Free Rendezvous With a Stranger by Lizbeth Dusseau Page A

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           “Awake now, Ellen Laurey?” he asks as the prickly heat of the leather thong lingers a while before it disappears.   I have no way to answer, but surely he sees me jerk.
           “Of course, this is not enough,” he says.   Coming close again, he’s at my face, stroking my exposed cheek with the smooth surface that just whipped my skin.   He unfastens the ball-gag and lets the handle he holds appear at my lips like a cock to suck.   I lunge for it eagerly, aroused by the fresh smell of new leather, praying for the taste of it on my tongue.   But I can’t move, there’s no way to lap at it or taste or smell or feel it because I cannot budge.
           “Tell me, what you want, my poor contained babe,” he murmurs.   The lash now floats around my legs, teasing the skin.   “You want this?   You want your ass beaten?   You want to feel it strike, to hear the sound? You want to cum with it loving you the way it will mar your delicate skin?”   His hand grazes my cheek and pulls my sweat-soaked hair from my face.   I feel the handle of the lash against my ass.   With a jerk of his hand he thrusts it between my ass cheeks until it lodges next to my sphincter.   I fear another move will drive inside, and the stranger reads that fear in my face.   I stare at him.   Sharing just one moment of mutual intimacy, he then backs away.   “What you want is your ass beaten,” he says.   “Tell me.   Order me, Ellen, let me hear you say it in your own words.   Say it so I won’t be mistaken.   Tell me.”
           “Oh, please, don’t make me suffer,” I moan.   My cunt’s so ready I know it will erupt spontaneously.   I sense it starting—with just another move, another prod of his fingers, another whispered breath at my lips or in my ear.   Just another moment of contact, I know I’ll cum.
           “The real suffering begins now, Ellen Laurey.   We’ll have to see how much you can take.”
           Returning the ball-gag to my mouth, I’m once again deprived of speech, left feeling as small as I’ve felt before.  
           As the surrounding silence drowns even the sound of my own breathing, the pain comes again … this time I feel the warnings … the air when it rustles as the lash passes through it, the vibrations of the stranger’s power, and then a sting that bounds through my body.   I feel many more against my skin, delivered without stopping.   He lashes my back and my shoulders making me seem utterly worthless as though I’m a slave being beaten solely for the joy it brings this sadistic perpetrator.   My body fuses with the metal as though it absorbs some of the pain for me.   I know that’s impossible; that the lashing begins and ends with me.
           When the stranger lowers his aim and strikes my ass, the whipping changes to punishment.   My existence becomes justified by this act of chastisement wreaked by an avenging judge.   As lash after lash rips across the padded flesh, it’s a brutal pain I know I can’t bear.   When he pauses, the pain subsides, and a tingling rush augments my arousal.   But then, there’s more anguish as the pain in my aching labia becomes more acute.   These jolted clamps feel as though they’ll pull my flesh to the ground.  
           When the lashing begins again, the stranger focuses fully on my ass.   With what seems like all his might, he rips new avenues of pain on raw skin.   I cry into the gag, the sound muffled.   If I could shriek, one would reach the ceiling, beyond the pipes and brick and mortar—into the cold of the night.
           My mind converges on feelings, on thighs that quaver weakly, on an ass that clenches hard, afraid of another blow, and on a cunt that juices with an involuntary response of arousal.   Perhaps he realizes what is happening to me: how in small ways my body is not so angry anymore, how with each strike I begin to absorb the