Black gloves, Blood and Leather

Caning and Spanking Stories copyright 1994-2001 by OldTom, all rights reserved.

This story is not for the squeamish. If you're expecting a mere spanking, you would do well to move on.

This story is about an adult woman getting beaten bloody... just the way she likes it. It starts out with giving her what she's asked for in private, and then heads on to some fun.

She's not too patient, so let's get to the point.

 

He knew whom he faced, and he called her by name. She answered. Bitch. No, not Bitch. She-wolf. Fierce, wild, free, untamed, untameable. Careful; she bites.

He held the gloves in one hand, slapping the other to draw her attention. Deerskin dyed black, a perfect fit, pliant, custom made for this day.

He stared her down.

Or tried to. She held his gaze, and smiled.

He slapped the gloves across her cheek, hard enough for her to stumble sideways. She held his gaze unflinching, and she smiled.

He drew the gloves on slowly, carefully smoothing them out, halfway to the elbow. He reached out to caress the angry mark high on her cheek, holding her gaze.

He reached into the neck of her gown, the unique creation her best friend had sewn, just for this day. He yanked, and it ripped, shredding the satin to the seam at her waist. He opened his hand, leaving it hanging black in the air, letting the material fall. She held his gaze, and smiled.

"Bring me the cuffs, if you're ready," he said.

"Why don't *you* get them, big boy? Or aren't you strong enough?" she replied.

He fixed her with that look. That look of steel she was waiting to see. She felt his eyes reaching inside her, and she knew she would obey.

She brought him the cuffs, and offered up her wrists. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was ready.

He attached her to the chain, leaving her mostly hanging by her wrists, her toes touching the ground. He stripped off her clothing as quickly and fiercely as he could, letting the shreds gather around her.

He slapped her face hard, so she could taste the blood. She liked that. He bound her legs together, just above the knees, duct tape on skin. She didn't like that. She wanted her legs spread, attached to the ground.

Poor baby.

He smacked her bottom, hard. He liked the sound of the smack, leather glove on bare skin. He distracted himself, spanking for minute after minute, turning her rump a hot pink.

She was bored.

He brought out that old razor strop, two strips of pigskin. She smiled. He told her he would continue as long as she counted.

She counted to a hundred three times, before her skin finally broke. He allowed her to stop counting, and just enjoy the ride. She soon after began moaning... but in pleasure, not pain.

He dropped the strop and walked to the sink for a glass of water, returning to sip in front of her. She watched the glass, saying nothing. He drank half the glass, and splashed the rest in her face, to trail down her chest.

He showed her the whip, wrapping its six stiff strands about her neck. His first stroke was full force, wrapping around to her breast. He alternated, six strokes wrapping right, and then six strokes wrapping left. The look of ravenous hunger returned to her eyes.

"Are you ready?"

She smiled, and spoke with her musical lilt, keeping it just a bit disdainful. "Of course."

"When you're ready, say 'Yes, master.'"

She sighed, and spat out, "Yes, master."

He held up the whip, letting her fix her gaze on it. He paused, and then dropped it, holding his open, gloved, hand still at eye level. He waited for her to look at his eyes.

"Try again. Or forget it."

She *liked* that tone of voice. She dropped the pitch, to sound just like her best friend. "Yes, master. I'm ready."

"Twelve strokes. Count them."

She understood that tone of voice, deep within her. She responded. "Yes, master."

His arm flashed, the skin raised, leaving a band of fire on her back. "One, master."

He cut across the track, breaking the skin, pausing to watch the blood well up. "Two, master."

He laid the third stroke to mix with the last. "Three, master." He gathered the whip up, bringing the strands to her face, so she could smell her own blood. She grabbed the strands with her teeth, hanging on to suck out the blood.

He continued and she counted, and he paused at six, nine, and twelve, letting her bask in the glow.

Eighteen hours had he promised her, and this was the first.

 

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All stories contained herein are property and copyright 1994-2001 OldTom@rocketmail.com, all rights reserved. Please don't repost them or make them publicly accessible via FTP, mail server, or archive site without explicit permission. Permission is granted for one hard copy for personal use.