Free Neighbourhood Watch by Lisette Ashton

her baggage and then went on to berate her for being a wayward, cock-hungry slut. He tempered the expletives with bland words that wouldn’t have suggested sexual chemistry to anyone else. When he called her a filthy little harlot, she responded as he would have expected of any woman with a fondness for humiliation. But when he used choice phrases from their personal dictionary of dirty words, calling her baggage, trash or ‘the bucket’, Megan always responded with a distinctive and eager enthusiasm.
    This evening she simply remained still, silent and unmoved.
    ‘You’re baggage,’ he said again.
    Nothing. He sliced his crop across her backside. The blow was delivered with consummate skill. He struck in a swift arc that avoided the chains and landed directly on his intended target. There was a metallic shudder as the links stretched taut, his victim stiffening in silent protest. A slender line of red crept across her porcelain-pale buttocks.
    She made no sound.
    He studied the red line: it curved round one buttock, vanished and returned to curve round the other. It was a perfectly delivered slash, a testament to his artistry as a disciplinarian. Her buttocks shook slightly in response to the punishment, then her entire frame shuddered as the raw hurt of the blow spread through every pore.
    But her response wasn’t what he had expected.
    Wondering why there should be a difference, Max raised his cane and slashed a second blow across the tops of her thighs. Before he returned to the list of insults he wanted to see some evidence of normality in Megan’s reactions. The air was broken by a whistle. The sound of the crop on her skin was like the snapping of an icy, brittle twig. Her backside shook with the force of the impact, and again she stiffened.
    The cellar was momentarily filled with the hiss of her escaping breath. The ball-gag didn’t allow her the opportunity to scream. It kept her mouth wide open but muted every sound she might make. Max was used to cries of muffled suffering, but this evening there were none. His frown deepened.
    A second red line crept along her flesh beneath the first. The rounded cheeks were tense and trembling. The obvious pain of the stripes was enough to make his arousal harden into an urgent, obsessive demand. Her buttocks quivered and the sounds of the chains creaking told him that his victim was shivering in her bondage.
    He circled her slowly, his eyes narrowing to slits as he studied her body. Her biceps were taut and well defined. The familiar curve of her back echoed every other time he had caned her bound and suspended body in this fashion. The roundness of her rear, the way the stripes on her cheeks slowly blossomed to red and painful welts: these were all sights he had seen and enjoyed before. And yet …
    He spun round, marched to the wall of the cellar and snatched a pair of nipple clamps from a shelf. He returned to her and fixed one in place and then the other. The jaws bit hard into her bound breasts. He watched the soft bulb of each nipple yield to the powerful force of the rubber-edged clamps. The outer edges were crushed to a white and bloodless agony. Her position looked unbearable, insufferable. He heard her breath deepen in a series of agonised gasps. Yet it still wasn’t quite right.
    Whirling from her side, returning to the shelves that lined the cellar walls, he grabbed a pair of weights and attached them to her clamps. They tugged the chains down, dragging at her flesh, punishing her skin mercilessly. The sight was excruciatingly exciting. Her breasts had been tightly bound. The modest mounds of flesh had been transformed into painful, unsightly tubes, the skin that bulged from the top a dusky grey, darkened by trapped blood. Her areolae and nipples were flushed to the lush purple of an angry sunset. When he added the extra weights, her torment looked complete. The weights dragged her breasts downwards, tearing at her nipples and tugging on her sensitive flesh.