After dinner Sada regally sway-strutted the floor, her back arched, nostrils flaring in anticipation, beautiful breasts stretching the blush rose gown which fitted like a second skin. Finally she spoke the fatal words. “Go to my bedroom, Husband, and prepare for punishment!” Malcolm saw no mercy in that haughty, glacier-eyed face, and disrobed, sobbing inwardly. He was standing humbly nude when Sada strode majestically into the bedroom, the heavy strap held in one elbow-high lavender kid-gloved hand. She tossed him some cotton drawers.. “Get into these.”
“W-what are they?” he stammered. “What are they for?”
She gripped his hair, jerking his head back to stare disdainfully into his eyes. “Those are your whipping drawers. You’ll soon find what for.” The thin fabric was skin tight and stretchless from his waist down his thighs and he struggled to get them on. Eyes glittering, Sada pointed to an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “Bring that here.” Malcolm obeyed, deadened by dread, watching her remove her dress to reveal a tight-laced pink leather corset hourglassing her voluptuousness. “Get over that bench – crosswise.” She ordered.
The drawers tightened even more when he jack-knifed and he glanced up to see breath-taking sheer-nyloned legs made shapelier by uplifting minaret heels. Sada stepped back, dropping the strap gently across his bottom to gauge her stance as he squirmed, begging for mercy. Then she swooped the flail up as high as her arm could reach and whirled it around to gain speed. As Malcolm quailed in terror, she smashed it down full sweep, flush across his buttocks. He made no outcry but his midsection convulsed upwards from the force of the blow and then slumped back to the bench. Ass the initial numbness warmed into pain, Malcolm could see in the closet-door mirror, his own head-down, butt-up figure with the dynamic, imposing, corseted woman towering over him, preparing the administer the next stroke. He tensed, watching with fear and admiration as she whirled it around her high-swept coiffure, and the leonine grace of the downdrive.
Seven power-packed full-swing agonizing strokes fell, making hollow whacking sounds on Malcolm’s upthrust backside, before he cried out in protest. His sobs came with the eighth stroke, when the whipping drawers began to torment him. The broad welts from the heavy strap were unable to swell within the skin-tight, unstretchable fabric of the garment so his flesh ridged up, unable to escape and agonisedly compressed. Under the relentless, expert, measured blows, Malcolm howled in anguish but made no effort to protect himself or free himself from his Mistress. He squirmed and writhed under the torture while Sada savoured to the utmost his song and dance under the strap, whaling his podex with regal dexterity and aplomb. Cressada thrashed him from each side, and then imprisoned his head between her firm round thighs to flog him vertically. Malcolm clutched her skewer heels as the curling strap snapped excruciatingly down his cheek curves. His cries went unheard in the soundproof penthouse. He could only see Sada’s taut-full hips weaving above him in the mirror with each cracking blow. As his body became a throbbing reservoir of agony, he visioned Sada as a heartless goddess to be glorified for her brutal prowess. At last a bench leg shattered under his pounding and Malcolm slid to the floor, moaning low, his head still pinioned in his Mistress’s shapely limbs.
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