“You look beautiful in that position,” he remarked, before he raised the whip to her for the first time.
Although not a whip to make one feel cut to the bone, the camel crop was a hard, unyielding instrument that landed with a broad, heavy stroke. Ever was certain that this whip, in Stroud’s firm hand, would leave not only thick, red welts but, these welts, once the swelling abated, would give way to dark purple bruises.
There was no necessity to scream, but eventually, Ever succumbed to grunts in release of her suppressed gasps. It was not her way to give in to blatant displays of hysteria at the first sharp bite of the leather. It had always been more her part to withstand for as long as possible and withhold all reaction. Her part, that is, the part she chose. A prideful stance, perha
