prancing pony. Quick prancing – commence!" And with that he cracked the buggy whip across her backside.

Now Carmen went into a quick, on-the-spot prancing, her feet tapping up and down on the pavers, her body gleaming until it was covered in a slippery sheen of perspiration which ran into thin streams down her nearly naked body. At her mouth, drool ran from the corners of her mouth and dripped onto her chin.

The men stood in front of her, stroking their cocks as the prancing pony worked.

Then Brad took charge. Stepping off to her left side he whipped the leather punisher across her wobbling, jouncing buttocks and snapped "Slow prance – commence!"

The panting pony then slowed the tempo of her movements to that of her prancing gait on her walk out of the house to the chalk mark.

Finally, the men relented and called a halt. When I say "called" I mean "whipped", of course. Brad lashed the buggy whip across poor Carmen's buttocks and called "Halt!"

She finally came to a rest, heaving and panting from her exertions. But the men had still not finished with her!

"Bend!" snapped Brad, and Carmen inclined her upper body forward until she was almost, but not quite, bending over horizontally to the ground.

Brad stepped behind the woman's upturned cheeks and stroked his erection. "May I?" he inquired of Gary.

"My dear chap," said the university lecturer in his posh English accent, "be my guest."

And Brad guided his stiff-helmeted prick to Carmen's pink cunt lips and thrust smoothly up her. I filmed it all, his buttocks tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing as he fucked her and then withdrew seconds before his climax so I could get "the money shot" as he sprayed his sperm onto Carmen's glistening back.

Now, I thought, that would be it - but no! Gary was smiling and proudly erect as he stepped to his wife and lifted her chin, forcing her back up to a standing position.

"Right, my darling little pony, that's enough of the slacking. Time you pranced for me again!"

And this time, Gary performed a solo display of buggy whip domination, marching slowly around the beautifully prancing pony as she obeyed each stroke by lifting first her left, then her right legs into the muscle-straining pose demanded by the discipline. I got some great shots of Brad's spunk sliding down her back and onto her glorious buttock globes as she pranced.

For anther 10 minutes she was pranced like this and then Gary then whipped her into a fast prance, then back to a slow prance. And to complete the punishment, he once more had her bent forward for her fuck. Again I got great pictures of the "cum shot" as Gary spunked onto his wife's back.

When I checked the video camera, I saw that I had been filming her ordeal for 45 minutes!

Later, as the men plunged into the pool, Carmen and I sat back in Brad's spa pool and relaxed over long, cooling glasses of vodka and tonic.

"That looked like hard work!" I exclaimed, as Carmen eased her whip-striped buttocks into the water and sucked on her vodka.

"My dear, you can fucking say that again," she said, placing her glass on the side of the pool. Once again the sound of the word "fucking" coming from such a beautifully modulated voice sounded strange.

"It looks like you've been doing it for a while," I said. "I'm sure I couldn't balance like that."

Carmen smiled. "Gary has an hour-long video – it's one of his favorites – of a young woman being trained by two hunks. And if she overbalances, she has to bend over and take six strokes of the cane. I've been trained the same way.

"At first I used to get quite a bit of the cane, but you gradually become used to it and now I'm a very well-trained little prancing pony." Then she grinned and added: "Well, maybe not so little."

"How did you meet a Cambridge University professor who's into flogging prancing ponies?" I asked.

"A lot of people in our flagellation circle ask me that," said Carmen, turning around and kneeling on the seat to ease her poor burning buttocks.

"He appeared on the current affairs programme that I present for the BBC. He was talking about the modern slave trade because the producers thought it would be interesting to have an expert on the American slave trade of the 1700s talk about the way some countries still practice it," she told me.

"After the show I met him in the hospitality room and he invited me out for dinner. Then I went back to his Mayfair flat, which he uses when he's not at Cambridge, and I found these books.

"They were amazing. Titles like 'Sold Into Slavery' and 'Pussy Whipped on the Plantation' and Gary was quite pissed and he told me all about his fetish."

I was interested in the similarities between Carmen's story and mine, but I was also intrigued by her penchant for pain.

"Oh, that's simple," she said. "You see in the UK I'm a hugely famous name. I make a lot of decisions on the program I present, I'm deferred to. Maitre d's kowtow to me like crazy. I boss people around."

"And?" I asked.

"Well," said Carmen, "it's nice every now and again to be on the receiving end of orders. To be told what to do. To be dominated. To be punished. And the whipping never breaks my flesh, never scars me. But it sure as hell excites me! And the sex afterwards is sensational. Isn't it?"

I had to confess it was. "But Gary has fucked me. Doesn't that concern you?"

Carmen smiled. "Darling, I've been around too long to worry about the fact that my old man fancies some younger pieces of fluff from time to time. Sorry, that's very rude. Younger ladies.

"And we have a very open relationship - as you've seen, I'm not exactly the shy spinster-type. And Brad's a great fuck, isn't he?"

"He most certainly is," I agreed. "And Gary's not too dusty either."

Later, after lunch, we sat in front of Brad' big screen and watched the two videos. First up was my "double F", which had been expertly videotaped by Carmen. It was there in all its stinging, delicious detail.

Then came my effort with the camera and Carmen re-lived her "pony prancing" punishment under the expert buggy whipping of Brad and her husband. I'm glad to say that my filming wasn't at all bad, even drawing a compliment from Carmen!

And then, just as the film of her humiliation was drawing to its steamy conclusion, Carmen piped up: "Why don't you train Linda to be a prancing pony, Brad?"

I felt a sudden flutter through my pussy, but Brad's reply possibly made me even more excited.

"I don't know about me," he told Carmen. "I rather think Gary here should do any training due to the lovely young minx. After all, he 'whipped' you into shape, as it were, didn't he?"

Brad then looked at his fellow author and grinned: "How about it, Gary? Care to do the honours?"

Gary looked over at me from his seat on the couch, where he and Carmen had cuddled and stroked each other during the hour and a half of erotic videos. "Well Linda, are you game?"

I nodded quickly. "Yes, Gary," I said, quietly, trying to hide my emotional turmoil. "But please go easy on me, those buggy whips look fearsome. Oh, and I've only got disgustingly high, high heels. Will they do?"




Linda and the Lash Ch. 04



Carmen spoke up. "Let's try you out in my wedgy high heels. I think they might fit you."

The beautiful big television presenter went and fetched the shoes she had worn for her prancing and I slipped them on. "Perfect," I said, walking up and down naked in front of the trio, "in fact they're very comfortable. Let's hope I can stay balanced on one foot in them."

Brad and Carmen then went outside to sit in the shade of a poolside seat – and kiss and cuddle, no doubt – while Gary prepared me for my prancing pony training session.

First he placed the lovely feathered plume on my head, then attached the leather choker around my neck, followed by the cuffs for my wrists which he then hooked to the rings in the choker, pressing my arms straight out, elbows pointing forward.

His next task was to apply the nipple clamps to my already erect nipples – although this didn't stop him from sucking on each, prior to attachment. The heavy ball in the center of the chain dragged on my nipples, causing sharp shooting pains.

Finally, Gary made me open my mouth and inserted the red rubber bit, which he fastened tightly around at the back of my head.

"There, my delightful little pony, look at yourself in the mirror," he said, walking me over to a long mirror on the wall.

I admired myself in my extremely erotic bondage gear, then felt Gary's hard-on pressing against my buttocks.

"I'd really like to fuck you right now, you lovely little librarian you," he whispered in my ear, "but I'm afraid I'm under instructions to begin your training. Sorry 'bout that."

From a stand in the corner of the living room, Gary produced one of the two buggy whips, then he approached me. But before beginning my training, he couldn't resist copping a quick feel!

I felt his forefinger alight on my anus, slip up its first inch or so, then he removed it and traced down to my cunt. And, needless to say, it was a very wet cunt! Gary's finger probed there, too, only deeper this time. Then he withdrew and traced his finger across his nostrils before sucking on it.

"You taste so fucking wonderful," he whispered into my ear. "But now, training calls!"

And he turned me towards the sliding door leading to poolside.

"First I'll start you off with a walk around the pool, so you can get used to the pony prance," said the university professor. "It's simple – just remember that with each step you bring your knees up so those lovely thighs of yours are horizontal to the ground. Right, over to the sliding doors and start prance walking when I give the signal."

I stood by the opening and the "signal" was, of course, a stinging but not unbearable stroke across my buttocks from the buggy whip and a call of "Walk on" from Gary.

I stepped into the heat of the afternoon to see Brad and Carmen, cool drinks in their hands, fondling each other. Brad had his free hand on Carmen's breasts, her free hand was caressing his cock.

I started to high step slowly around the pool, Gary following on behind, several feet behind, occasionally lashing me across the buttocks to remind me "Keep those knees high, pony girl!"

Finally, when he'd brought me to a halt on the X-chalk mark, I was sweating profusely from the exertions in the heat.

Brad commented on it: "A lovely sheen on her coltish young body, Gary. She looks fucking great!"

Gary made no comment, but stepped off to my left. "Right, Linda," he announced, "time to start a slow on-the-spot pony prance. I'm very impressed with what I've seen so far, so keep it up."

Then the buggy whip flashed across my buttocks, sending a searing signal for me to raise my right leg. I wobbled slightly as I did this, but managed to steady myself. I was aware of the sweat running down my naked body in rivulets as I held the pose, silently praying that Gary would move to my right and allow me to change legs.

Then he spoke, as he walked behind my bare back and buttocks: "Since you're a beginner, Linda, I'll not drag out the gaps between your strokes. See, it shows what a benevolent whipmaster I can be, doesn't it?"

I nodded my head, slowly, carefully, just in case it played havoc with my one-legged balancing act. Then, mercifully, I felt the second stroke. I placed my right foot back on the pavers, and drew my left up, again wobbling slightly before steadying myself as my knee reached the correct position.

"Wonderful," called Carmen, as I balanced in front of them. "She's going to make a perfect pony, Gary."

Gary by this time was directly in front of me, one hand stroking his massive erection. Then the tip of the buggy whip was tickling my sex trench. I shut my eyes and tried to concentrate on not over-balancing. Then the whip was removed and Gary was by my left side again.

This went on for several minutes – Brad timed it at 10, apparently – before Gary announced a "change of pace".

"Time for some fast, on-the-spot prancing," he told me, before flicking the whip across my ass.

I started to prance in place, once earning a cut of the biggy whip for going too fast! "Slow it down, Linda, it's not a fucking race!" called my trainer.

Then he ordered me into a slow prance and finally four or five more rounds of the prancing in place and holding the pose, before whipping me to a standstill.

Gary walked to the poolside table, laid the buggy whip on it and walked back to my sweat-stained body. I was panting from my exertions, my backside was burning not only from the attentions of the buggy whip, but also the strong Californian sun.

"Well done, Linda, well done," said Gary, running one hand down my left buttock. "I can see you're going to make one marvellous little prancing pony."

Then he stepped behind me and I could feel his erection pressing between my cheeks. "Now spread those lovely legs wide and bend over, not all the way, just so as I can access your delightful little cunt, my dear," he ordered.

I dipped my upper body over and spread my feet wide. Gary patted my right buttock.

"Perfect, my dear," he said, "your sweet little pussy is in perfect alignment with my cock."

Then, with one hand steering his helmet to my cunt lips and one hand steadying me on the right hip, Gary guided his nine inches of super-strength hard-on into my dripping cunt. He thrust smoothly up me until I could feel his pubic bone banging against my nates.

After establishing a steady rhythm to his fucking, Gary placed his right hand around my front and started to stroke my clit. His fingers were strong, but supple and they sent shock waves of delight coursing through my body as he stroked me with one hand, and fucked me with his mighty cock.

Soon – it didn't take long, I can tell you – I was starting to pant and moan as I felt my orgasm starting. Then, as he maintained his steady tempo, I cried out the famous mantra "I'm coooooming" and exploded beneath him in a paroxysm of sheer pleasure as the climax crashed through me.

It was quite obvious that being a prancing pony girl had its rewards!

To be continued.



Linda and the Lash Ch. 05



A week after Gary, the hugely hung and lovely Cambridge professor, and his beautiful wife Carmen had returned to London, Brad picked me outside work on the Friday afternoon as usual, the Ford GT-40 sounding throaty and impatient to be on the freeway and up to what I now termed his "floggery".

Leaning over to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek, the 40-year-old detective story writer looked at my leather jacket, leather jeans and harshly pulled back hair, drawn into a tight bun.

"Heavens, Linda," he exclaimed, "if I didn't know your kinky tastes better I'd have you confused with a dominatrix."

I laughed. "Play your cards right and I might end your confusion," I told him, throwing my overnight bag into the back of the racy big Ford.

"No thanks," Brad grinned, as he gunned the motor and headed off into LA's awful late afternoon traffic, "I'm much more the flogger than the floggee, thank-you very much."

Out on the freeway and crawling along, much to the dark-haired author's frustration, he laid a protective hand on my leather-clad thigh and asked: "Now tell me, are there are more baseball myths which you can dispel to make me wonder if I'm ever going to read anything about my favourite game in future that I can believe?"

I felt mischievous and simply whispered in his ear: "Say it ain't so, Joe!"

"Oh fuck," said Brad, hitting the wheel of the sports car and grimacing. "That's not another urban myth, surely?"

I began to explain, but Brad cut me off. "No, you little minx, this story can wait till I've got a huge bourbon and coke in me. Then you can disillusion me all you like."

Finally, the traffic eased and Brad drove smoothly, but far too fast for my liking, to his hilltop mansion. I went upstairs, stripped off to my usual garb in his home – naked but for my Manolo Blahniks - and walked downstairs.

Brad was sitting naked in a comfy big leather easy chair looking out at the sprawling city way beneath us, its tower blocks glinting in the late afternoon sun. He was nursing a large, dark drink.

"Help yourself to your poison of preference, you witch," he laughed, "then sit in my lap and tell me all about Shoeless Joe Jackson."

I built myself a large Bombay gin and tonic and returned to his seat. I planted myself in his lap and felt his lovely seven-inches of manhood rise to snuggle against my bare crotch.

"All right," he said, taking a sip on his bourbon, then planting a suck on my left nipple, bringing it instantly to erection, "fire away. And don't think I'm going to be very happy about this."

"Well," I said, "I read the book Eight Men Out, they based the movie on it, remember?"

Brad nodded, pretending to be highly pissed off, but I knew he loved these baseball stories of mine. "Well, in that, it's said that as Joe Jackson came out of that hearing into the 1919 White Sox World Series scandal a man – not a kid – called out to him 'It ain't true, Joe'. Then, a moment or two later the man repeated 'It ain't true, Joe'."

My author-lover said: "Well, it's almost right."

"Yeah," I said, "but then I read Harvey Frommer's book Shoeless Joe and Ragtime Baseball, and Frommer quotes Jackson as saying the 'Say it ain't so, Joe' was never said, but invented by a reporter, Charley Owens, of the Chicago Daily News.

"In fact, Jackson says the only words thrown at him that afternoon were from a man who yelled 'See, I told you the son of a bitch wore shoes'."

"Say," said Brad, "that's a much better line than 'Say it ain't so, Joe', but carry on you dispeller of dreams, you."

I nuzzled up to my man and chewed on his ear, and felt between my thighs. His cock was still there, but not as hard.

"And anyway," snorted Brad, "Joe Jackson? One of the men who threw the series – how do you know he wasn't lying?"

And then I hit him with my line drive. "Oh, I don't think he was lying about this. See, I spoke to Charley Owens' grandson, he's a lawyer in Chicago," I told him.

Brad's eyes narrowed. He knew I was keeping the best till last.

"And?" he almost snarled.

"Mr Owens told me that his father told him that when old Charley Owens was on his deathbed, he whispered to the son 'You know 'Say it ain't so'? I made that up son, only don't tell a soul, OK?' and then the old man died.

"The Owens son eventually did tell someone, and that someone told me. Sorry Brad, there goes another baseball myth."

Brad gulped down his bourbon, took my half-full glass of gin, placed it on the table by his chair, then snapped: "Shit, you've just really, really annoyed me, you luscious little hussy. And for that you're gonna get a spanking. And then a whipping, 'cos a spanking all by itself isn't good enough for you!"

And he forced me over his lap, until my shoes scraped the floor, my hands scrambled for traction on the carpet.

"Thwaaaack". His strong hand smacked down across my left buttock and stung, I mean really stung. Again came the "Thwaaack" and again a lovely warm feeling flowed through my buttock.

In between the strokes, Brad slipped his fingers into my sex crevice, feeling for signs of arousal. His fingers didn't have to probe much – I was sopping wet.

Spank. "Ouch, say it ain't so, Brad!" I yelled, cheekily.

"That does it," he almost screamed. "It's down to the flogging bench, you horrible little tart. Come on, I'll give you 'say it ain't so, Brad' you devious little devil."

And he stood, slung my across his shoulder, my head facing down to his buttocks, my buttocks across his shoulder and as he marched me down to his torture chamber and placed an occasional slap with his meaty hand across my ass. I beat a fruitless tattoo on his backside, but they were, of course, merely for show!

Downstairs, my master dragged a whipping bench out from a corner of the room and soon had me splayed down on its cool leather, my hands and feet spread wide. He then walked away and selected a slim, cruel-looking lash and returned to me.

By now, as I could not help but notice, his cock was jutting out in superb erection, his foreskin dragged partly back from the gleaming helmet of his thick shaft.

Stepping behind me, I felt slightly apprehensive as always, but also part of me churned with desire for the caress of his lash. I didn't have to wait long.

"Tissssh", the lovely little leather implement cracked across my buttocks and then I felt the tip of his cock grazing against my cunt. And then he was in me, sliding his manhood deep into my sopping wetness. And just as quickly, he was out again.

"A stroke for a stroke, you dispeller of dreams," he said in a deep, throaty mock growl.

"Tissssh" went the flogger as it again met my helpless but expectant buttocks.

But this time the "stroke for a stroke" wasn't his cock in my cunt. He stepped in front of me, displaying his erection with his foreskin dragged back to the ring, and he pushed it into my grateful mouth, allowing me to suck deep and hungrily on his rampant hard-on.

Then he was behind me once more, and once more the leather lash made its sweet "Tissssh" as leather met flesh, and once more his cock invaded my helpless but extremely receptive cunt.

"Tissssh" again sang the flogger, and once more the tasty, vagina-perfumed cock once more sank deep between my lips as he pressed his erection into my mouth.

And so Brad continued. "Tisssh" and the flogger fell, followed by a thrust of his cock deep into my weeping sex. "Tisssh" again and he presented his prick to my wanton mouth.

The number of strokes must have reached more than a dozen, possibly 24, I don't know, I had long lost count as I revelled in his attentions with the lash, followed by his beautifully-thrusting penis. And then my flogger began to pant. He could hold back no longer.

"Where do you want it, you destroyer of dreams?" he panted, after laying a sweet stroke across my buttocks.

"Where it suits you best, whipmaster," I replied, with a voice a-tremble with lust.

And he sank his manhood deep into my cunt and with two, perhaps three, urgent juddering thrusts, he came strongly within me.

Later, upstairs on his huge bed, Brad uncorked a bottle of Laurent Perrier, filled two champagne flutes and we clinked glasses.

"Well," he said, looking smug, "that's me satisfied for the time being. And now, I suppose you want attending to, you horrible little tart!"

I grinned and kissed him on his sensual mouth. "It's quite obvious the term 'the lady comes first' has no place in this house," I laughed. "An orgasm would be nice, but I can't see any signs of activity down there."

Brad growled his imitation, pretend-I'm-cross growl, and pushed me onto my back and lowered his face to my freshly-showered pussy. It didn't take him long to replace the aroma of sweetly-scented soap down there with another rather lovely aroma – of course, when it comes to feminine aromas, especially mine, I'm rather biased.

And also, as usual, it didn't take him long for me to reach that lovely peak of sexual intensity that means an orgasm is inevitable and then I was screaming and yelling as I flooded into a torrent of excitement, humping and graunching on his sweet mouth.

He kept his face down there as I calmed down and then, when my pants and sighs had faded into silence, Brad rose and placed his cock head to my cunt and once more drove smoothly and silkily into me.

As his prick pulsated back and forth in my sex tunnel, he kissed me softly on the mouth and grinned.

"Now, you horrid little tart, tell me what other myths you've been saving to ruin my week-end with?"

I pondered. "Well, there's that lovely old story about Gaylord Perry and there being a man on the moon before he would hit his first major league home run," I began, just to see what effect it would have on him.

"Fuck it," he groaned, "I've heard enough. OK, bitch, there's only one way to silence you."

I looked in amazement. "Only one? Surely you're more inventive than that my darling whipmaster?"

Brad sighed, although his thrusting maintained its impressive, smooth tempo. "No, you lovely little tramp, I mean the only way to silence you is with this."

And with that he leaned across the bed to the bedside table, dragged the drawer open and pulled out a little box. "Open it," he said, as he continued his lovely thrusts.

I did. Inside was a sparkling diamond. It looked like it must have cost at least a year of my wages. Nonsense, five years!

"Will you marry me?" Brad asked, his cock still driving and thrusting in my wetness.

For an awful moment I was tempted to say "Say it ain't so, Brad", but commonsense prevailed.

THE END