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The flogger fell against my back.

My world was simple. The flogger lifted up. Hemp rope wrapped around my wrist, pulling up, and threaded through a hook in the ceiling. Leather leg cuffs latched into a spreader bar, forcing my feet a yard apart.

The flogger fell against my back.

I felt it.

She was back there, swinging the flogger, scourging my back, my ass, my body.

I felt my body.

I felt the hair on my back as it moved in the wind right before the flogger slammed into my back again, slam slam slam. I felt the way the ropes held my wrists in their firm grasp; the looseness of the leg cuffs, which nevertheless kept me from moving my feet more than a few inches.

The flogger fell against my back.

I felt it. It didn't even hurt anymore.

She hit me harder.

Yes my skin cried out thinking, more more more. My brain stopped, or went into overdrive, not thinkinganalyzingverbalizing only feelingbeingexperiencing. My skin crackled with ultraviolet light. Sweat ultrasonically beaded up, and slid slowly, racecar-like down, leaving a cool, wet trail on my forehead, thighs, belly. I rocked back and forth in time to the flogger's fall, the metronome of my soul.

The flogger fell against my back. It lifted up. It fell again again again. I moaned. I felt my cock rise, my balls tighten. She hit me again.

I took it, for her.

The flogger fell against my back. Once. Twice. A thousand times. It didn't matter how many times she hit me, or how hard.

I'd take it. For her.

I was my body, and it was hers.

The flogger fell against my back.