Raylene’s eyes were wide open, but I doubt she was looking at anything in particular. But I was still watching the band left by the razor strop declaring itself across the lower slopes of Raylene’s bottom, a clearly defined stripe, darkly pink, about two inches wide. In a few more seconds the pink had brightened to fiery red, and the skin was raising itself a little where the edges of the strop had impacted.
The pain, like the colour, was still becoming deeper and brighter. Raylene had frozen for those seconds, shocked to find herself punished, and then by the sheer ruthless pain left in the razor strop’s wake. At last she gasped for breath, then another, then another.
Then she found her voice. “Rii! Ooooah! Oh fuck! Jesus fuck!”
Which, I suppose, is the sort of thing you might as well say, under those circumstances.
I put the hand that held the razor strop on Raylene’s hip, to let her feel comfort and authority. I brushed the fingers of my other hand gently down her bottom, to explore that broad welt. I could have found it with my eyes closed.
Raylene’s skin was cool above the mark, then suddenly hot at the thin, raised horizontal line along the top of that vivid stripe. Below that were two inches of heated flesh. Raylene held her breath again, concentrating on the feel of my fingers, and fearful that I might add further punishment. Her skin glowed heat against my fingertips. At the stripe’s lower edge there was another thin raised line.
I explored lower, stroking the soft, intimately curved flesh below the stripe, slipping my fingers between her buttocks to press lightly against her anus, and then the delicate skin beyond. Raylene shivered at that touch.
She said nothing. I smacked the undercurve of her bottom lightly, then again. There she was soft, and cool, and still unwhipped. She wouldn’t stay unwhipped for much longer, I thought. I was going to make her glow from the crown of her buttocks to the top two or three inches of her thighs. And then I’d enjoy that heat while I fucked her from behind.
Raylene froze again when I patted her, though I’d meant the pats fondly and reassuringly. Perhaps reassurance wasn’t what she needed. She had urgencies to deal with: her pain and the knowledge that since she’d just been punished so firmly, she must therefore have done wrong.
She said, “Oh sir, I’m sorry, sir, I knew I’m meant to call you sir, I’m so sorry, sir.”
I wondered how many times you could fit sir into a sentence.