By Gwen Masters
(Flasher -- 299 words)
The cuffs were tight around her wrists and ankles. The strap was firm against her belly. She hung suspended, held by carefully placed ropes that didn’t chafe. She could have drifted in a cocoon of pleasure, so comfortable they were.
The whip stung the back of her thighs with no pauses, no mercy.
She began to count. By the time she reached forty, she had forgotten which number she was on and had to start counting again.
“This bitch won’t give,” said the trainer. He was one of the men who had sneered at her from the guardhouse when she was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the Impurity Compound. Four years after the American President had turned into Little Napoleon, he had ordered all sexually adventurous women to be imprisoned until they were cleansed of their impure thoughts.
The trainer had a sadistic streak -- he was the former Attorney General, after all -- and he had meted out every punishment that was sanctioned and a few that were not. Two months, and she hadn’t broken.
She began counting again.
Finally the trainer threw down the whip. He walked away. He would leave her there, like he had so many times before.
The other trainer stepped up behind her. He sank his cock into her with one long thrust. She started counting the strokes. Sex like this was not allowed any longer -- anyone who dared do the deed for anything other than procreation in an approved marital setting was breaking the law.
When he pressed his fingers to her clit, she came. She moaned quietly. He came inside her and then he was gone, nothing but a ghost who left wetness dripping out of her and onto the dirt floor below.
Those who want to fuck will always find a way.