But she did not. Unless you count what Absynthian poets have long termed ‘the little death’ of orgasm, which was suckled from her Mistress’ c******s by the time three dozen swipes of the terrifying instrument had striped the previously evenly reddened buttocks inches above Emilia’s avid eyes. She both feared and hoped that her Lord and Master would use this implement as well as the paddle on her own backside once he had turned them both over as promised. In the meantime, she attended assiduously to her task of getting her Princess off as expeditiously as possible, both to lessen her adored Natalie’s torment as well as to hasten her own.
Of course, this was not going to take place if our spoiled Monarch’s own rather distracted tongue didn’t get to work, since the Crown Prince had declared
