4. In Which I Attend to Alice’s Bound Breasts
I mentioned, I think, my collection of breast whips. I feel compelled to boast, with all appropriate modesty, that I think it may well be the finest in the world, although of course I have made no formal survey. I chose two favorites, a flogger and a crop, both designed specifically for the breasts, and both perfect for causing maximum sting (to the captive girl) and stimulation (to the attending gentleman) without causing unsightly blemishes, or worse, damage, to those large and most attractive orbs. Whipping a woman’s naked breasts properly is as much art as entertainment, after all.
Alice’s lovely blue eyes grew wider again as she guessed her fate. Once again, she struggled like a wildcat, but I had bound her too well. For all her effort, she remained helpless, gagged, and at my mercy. I was not inclined to grant it.
I did, however, appreciate how wonderfully her twin orbs jiggled and danced as she struggled. I wondered if she could possibly know how much her efforts enhanced my enjoyment of her predicament, or if she would appreciate the irony if she could.
“Ah, Alice,” I told her, “the more you struggle, the more you make your delicious breasts bounce for me, the more I wish to whip them! You must learn to surrender to a gentleman dominant’s will more gracefully.”
It is always a momentous occasion, when a girl is to be put to the whip for the first time, and I meant to ensure that the experience was one Alice would remember always. She must endure nothing less than my very best work. Placing the crop on a nearby table, I began with the flogger, making circular motions with my wrist to make the leather strands swing and dance against her skin.
The flogger’s kiss was gentle at first, and I concentrated on the undersides, swooping up from below with a hard circular motion. Alice screamed behind her gag, but her nipples swelled, growing even harder than before. I began to twirl my wrist more vigorously, and her bouncing breasts danced with every rotation. I moved from one breast to the other, watching them redden with a most charming pattern of stripes that slowly spread into a more uniform sheen as the whipping continued. Her breasts were sweating, tiny drops that turned the red sheen into a glow.
I wondered, briefly, how Alice was finding the experience. It was, after all, one of her most secret fantasies, one she had confessed to me once, and only once, in one of our late night talks. When I’d tried to bring it up again later, she’d blushed and looked away before awkwardly changing the subject. This fantasy was too close to her soul to discuss casually. Now, though, now it was her reality.
She shook her head wildly, begging me with her eyes, and I felt my cock stir and twitch beneath my robe. I struck her harder, and then harder still.
I swung at one breast, and then at the other until my wrist began to grow tired. I was still not ready to spare poor Alice, or even yet to introduce her pert nipples to the crop, so I shifted the flogger to my left hand. It lacked the dexterity of my right, so I concentrated on slapping down from above, instead of twisting the strands in merciless circles, and marveled at how the patterns of deepening red shifted. The flogger’s straps spread across her breasts with each strike like the fingers of a cruel hand, and I allowed myself a rather wolfish smile every time two or more of the tips flicked a proud nipple right on the very end. I made a game if it, switching breasts every time I scored an especially satisfying hit with the tips on one of her delightful pink and erect nubs.
Alice’s struggles grew more frantic, and her muffled screams behind her gag were music. She was a dancer after all. The frame was her stage, and she performed like a prima virtuoso. Her cheeks were wet with her tears. She shook her head; she fought against the steel chains that held her. Her eyes were wild, but I saw desire burning with her distress. Pain and pleasure, blended together in an agonizing cocktail of sensation.
At last I set the flogger aside, and took a sip of my wine. Ah! I had indeed paired well, woman and wine. I set my glass down again and turned back to Alice.
I kissed away her tears before turning my lips back to her breasts. First the whip, then the kiss. She would learn that pattern well. I suckled her nipples with greater urgency even than before, and her dance changed. I led her like a maestro. Her breasts were hotter than before, and the subtle salt of her sweat gave them a surprisingly piquant taste. Delightful! Reaching into my pocket, I found the remote and switched her vibrator on. I varied the speed — higher and then lower, but careful to avoid any pattern, or to bring her too close to climax — while I teased her breasts.
I stopped at last, and switched Alice’s vibrator fully off, making her positively shriek in frustration. I had met very few women as naturally passionate as my Alice. Indeed, I dare say she surprised herself with the overwhelming intensity of her frustrated passion. I made a mental note to write a note of enthusiastic praise to the manufacturer of her harness gag. Truly, it performed admirably in the most trying of circumstances.
Alice floated from agony to breathless ecstasy, both new sensations for her. But then, I doubt any of the boys she’d dated in the past (at least judging from the hacked emails and diary entries that my partner had so thoughtfully provided–as I mentioned: homework) had played her with such skill or patience. Any tart would be fine for those louts. Alice was above them. She needed a connoisseur to both truly appreciate her, and to awaken and mold her.
She was a natural submissive, a woman who secretly longed to be mastered and cherished. No lessor man would ever satisfy her. Of course, in our business we chose no others. Such women are rare, of course, and rarer still are the ones who are more or less unattached, unfulfilled, beautiful, and intelligent. But that scarcity is what makes them such a priceless commodity. We provide a valuable product to our rigorously screened and carefully selected clients, without question. Sometimes, though, sometimes I think we provide the greater service to girls like Alice. I had rescued her from the sad and unfilled life she would have known as Caroline. To do anything less would be a worse crime than abandoning Sleeping Beauty to her eternal slumber, when one might instead teach her bliss with the fire of a single kiss.
I gave her nipples a final twist, barely enough to be painful, and left them for a moment. She was too close to climax. We both were. Time to slow matters down.
I did not leave her precious and heaving mounds unattended for long, though. I returned to the table and retrieved the crop. I turned and slapped it once in the palm of my hand. I wanted her to hear the great snap of the slapping sound it made. I wanted her to anticipate how it would feel raining on her bound and vulnerable breasts. I wanted to see her fear in her eyes. Her fear would be far greater than the actual pain.
I did not start slowly, not this time. Alice needed to learn. I could deliver pleasure and I could deliver pain. Both intense beyond anything she had experienced or imagined. Which would it be? Only my whim would decide.
I bent low and whispered. “Alice’s breasts, meet your new friend. Meet the riding crop.”
The first blow made a most satisfying SNAP as I slapped it down on Alice’s right nipple. The second smack fell on her left. She danced again in the stage of her frame; my whip was her conductor.
I found it entertaining to hold the bottom of the crop in my right hand, and then pull the slapper back with my left and release it like a catapult.
SLAP!
It fell against her breasts with ever quickening speed and force.
“My poor Alice,” I said. “How that must sting!” She nodded vigorously.
Another blow.
Another.
Another.
Another.
Alice’s breasts shook and jiggled in the most enticing manner. Her muffled cries behind her gag grew wilder, more desperate. It is worth repeating. Alice was a girl simply made for the whip. Anything else was a waste of her gifts, a sacrilege. She simply needed an artist to wake her, and a Master to guide and appreciate her.
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
I had to stop long before the pleasure had gone out of the action. As every artist knows, one must stop painting when the painting is complete, no matter how satisfying the art. One single stroke too many can make a mess of a masterpiece.
I turned on her vibrator again. It’s lowest setting. It was time for pleasure.
For both of us.
I returned to the mechanism that rotated the bed, bringing it back down flat. I lowered the wrought iron headboard. Another switch adjusted her strap and chains, stretching her arms out tight at ninety-degree angles to her sides and pulling her head to the very edge of the bed, and then over it, so that her neck hung off. Then I raised the platform again, just above my waist level, and titled it slightly forward, lowering Alice’s head and raising her snugly cuffed and chained feet.
As any aficionado of fine women will note, she was now bound tightly in the most optimal position for what was to follow.