His teeth bit down against the gag; she loved to watch him work his jaw against it, as if his perfect teeth could chew through the reinforced leather. She loved the way it kept his mouth open, made his even breathing vocal and unsteady, raw. His breath came harder; he panted and squirmed, pulling at the restraints around his wrists and ankles. The sound of the chains rang against her ears. He struggled to breathe more fully, more peacefully, aching to sink into a glassy-eyed space of complete surrender.

Just as he’d reached it, the whip came down, a flurry of cracking, stinging blows that licked against his bared skin. The rhythm of it soon rocked his hips; he groaned against the gag, writhing, and turned his face into the cot, briefly, stifling his own cry. The tension winding slowly within him made the shackles bite into his wrists and ankles; he felt himself pulled, twisting, turning, struggling to find some relief from the agony that had grown from smoldering ember to full-on inferno.

She paused in the rhythm of the whipping; he clenched his fists, tense.

He knew what came next.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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