He knew he was in for it as soon as Sarah got him home. Her usually pale face had
been flushed with anger. His steps were reluctant, and he lagged somewhat further
back than the requisite five paces he was required to stay behind his Mistress,
his eyes humbly fixed on her feet. She was a rather short girl of 20, a little
over five feet, and at about 150 pounds somewhat wider than favoured by
_Playboy_, but her many lovers appreciated her wide buttocks, currently outlined
by tight denim cutoffs, and her strong legs, which were caressed tightly by a
pair of shiny black leather boots running up to her thighs. Her lush figure was
further accented by a white blouse of silk trimmed with lace, and a black leather
vest. Her hair was straight and black, and reached to her sweet behind. Taken all
together, Sarah positively radiated sexual heat. With her slave trailing
despondently behind her, Mistress Sarah climbed the steps to her second-floor
apartment and unlocked the door. When they were both inside, the slave locked the
door again, and fell to his knees. Sarah loomed over him. "What do you have to
say for yourself?" He bent forward and kissed the shiny hot leather of her
instep. "I'm very sorry, Mistress, it won't happen again." She put her boot in
the centre of his chest and pushed hard, knocking the slave onto his back.
Slowly, smiling cruelly down at him, she wiped the muddy sole of one boot roughly
on his crotch, making him twitch and gasp. Any protest he might have made were
silenced by the sole of the other thigh-boot being placed on his face. "Lick it
clean," Mistress Sarah commanded. Pinned as he was, he didn't dare disobey. He
licked ardently. Of course, with her other foot in his crotch, she could feel
excitement rise in him. She put the boot in more firmly, which only made him
harder. Teasing him with the boot, which she'd worn to turn the poor slave on,
she ground his face a little harder, being careful not to push too hard and
damage him. Such a cute face he had, even covered in mud. At length, Sarah's
slave finished licking his Mistress' boot clean. (Of course, she herself was the
judge of that!) She removed it from his face and then stood over him, staring
down. "Now, dear boy, there's the little matter of your punishment to be taken
care of," she mused, her sultry voice edged with cold steel. The very wise slave
said nothing. "Do you remember my birthday present from Miss Cynthia?" The slave
remained silent. This wasn't so wise. Mistress Sarah kicked the side of his head.
"Speak when you're spoken to, boy!" she hissed. "Yes, Mistress, I remember it."
"And what is it?" "A cat-o'-nine-tails, Mistress," he said softly. "So it is,"
she said in mock surprise. "Let's go into the bedroom and have a look at it." She
strode in that direction, and the slave followed her, crawling on his hands and
knees. The bedroom contained few hints of the nature of their relationship. Many
people own iron-frame beds, and have pets who sleep on a mat at the foot of that
bed. Many women wear silk scarves in cool weather. The cat was kept in the bottom
drawer, its leather thongs resting oddly against the white silk and cotton of
Sarah's underclothes. The slave made to kneel face down on the bed, but a sharp
"Stop right there!" cracked out from his Mistress. "You're filthy," Mistress
Sarah informed him curtly. "Crawl to the bathroom, strip, and wait for me." He
went, removed his somewhat soiled clothes, and knelt on the cool tiles, awaiting
her. She wasn't long. "That's most of it," she said appraisingly, "but we still
need to rinse that mud off your face." Sarah unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned the
tight cutoffs, and pulled them along with her lacy panties down about her ankles.
Her black crotch hair smelled of musk and sweat, mixed with leather and perfume.
Finally, she removed her shorts altogether. As she stood over him, the slave
raised his face, closing his eyes and mouth firmly against what he knew was
coming. Mistress Sarah's hot, tangy piss spilled out over his face and hair,
rinsing away the last of the mud. Mercifully, she only continued until he was
clean, but that was still enough to drench his hair and soak his face. The smell
was intense in his nostrils and some piss trickled into his mouth despite his
best efforts. Sarah laughed as he gagged on it. She threw him a towel, and
commanded him to first towel the drops of piss off her cunt and boots, then to
wipe himself off. While he was wiping himself, she left him to finish and
returned to the bedroom. Almost crazy with anticipation of his delayed
punishment, the slave crawled slowly back into the bedroom from the ensuite
bathroom. Mistress Sarah had the whip out, and was trailing the thongs through
her slender fingers. Some of them were black, some red; and each had a little
plastic bead knotted into the end, to add to the sting. Cynthia claimed that a
dozen lashes with it were enough to make a strong man scream. Since Cynthia's
principal hobby was reducing strong men to tears, Sarah was inclined to trust
her. Indeed, she was a little envious of her best friend's harem of former
football heroes, now French maids in five-inch spikes, cowering under the demure,
bespectacled girl's many whips. On the other hand, thought Sarah, surveying the
naked back of her own slave, I seem to be doing well with this one... "Are you
ready to be punished?," she asked, trailing the cat's thongs over his back
gently. "Yes, Mistress Sarah." "I haven't decided on the number of lashes yet,
slave, so I'd advise you to keep excellent count." "Yes, Mistress." She raised
the whip high over her head, and it sang as it flew through the air, to land with
full force on the slave's back. He yelped. "One!" The skin where the leather had
struck was only a little redder, but there were little dots of bright red where
the beads had landed. Mistress Sarah smiled. What a wonderful toy. Whish - slap!
"Two!" Whish - SLAP! "Agh - three!" Already his voice showed the signs of a
struggle with tears. "Don't cry so soon, dear slave-boy," she said softly. "It
won't be bitter enough." But by the eighth lash, his back was glowing, and
speckled with the marks of the beads, and he was sobbing into her bedsheets.
"Does it hurt, slave?", Sarah murmured. "Should I stop?" and on "stop" lashed him
full force again. "Niiiine!" was torn from him. "I'll stop when you get what you
deserve!", and brought down the whip again. Ten lashes. She paused from the
flogging for a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow. He didn't scream from a
dozen strokes. Perhaps, thought Mistress Sarah with disappointment, Cynthia has a
stronger arm than I do. Certainly she gets much more practice! All told, he
received twenty-five lashes as punishment. As the slave, weeping uncontrollably,
his tormented back raw and burning, fell on his face and kissed her boots
repeatedly, Sarah decided that the cat-o'-nine-tails had a very salutary effect
on the boy, and that she definitely had to use it more often. Realizing how hot
she was, Sarah shed the black leather vest and white blouse, and lay them on the
bed. She sat in the low chair at her dressing-table, and called to her slave.
"Come over her and lick the sweat from my shoulders," she commanded. Still crying
a little, he knelt beside her and bent to obey. "I love you, Mistress Sarah,"
whispered the chastised slave. "And you amuse me, slave-boy," she said, not even
turning to look at him. She debated allowing him to eat her out, but decided he
was still in disgrace. Let him suffer. That's what I keep him for, Mistress Sarah
muses, and smiles.