“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Yes, that’s very true.”
He slowly trails the tip of the riding crop down my back until it reaches my buttocks, caressing me with the shaft in slow circles until the crop rests in perfect alignment with what I suspect is the only part of my posterior to have anything resembling curves.
He lets it hover there for one long moment before he lays into me.
I don’t scream. I don’t grunt, flex my hand, or tap out, either.
He lies on top of my back. It doesn’t hurt as much as it could. Part of this might be distraction; his hand is underneath me, working the wet spot between my legs. It might also be more accurate to say that yes, it does rather hurt to have him draping himself on top of my backside, given my injuries, which are not
