The Flogger Fell Against My Back

**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 thinking/analyzing/verbalizing only feeling/being/experiencing. My skin crackled with ultraviolet light. Sweat ultrasonically beaded up, and slid slowly down like a race car, leaving a cool, wet trail on my forehead, thighs, and 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.**