Dildo

My Master has an enormous cock. Whip.

My Master is the most macho. Whip.

My Master is very dominant. Whip.

My Master has a female name... Whip.

When I do something he doesn't like, I know what awaits me. Whip.

When he's pleased with me, I know what my reward will be. Whip.

The whip isn't the same when it rewards as when it punishes. When it rewards me, the whip is a warmth that satisfies my being and fulfills my existence, a comfortable reminder of duty fulfilled. When the whip punishes me, it's more than pain. It's a lash that freezes my soul and makes me fear losing everything I have, everything I desire.

My Master is Whip, and I, deep down, am whip. I want whip. I live whip. I want Whip. I live for Whip.

The marks on my skin are the price of my sins and the disregard for my offenses. The marks on my skin are the lipstick of the kisses of a forbidden lover and the passionate nails that dig into it. The marks on my skin are the memory of the moments when I truly exist.

I'm naked, standing, firm, with my gaze on the floor. He's sitting, watching TV. There are commercials. I ask if he wants something to drink. He responds that he doesn't. I turn around, kneel down, and offer him my buttocks. He whips me without enthusiasm, yawning. The commercials bore him. We've been like this all afternoon. I don't mind. I'm here to serve him.

The commercial break is too long for Whip. He turns off the TV and stops whipping me. He orders me to get on my knees and turn around. I obey. My buttocks rest, and my soul takes pride in being able to serve my Master. I know he's pleased with me when he lets me kiss the whip. I kiss it. He whips my nipple. I scream. He looks disgusted. I offer him my buttocks for him to vent. He gives me 10 lashes and orders me to look at him again. I kneel before him and kiss the whip. He whips the same nipple again. I couldn't contain my scream. He tells me to stand up. I obey. He gets behind me and hits my genitals with the whip. The blow comes from below, between my legs, and when it hits me, it has already lost some of its force, but my shaved testicles tremble. I kneel down again. I kiss his whip. He whips the same nipple. I endure. He whips the nipple again. I endure. He whips the nipple once more. I endure.

He offers me his whip. I kiss it. He whips my other nipple...

The whip isn't the same when it rewards as when it punishes. When it rewards me, the whip is a warmth that satisfies my being and fulfills my existence, a comfortable reminder of duty fulfilled. When the whip punishes me, it's more than pain. It's a lash that freezes my soul and makes me fear losing everything I have, everything I desire.