120 BPM

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

The short single-tail whip continues to grace her. The markings are many and beautiful, her body covered with reddened lines from just below her collarbone to just above her knees, with the great majority of scarlet markings clearly highlighting her chest.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

Even if she had not already been secured to the wall, I firmly believe she would be standing almost perfectly still. On occasion, she does pull a little against the chains connecting her wrist cuffs to the large bolt above her head on the wall, and she may dance briefly despite the spreader bar connected to her ankle cuffs, but she largely remains relatively still.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

Soft grunts escape her lips with nearly every kiss of the leather upon her body. Partially open, her eyes display a far-away expression; she clearly cannot see clearly, for she is definitely wallowing in the endorphin rush, the haze of discomfort into which she retreats when I willingly hurt her.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

As a longtime piano player and a former saxophonist in middle school and high school and college, rhythms of any kind have long been dear to Me. The rhythmic strikes of the leather upon her ever-reddening body are a sweet music to My ears, the rhythm rarely ever faltering. The single tail has essentially become an integral piece of a metronome, steadily counting at one hundred twenty beats per minute.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

I drink in her beauty, her captivity, her vulnerability, her submission. Naked save for My collar and the ankle and wrist cuffs, she grunts and whimpers in time with the impromptu metronome. At times, especially when I focus upon whipping her sweet, sweet breasts, she even arches into the hurtful kisses.

I stop. The single-tail whip held at My side, I step closer to this willing captive. Without the hiss of the leather slicing the air, the sound of her breathing is much more pronounced. Lovingly, I caress her cheek, and My heart swells as she looks up into My eyes at last, My touch causing the endorphin haze to clear enough for her to focus upon Me. The flame of love burns brightly deep within her, and despite the lengthy session which has meant so much discomfort for her, she smiles for Me, the corners of her lips upturned slightly as she leans her head into My caress.

I step away, pour some ice water from a pitcher into a glass, and bring it to her. For several minutes, I allow her to slowly drink, to recover, to recuperate, to regain her strength. As she drinks, My free hand gently roams her body, the fingers tracing her myriad markings, reigniting the latent pain. But at last, the water consumed, I step away to set the glass back beside the pitcher upon the tray, and return to her, My eyes locked with hers as she silently pleads for more.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

The rhythm is renewed. One hundred twenty beats per minute has always been My favorite pace for playing piano, and it is quickly becoming My favorite pace for hurting My loving sub.

A sharp flick of the wrist breaks the rhythm, the single tail not kissing her, but instead biting her roughly, the area of impact wrapping around to the side of her hip. The rhythm may be broken, but her cry is indeed sweetly musical itself.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

The rhythm is renewed. Purposely, I wait one hundred twenty beats, allowing her to calm once more, allowing her to ease back into her comfort zone, and it just happens that she arches away from the wall, into the steady onslaught, at just the right time...

Breaking the rhythm once more, the next strike is even sharper, harder. Her cry is more staccato, yet just as beautiful and even more feminine than before. The resultant stripe reddens faster than those delivered previously on this particular evening, and the lurch of her restrained body is evidence of the pain inflicted with that particular bite of the leather.

Slowly, the rhythm accelerates. Numerous harsh strikes befall her, from just below the collarbone to just above the knees, with nearly every impact area wrapping around to one side of her well-beaten body. Her high-pitched, feminine melody tugs at My heart, as does the sight of her fighting against her bonds with increasing vigor and dancing as much as the spreader bar will allow; her voice sings of struggle, of pain, of love. Again and again and again and again and again, the single tail lashes at her with restrained fury, inflicting increasing levels of pain, the rhythm of O/our personalized symphony continuing to accelerate, the rattling of the chains quite mesmerizing as they add their delicious countermelody to the overall experience.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

At one hundred twenty beats per minute, the former rhythm is suddenly renewed. Still, she struggles; still, she cries out; still, she arches out toward the source of her pain. Slowly, she calms, internalizing her pain thanks to the soothing metronome of the single tail.

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...