Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2007 by Torquere Press

First published in venuspress.com, 2007

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Definition:The word whip describes two basic types of tools:

A long stick-like device, usually slightly flexible, with a small bit of leather or cord, called a “popper", on

the end. Depending on length and flexibility, this type is often called a riding whip, riding crop or “bat". It

is also sometimes called a “horsewhip” or “horse whip".

The other type of whip is a long tapered flexible length of single-strand or plaited (braided) material

(usually leather) with a stiff handle. Some whips of this type include the bullwhip and the stock whip.

Each design has many variations and lengths for different purposes, often with different names.

As well as these traditional whip types designed for use on animals, there are whip designs that had

historic uses for inflicting pain on humans, such as the “cat o’ nine tails” and others. These devices are

used as flogging instruments, a means of control, corporal punishment or torture.

Source: www.wikipedia.com

Etymology:c.1250, wippen “flap violently,” from P.Gmc. *wipp—(cf. Dan. vippe “to raise with a

swipe,” M.Du., Du. wippen “to swing,” O.H.G. wipf “swing, impetus"), from PIE *wib—"move

quickly.” The noun is attested from c.1325. In parliamentary use from 1850 (the v3rb in this sense is

recorded from 1742), from the sense in fox-hunting. The parliamentary whip's duty originally was to

ensure the attendance of party members on important occasions. The cookery sense is from 1673.

Whipping boy first recorded 1647; whipping block is from c.1877. Whip-saw is attested from 1538;

whip snake first recorded 1774.

Source: www.etymonline.com/index.php?l=w&p=6

Live a Little

By Margaret Leigh

The leather restraints bit into Kalem's wrists as he twisted this way and that, testing their strength. They

were perfect—tight enough that he could feel his own racing pulse beating against them, but not so

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unyielding as to cut off the circulation. Kalem closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He wondered how much

longer he'd be left alone here.

The whisper of his breathing was the only sound in the candle-lit room. It was so quiet that if he held his

breath, Kalem could hear the hiss of the candle flames. He shivered as that quiet was interrupted by the

opening of a door. He tensed, swallowed hard and opened his eyes.

A gentle hand on his shoulder made Kalem start. With a whisper of leather against skin, the gloved hand
moved along his arm, tracing over muscled flesh until it rested on the black leather restraints that held him

fast, checking the tightness.

"My name is Master Ash.” The voice was a silken purr. “You may call me Master, do you understand?"

"Yes,” Kalem whispered.

"Yes...?” The Master paused a moment, his hand moving to the other wrist, checking that the restraint

was not too tight.

Kalem shivered again, his cock stirring to life at the veiled threat. “Yes, Master,” he said on a rush of

breath.

"Why are you here, Kalem?” The Master's hand moved back along his arm, resting a moment against his

shoulder, the lightest touch before trailing across the nape of his neck.

Why was he here? Kalem closed his eyes, recalling the circumstances that had led to him coming here.

‘A raffle, of all things,’ he thought. The ticket bought on impulse for some fundraiser at a local

club—urged on by his mates. The first prize was a D/s session with Master Ash. Kalem grimaced,

cursing himself, yet again, for that ill-spent dollar. He sighed and opened his eyes.

"For discipline, Master."

Now that he was here, he might as well play along. After all, as his mate Ryan had told him, it couldn't

hurt to live a little—well, it couldn't hurt much, could it?

"For discipline.” The Master hummed.

Kalem shivered when a finger ran the length of his spine, leather whispering across naked skin, raising

every hair on his body, bringing goose bumps to his flesh despite the heated room, and drawing a

determined twitch from his rapidly engorging cock.

Cold leather touched Kalem's ass, drawing a whimper from his throat. No gloved hand, this was smaller,

a soft leather tab, deceptive in the way it gently rode across his skin, tickling, teasing.

Kalem moaned and pulled against the straps holding his wrists tight to the unyielding wooden frame. A

delicious tension answered from his muscles and he let his eyes slip closed again, revelling in the mingled

sensations.

Anticipation rose within him as the leather tab of the riding crop stroked first one buttock and then the
other. Kalem tensed and his breath hitched when the tab was suddenly withdrawn. His ears caught the

light ‘whoosh’ before a sharp slap of leather. Kalem jumped and made a sound of torment in his throat.

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The whip hadn't touched him, but had slapped against Master Ash's boot.

"Master,” Kalem said in a choked whisper. “Master, please."

A chuckle answered him, quickly followed by another light ‘whoosh.'

This time the whip found its mark and Kalem cried out between gritted teeth. He blinked, biting down on

the cries that rose in his throat, emerging as strangled moans of torment as the whip descended again

three times in rapid succession, crisscrossing his buttocks, heating the skin and raising weals he knew

would linger for hours. He panted, fists clenching against his bonds.

A gloved hand stroked his reddened skin, soothing the sting, and Kalem moaned in gratitude. “More ...

Master,” he whispered.

"As you wish.” Master Ash stepped away from him.

The bite of the leather was wickedly cruel after the soothing caresses and Kalem threw his head back

with a cry . The crop never seemed to strike in the same place twice, and Kalem was soon squirming.

His ass felt like it was on fire, and the pain only intensified his arousal. He whimpered, his hips jerking

with each stroke of the whip, his cock heavy with blood, leaking silvery strings of precome.

After ten more lashes Master Ash moved in close to him again, a gloved hand stroking and soothing him.

Kalem closed his eyes, undone, tears edging from under his lashes.

"Enough?"

Kalem shivered. He didn't think his ass could take any more of the stinging bite of the riding crop, yet he

didn't want this to end. He moaned softly and shook his head, opening his eyes to meet Master Ash's

intense gaze. “I..."

The skin of his behind felt as though it must be glowing, with the amount of heat it was giving off. He

itched to run his fingers over the welts, tracing the lines where the whip bit deep and drew the blood to

the surface without breaking it.

As though reading his mind, Master Ash ran a gloved hand over the heated skin and Kalem shuddered,

letting his breath out on a soft moan of pleasure.

"You're such a little pain slut,” Master Ash breathed. His hand ran the length of Kalem's spine and

stroked across the reddened skin of his captive's ass. He kneaded one butt cheek gently and then moved

to give the other one the same attention.

Pressing in close, he nuzzled the back of Kalem's neck, his tongue flickering across the skin just below

the hairline, lapping salty sweat. He made a sound of appreciation at the shudder that ran through Kalem,

and his hand slipped across the plane of a hip, moving around to pay brief attention to Kalem's straining

cock.

"My whip makes you hard, doesn't it?” Master Ash nuzzled Kalem's neck. “You love the pain."

"Yes...” Kalem whimpered. “Please."

* * * *

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Ash's feet made no sound on the thick carpet as he moved to the table where he had his toy collection

spread out. He cast a glance at the young man secured to the A-frame as he ran one gloved hand over

the handle of a flogger.

Kalem squirmed, his wrists pulling against the leather restraints, testing their strength once again.

"You won't get loose, Kalem,” Ash said. “The restraints are secure."

Smirking, Ash lifted the black suede flogger from the table, letting its heavy tails fall loose, brushing

against the leather of his long, black boot with a ripple that sounded loud in the quiet room.

Ash's lips curved in a smile when Kalem tensed. He stepped close to his captive and ran a hand up the

straight, perfect spine. He rested his free hand against Kalem's hip, letting the suede falls of the flogger

caress the man's thigh.

"Ready for more?"

He stepped back at Kalem's tense nod and ran his fingers through the tails of the flogger, separating

them before he swung the heavy toy. He let it whistle through the air a couple of times, barely touching

Kalem's skin, the tails brushing either side of the spine, and he watched muscles tense in anticipation.

* * * *

Kalem shivered; the tails of the flogger brushed as lightly as fingers, barely skimming across his back. He

closed his eyes, swallowing hard, and willed himself to relax.

He groaned as the flogger fell more heavily against his skin. The thudding impact was different from the

riding crop: deeper, heavier. He felt it to his core and the groan that it drew from him was soul-felt.

The tails worked their way down his back and Kalem arched, pulling against the leather straps at his

wrists, feeling the bite of them, the tension in his flexed muscles. He moaned, conflicted—needing more,

needing it to stop, needing his Master's touch. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back, mouth open,

gasping for breath when the tails fell across first one buttock and then the other.

"Master,” Kalem groaned. He whimpered when Master Ash came to him, a hand on his shoulder while

the other worked the restraints loose, freeing his hands.

Master Ash gently chafed Kalem's wrists before placing a gentle kiss on each one.

Kalem shivered, sinking to the floor, his Master's arms supporting him until he knelt, trembling and

surrendering. He looked up at Master Ash.

"Thank you, Master,” Kalem said, his voice rough with passion. He lowered his eyes before Master

Ash's hot gaze. He trembled, his cock still painfully erect and throbbing.

"You've done well, Kalem.” Master Ash moved to stand in front of him. “Such obedience should be

rewarded.” He smiled when Kalem's eyes rose to his face and Kalem licked his lips.

"How shall I reward you?” Master Ash watched him for a moment and then his fingers went to the fly of

his black denim jeans. “I think we both know what you like, Kalem."

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"Yes, Master.” Kalem bit his lip, watching as Master Ash undid the buttons and slid the zipper of his

jeans down painfully slowly. “Please.” His eyes were fixed on Master Ash's fingers and he slipped his

hands behind his back, rising up on his knees.

"Serve me,” Master Ash put a hand on Kalem's cheek, pulling him closer as his Master freed the

achingly hard cock. “Suck it."

Kalem needed no further urging. He closed his eyes and let the tip of his tongue just barely touch the end

of his Master's cock. He moaned, deep in his throat, and licked his lips, wetting them, and then took the

hard flesh into his mouth.

"That's it.” Master Ash kept a hand on Kalem's cheek, guiding him, thumb caressing the warm skin as

his cock slid deeper into Kalem's mouth. “Taste me, suck me, take it down deep, Kalem."

* * * *

Ash looked down, watching his cock slide into Kalem's mouth. He groaned as Kalem hummed around

him, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through his cock to set off sparks in his belly and

kindling a slow-burning fire that grew hotter with every move of that mouth, every ripple of the talented

tongue.

Kalem moaned. He brought his hands from behind his back and rested them on Ash's ass, kneading the

firm buttocks through the black denim. Bobbing his head faster, he slid his lips up and down the rigid

shaft in his mouth.

"Uh!” Ash thrust deeper, still holding Kalem's cheek, making sure not to gag him. But fuck, that mouth

on him—that goddamn tongue! He wanted to come, wanted to—right the fuck now. “You love it, don't

you?” He gave another grunt, wrung from between his teeth. “You love to be on your knees with your

Master's cock in your mouth."

Wicked lips slid along the length of his cock and then Kalem swallowed him down again and God, it

was too much! Ash came hard and hot and so fucking good. He growled, his fingers curling against

Kalem's cheek, the controlling grasp turning to a caress as Kalem swallowed and something bright and

hot exploded behind Ash's eyelids.

Kalem looked up as Ash pulled out of his mouth, met the gleaming darkness of his Ash's eyes and

shivered. Kalem waited, lightly gnawing at his lower lip, no doubt trying to read Ash's inscrutable

expression.

"You broke.” Ash groaned softly. “I knew I could bring you to your knees.” He caressed Kalem's

golden hair. “One taste of the whip and you fall begging at my feet."

Kalem shivered. “Yes, Master."

Ash considered him for a moment, dark eyes gleaming and his expression unreadable. He carded his

fingers through Kalem's wavy golden hair and then stepped away from Kalem, adjusting his clothing

before he bent to retrieve the flogger which he'd dropped to the floor.

"I think the lesson needs to be reinforced.” Ash moved in front of Kalem. He let the tails of the flogger

dangle before Kalem's face. “I think I need to make you understand my power."

Kalem moaned.

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"No restraints this time.” Ash flicked the tails of the flogger, letting them brush against Kalem's belly.

“You can take it like the slut you are—on your knees with your ass in the air."

A sharp intake of breath and blue eyes met his, shocked and indignant. Ash tilted his head to one side.

“Assume the position, Kalem."

"I..."

"Don't try my patience!” The tails flicked the tender skin of Kalem's belly, harder this time—a stinging

bite that left no doubt of Ash's intent.

Kalem scrambled onto all fours, his knees tucked under to guard his belly against wrapping tails,

forehead bowed to the floor and his arms folded above his head.

"Much better,” Ash swung the flogger in the lightest brush of tails across Kalem's shoulders, a caress.

* * * *

Kalem shivered, his breath hitching, tense with anticipation of the next touch of the whip. Would it kiss or

bite him—he couldn't be sure, and the uncertainty made waiting that much sweeter.

The thud of tails against his ass made him jump. A deep, penetrating impact, heavier than any his Master

had dealt till now. Kalem groaned.

Again, the tails thudded almost lazily against his skin, the impact shaking him, drawing another soft sound

of pleasure-pain from between his bitten lips. Oh, so good.

His cock throbbed with pent-up need, twitching against his belly with every heavy blow of the flogger

which his Master swung in slow arcs against first one buttock and then the other. Kalem began to

wonder if it would be possible to come, just from the alternating sensations of ‘thud-twitch-thud', and

found the answer to that question soon became his focus.

Not enough. Kalem whimpered when the flogger connected with his heated, bruised flesh again. One

hand crept from above his head, snaking downwards, seeking to stroke himself.

A particularly hard fall of the suede against his arm and shoulder brought a yelp from Kalem's lips.

"No touching,” Master Ash growled.

"Master..."

"Kalem!” The barked tone of command was not to be argued with, and he reluctantly brought his hand

back to its former position.

The flogger bit him hard, three times across his buttocks, and Kalem whimpered in real pain. The blows’

intensity immediately lessened.

Finally, the flogger ceased its lazy arcs and Kalem knelt up when Master Ash touched him on the

shoulder He kept his eyes downcast.

"Stand.” The command was spoken softly. Kalem got to his feet. His breath was ragged and he

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trembled all over from lust and pain.

He flinched and then groaned when a gloved hand gently stroked his reddened ass.

Master Ash caressed him, his hand moving slowly over reddened cheeks, up to the small of his back,

massaging him for a moment before slipping into the cleft between his cheeks, fingers teasing across the

puckered hole, bringing a pleading sound from his throat.

"You think you have earned release?” Master Ash's voice was a silken purr close to his ear; Kalem

whimpered.

"Please, Master,” he whispered brokenly. “If it pleases you."

"You want to touch yourself, don't you?"

Kalem sobbed with frustration.

"Who am I, Kalem?"

"Master.” His response was immediate and heartfelt. “Master Ash."

Master Ash smiled. “Put your hands behind your back.” He exchanged the flogger for the riding crop

and moved back to stand in front of Kalem, the tag of the whip gently tapping against his boot.

Master Ash studied him for a moment, gaze raking his body from the golden hair and blue eyes, the

petulant mouth, down over the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, resting, finally, on his erect and

weeping cock.

Tapping the riding whip against the leather of his boot one last time, Master Ash lifted it, the leather tab

resting under Kalem's chin making him look up warily to meet the dark, gleaming eyes of his Master.

Kalem bit his lip and his eyes clouded with apprehension as the whip moved down from his throat, over

his chest, following the same path Master Ash's eyes had taken a moment before.

With a flick of his wrist, Ash moved the whip between Kalem's thighs, stroking the tender flesh of each,

nudging his legs further apart. Master Ash stepped in close and took hold of his cock in one gloved hand,

stroking him slowly.

"You belong to me,” Master Ash whispered close to Kalem's ear. “Your pain and your pleasure are

mine to give or to withhold. I am your Master. I dictate whether you find release or torment here."

Kalem moaned, eyes closed, focusing on the voice next to his ear. His breath was ragged with need and

he longed for the release his Master spoke of. The whip stroking between his thighs reminded him of

Master Ash's ultimate power. He swallowed hard and let his breath out slowly. “Please, Master."

"How prettily you beg.” Master Ash's voice was like a gentle purr. He stroked Kalem a little faster. A

change of angle and the whip pressed upwards, the shaft edging between the cheeks of Kalem's ass,

sliding back and forth across the sensitive opening hidden there. “Tell me what you want."

"Uh!” Kalem grunted, his knees buckling slightly, his mind reeling with the sensory overload of a firm

hand on his cock and the thin, leather-covered whip moving over his skin. “P-please, Master,” his voice

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was a tremulous moan. “Please, let me come."

He sobbed as Master Ash began to pump his cock in earnest. Tension wound like a coil in his belly and

he knew he couldn't last long. He groaned, breathing hard. Sweat broke out over his body.

Kalem's hips snapped forward involuntarily when Master Ash's thumb swept across the head of his

cock, teasing the tiny slit, spreading the slick fluid. He grunted, thrust forward again and then he came,

spilling his seed over his Master's hand. He moaned as his knees gave way and he sank to the floor at

Master Ash's feet.

Master Ash stroked Kalem's hair. He moved away for a moment but was back quickly, laying a

warmed bathrobe across Kalem's shoulders. He helped Kalem into the garment, then moved to stand in

front of him.

"You have done well, Kalem. I am pleased with you."

"Thank you, Master,” Kalem pulled the robe around him, luxuriating in its warmth and softness. He

looked up, meeting Master Ash's dark eyes.

So many thoughts whirled in his mind. He'd never done anything like this before today, but now that he'd

experienced it, he found himself wondering just how deep he could go into this strange and unfamiliar side

of his nature. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better. Lowering his gaze, he knelt,

subdued and trembling before his Master.

"You may rest here a while.” Master Ash's voice was gentle and solicitous. “When you are sufficiently

recovered, you can shower and dress.” He paused. “I know you have many questions and many things
to work through. I'd suggest you make no hasty decisions.” Master Ash smiled when Kalem looked up

at him. “Go home and think things over in familiar surroundings.” He reached to stroke Kalem's hair.

“You may decide that this is not for you—or you may feel that you want to return and explore further.”

Master Ash patted Kalem's shoulder. “Follow the urgings of your heart, Kalem."

Master Ash left him then, and Kalem remained kneeling on the floor. He closed his eyes, living again the

past hour in this room and recalling the many sensations that the Master had evoked in him.

"Follow the urgings of your heart,” Master Ash had said.

Kalem sighed. He already felt he knew what those urgings would be, but his Master had told him to

make no hasty decisions.

Getting to his feet, Kalem made his way to the bathroom. His chance purchase of a raffle ticket had led

him to a remarkable experience and some unique discoveries. He was eager to explore them further, but

he would do as his Master commanded.

Ryan had been right, Kalem mused as he left the dungeon a little while later. It really didn't hurt to live a

little.

Whip Kiss

By Vic Winter

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The sing of the whip through the air is a promise.

A promise of the sharp, quick bite to come, that first brilliant white flash of pain followed by an absolute

stillness, an expectant hush where everything is still and silent. An eternity lives in this moment that doesn't

even last a second—a pure crystallized moment where the universe and I exist in perfection.

The pain blooms and the moment is gone, that sharp snap fading out into a broader, deeper ache that

spreads across my skin. I bite down on the leather strap in my mouth and my knuckles go white as I

squeeze the leather that holds me bound. I can feel the whip's stroke across my back as my muscles flex.

I don't make any sound, though, not yet. Right now I still have control and my groans are held in, kept

inside myself.

This isn't my first time.

The whip master is experienced, too. I could feel it in the way he looked me up and down when I first

stood in front of him, in the way he wrapped my cock in its leather bindings. I could see the confidence in

his eyes, in the way he carried himself.

His eyes met mine, a connection forming; he would control my pain and my pleasure. And I would let

him.

He guided me to the wall and I faced it, spread my legs and put my hands in the restraints. He tightened

them and gave me the leather to bite down on.

The next hit is a rebuke, the leather whip snapping across my shoulders, demanding my attention. The

next two hits come in quick succession, my back throbbing now, and the next quick snap makes me jerk

and groan: yes, yes I am here, I am focussed.

Stillness settles over me and the whip master again, broken only by the throbbing of my back and the

sound of our breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out.

I slowly tighten, anticipating the next kiss of the whip. I relax just as slowly when it doesn't come. Tighten

again. Relax. The pattern repeats and I can feel myself growing impatient. I remind myself that we have

all night and that I have given myself over to the whip master. I am in his control.

The next kiss of the whip is a reward. And I hold onto that golden moment as long as I can. The ache

fades in, wiping everything else away. It isn't long before the next kiss falls and I float on that moment

again before sinking into the pain that follows.

The whip master knows he has me now and the whip's kisses come one after the other. I just go with it,

lose myself in the float and sink of it.

It has always been this way for me, and as I lose myself in it, all the other lifetimes flow through me, hold

me, warm me.

I've had vivid dreams about these lives of mine that are all joined by this deep need for the whip's kiss.

Slave, master, solider, laborer—through the ages I have been many things and had many lovers. But my

need for the whip has followed me wherever I go. And always have I felt its kiss; never have I been the

one to wield it.

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I have never wanted to.

I don't need the power and responsibility that comes with the wielding of braided leather. No, I want the

pain, the release and beauty of submission. I want, no I need, to hand over control to someone, to trust

them to see me through to the other side, to bring me there.

I was a soldier in the Dark Ages, a leader of rough and violent men. I ruled them with an iron fist and

yet, whenever I could, I would hand my master of arms my whip and kneel before him. Skin bared to the

touch of the air, I would kneel there and wait for that kiss, that sharp, precise flick of leather against my

skin.

With my eyes closed, it is almost like I'm there. I can smell the flat, heavy scent oil burning in the lamp,

and the more pungent scent of the ground beneath my knees When I stand, they will be dark with dirt.
My own body smells strongly male and salty. And I can smell Gord. My second. My love. I can smell

the sweat of his skin, the musk of his need.

The whipping is rough, but I need it, I crave it. With each touch of the leather against my skin, the stress

and worry fades until finally it is gone and I am nothing more than ache and pain, my skin alive and singing

with each and every touch. That pure crystalline moment brings me into myself, and takes me out of

myself at the same time.

When my control has slipped to screams and my screams to exhausted sobs, Gord stops.

He washes my back, whispering to me, soft sounds of nonsense, words that have no meaning—it is the

tone that soothes me, the knowledge that I am safe here, that my lover will care for me and keep this

vulnerable, open place I'm in now secret from the world.

Cleaned and cared for, my back a throbbing, dull ache, I lie with him, he on his back and I with my head

on his shoulder, his body supporting mine. There is calm in this place in his arms. A calmness and a

knowledge that I am not alone.

It is this that is missing from my life today. I have found many who can wield the whip, many who can

give me the pain and release that I need, but I have never found anyone who can also give me the love

that I crave.

I have had lovers, and I have had whip masters. But never have the two been the same. Never before

now.

* * * *

I'm sitting on the bench by the bus stop near the club, the sun warm on my face, a soft breeze blowing

through my hair. I could have taken a cab home, but I'm not ready for that yet, not ready to be in my little
house with its empty rooms. I don't even have a dog or a cat for companionship. Which is fine, because it

isn't a dog or a cat that I want.

I don't even want some random lover who won't understand my needs. I've been that route and it ended

unpleasantly for both of us.

My back aches, and my mind is clear, peaceful. There isn't going to be a bus for another half hour—I've

managed to just miss the last one. That's all right, though. There isn't much traffic on the road and the

sidewalks are clear. The place will be busy later this evening, but right now it's just quiet. It's easy to

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close my eyes and just be.

"Mind if I join you?” The voice is male, low and a little rumbly, like it isn't used very often.

I open my eyes and discover the whip master looking down at me, a half smile on his face.

"No. No, not at all.” I move over a little, startled by this unexpected interaction with the man who had

taken me so deeply inside myself.

He sits and holds out his hand. “Dave."

It's such an ordinary name. You don't expect a guy named Dave to be whipping guys for cash at a

private leather club. Of course my name's not exactly exotic either.

"I'm Ben,” I tell him.

Our hands linger together and his is warm, solid, and I can feel calluses. I have to wonder if they're all

from the whip, or if there's more to it than that. What does he do when he isn't whipping men? I want to

know.

His eyes are a grayish blue. I didn't notice that before. I looked right into them in that room and I didn't

notice what color they were.

Our hands finally drop apart and it's weird, but I can still feel a connection between us. I don't know if

it's because of the whipping, or if there's something else going on. I'm confused, and I feel like I'm a little

out of my depth here. It's exciting.

"I was surprised to see you out here waiting for the bus.” I do love the tone of his voice. It soothes and

arouses me at the same time. Which is also weird and confusing.

"It's a nice day to wait for it. And I needed the time."

"To process? I'm sorry—I can go.” He stands and I do, too, shaking my head.

"No, you don't have to."

"You've just had a very intense experience and I don't want to intrude.” He gets it. He understands what

the whipping gives me, the richness it brings to my life, which only makes sense given his role in it.

"You aren't intruding.” And it's true. It feels good to be talking to him, to have him be the one to unsettle

me in this strange way.

His smile is as lovely as his voice and it travels to his eyes. It makes me remember how I knew he was

experienced at wielding that whip, just by the look in his eyes. They're so expressive. And their gaze is

like a touch.

"I ... Would you...” I'm tongue-tied in a way I can't remember being before, but I don't want to cross

any lines he might have about seeing his clients, and I don't want to lose him as a whip master. I've been

to several clubs in the last few years, looking for someone as good as he is.

Dave interrupts my mental dithering. “Have you had supper?"

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"No. I usually fast for the day when I know I'm going to be whipped."

Dave doesn't seem surprised by my answer. “Would you like to join me for a meal?"

I nod. The truth is that I very much would. There's something about Dave that draws me to him. It isn't

just that he's the best whip master I've ever had work me over. It's his voice and his eyes and something

about the way my stomach twists and flips as he stands here next to me, those blue eyes making me their

focus.

"I know a quiet place. We can walk."

I fall into step with him, aware of the ache in my back, aware that he's the one who put it there. We

don't make small talk, and somehow it isn't awkward and I wonder if he is in a similar head space to

mine. Does he get some sort of peace out of wielding the whip? Does my need have a twin in him?

The place he takes me to is a little Thai restaurant. We're served by a young girl chewing gum, cracking

it annoyingly, but once she's gone it's as quiet as promised, the air heavy with the scent of spices: ginger

and garlic, green onion and saffron. The smell tickles at the back of my head, familiar somehow and a

flash of myself as a slave, fed by my master's hand fills me. Whipped and then fed, cared for by my

master. Not alone. I look across at Dave and smile. I'm not alone right now, either.

Now we talk, but there's nothing small about it. We share ourselves with each other. I learn that he

works at a plant nursery four days a week as well as at the club. I tell him about my books, about how

my past lives have helped me to know myself in this one. He doesn't blink an eye at that, only smiles and

in that instant seems familiar.

I know him and he knows me.

* * * *

Hours later find us at my place. We've spent the entire evening together, staying at the restaurant until the

waitress with the gum still cracking in her mouth finally asked us to leave so she could close up.

We've talked about everything. About our childhoods and our dreams and aspirations. About how we

discovered our need for the whip. About how we've both dreamed of our past lives, of the one constant

within them.

As I close the door behind me and turn on the hall light, I can see the need in his eyes and he reaches for

me, reaches to pull me closer.

The touch of his lips on mine is a promise.

It is a promise of the touches to come, of pleasure to be shared between us. It makes me hard. Kisses

usually don't, but his lips are soft on my own, his tongue wet and hot, asking for entrance and my body

knows that this man can make it sing. With the whip. And without.

I can't believe the sounds that are coming out of my mouth, but it's been so long since I've had a lover,

and I have never had one who understands the way just the sound of a whip through the air can make me

hard.

I open to him.

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The kiss has us both panting and I can feel that he's as hard as I am. My hands clutch at his arms and his

run up and down my shirt front, occasionally stopping to open a button. Eventually my shirt is open and

his hands stroke over my skin, leaving sweet shivering sensations behind them.

I manage to return the favor, opening his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. I'm fascinated by his

biceps, the muscles large. He's so strong. I know that; I felt that strength in the whip as it hit my back, but

here I can feel it in the muscles themselves and the touch is more intimate. I didn't think I'd ever find a

touch more intimate than the kiss of the whip, but here, now, just this simple exploration of the muscles of

his arms feels that way.

We haven't even made it out of the hall way and I don't care. Dave doesn't seem to either, his eyes

following his fingertips as they slide over my skin. He teases my nipples and they go hard for him. He

brushes my belly and it flexes for him. His wraps his hands around my hips and they jerk for him, pushing

the hard bulge in my jeans against the equally hard one in his.

I shudder. I whimper. I lock my knees so I don't fall.

Our mouths meet again, his teeth sharp on my lower lip as he nips it. It makes me jerk, brings me fully

against him.

I can see the heat in his eyes; I can feel the heat of his body.

And then his fingers are at my jeans, tugging open the button, pulling down the zipper. My jeans seem to

have a mind of their own, falling from my hips the moment he's undone them, and I'm standing there in

only my boxers, my erection trying to push out of them, tenting them hugely.

He takes a step back to look at me and I feel suddenly, strangely, more naked than I had before when I
had stood before him, waiting to be whipped. He knows me now, knows the things I need and want that

have nothing to do with whips, and he knows the cravings I have for the kiss of leather on my skin. Both

halves of me have been exposed to him.

I hold my breath as he looks.

His smile is a promise.

Dave steps forward again, and I do, too, my hands scrabbling at the front of his pants, trying to get him

as naked as I nearly am. His briefs and my boxes hit the floor at the same time, leaving us to rub against

each other.

Our hips move together, making our cocks slide. Our tips are leaking, our need flooding our bodies, and

soon we're slick, all heat and silk and bumping together, wet sounds joining our moans and our panting

breath to make music to fill my hall with.

Soon I can't hear any of it. I can't see the color of his eyes anymore. All I can do is feel. The pleasure is

huge, the ache in my back only increasing it, the knowledge that Dave is responsible for that ache making

me cry out, my balls tightening. The pleasure shoots from my cock, cry after cry torn from my throat.

I blink and shiver, the orgasm leaving me weak and melted. Leaving me stunned—so much power in a

quickie not even up against the wall, but standing in the middle of my hallway.

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He's come, too, and he looks just as melted, though less stunned.

He takes my hand. “Ben. Your bedroom. Take me there."

And I do, leading him down past my little living room and past the den where my desk and my computer

and my TV are, leading him past the places where I live my life to the bedroom where I sleep and dream

of the lives I've lived in the past.

We stop for a moment on the threshold and I know now that I have found what I've been looking for so

long. Here is the man who can give me what I need because he understands it. He needs it, too.

He leads me to my bed and climbs in, opening his arms for me. I settled carefully, my back still very

sensitive. Dave kisses the top of my head and I cry out, feeling cherished and loved, feeling a calm, a

peace I have never known in this lifetime.

I swear as my eyes close and I float in the peace we've created together, that I can smell the scent of oil

burning in the darkness.

The sing of the whip through the air is a promise I believe in.

How I Learned to Tease Him

By Willa Okati

"Tell me, my pet. Have you ever been whipped?"

My question startled Pet out of his concentration. He raised his head from what had, until that point,

been an excellent exercise in fellatio, his pretty pink lips slipping off the head of my prick with a moist

“pop". He stared at me, those same lips parted in a comical expression of surprise.

I favored him with a lazy smile. He had such appeal when taken off guard. “Did I tell you to cease what

you are currently engaged in doing?” Enjoyment of his attractive astonishment aside, I was in no mood to

have my carnal enjoyment interrupted mid-stream. Pet gave marvelous “blow jobs", as common parlance

would have such an exquisite act described. I did not and do not yet like the term. For one, the words

are imprecise. I have not thought of a better, more's the pity, and so it must suffice for now.

What would describe the act more appropriately? Suck job? Tongue job? Tongue bath?

I digress. It is far too easy to lose myself in rosy-painted memories of those early days with my Pet. I

savored the play that came with acquiring and training a new pet as much then as I do now. That

red-haired Pet had captured me heart and soul as no other of his kind had ever managed. I suspected,

even then, what came to be confirmed: he would become the best of his kind. He was raw, yes, but

beneath his coating of coal dust, I spied a diamond eager to be cut and polished.

You wish to know his name? Don't waste my time on such frivolous questions. My Pet had no name that

you need know. I only acquired the knowledge myself for the sake of fulfilling requirements set by the

ridiculous laws and regulations of the country where I lived.

No, I will not tell you which one.

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If you must call my chosen submissive something, you may refer to him as “Pet", as I do now and did

then. That will be good enough, thank you.

Spare me these nosy inquiries! You say you wish to know my name? Don't be ridiculous. Have you ever
heard a heavy-handed shark growl, “I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you"? It is neither a joke nor

a cliché when it comes to who I am and what I do. You are better off left in ignorance.

Enough prattle, now. Be silent if you wish to hear the rest of this tale, and if I say so myself, recounting

my Pet's training is a source of great pleasure to me. I suspect these accounts please you, yourself.

Even if that was not the case, trust me when I say you do not wish to try my patience any further.

He stared at me yet, so I shook my head in minute rebuke. I do not need grand shows to express myself

adequately. Pet had learned enough of my ways to understand my frowns, and have a working

knowledge of what my disapproval meant to him.

The gleam in his jade-green eyes dimmed with trepidation. “I'm sorry, Master,” he hastened to say as he

dared to pet my bared thighs. Insolent pup! He concluded quickly enough that that was not the way to

invoke my forgiveness, for he paled—impressive on a man already white as fresh-drawn cream, and so

very attractive—and tucked his hands behind his back as I like, the wrist of one hand clasped in the other
set of fingers. He lowered his head so that all I could see was the shining crown of his copper-penny hair,

and waited until I leaned forward and tapped his shoulder.

"Apologies, Master,” he murmured. “I am unworthy of your attentions."

I approved. He was learning with appreciably swift skill to speak as I preferred, properly, with none of

his modern slang or any of the rude accents I so abhorred. He deserved a reward for his cleverness.

Grasping a lock of his marvelous hair, I tugged him forward in a silent order.

My Pet was clever enough to understand an order to continue sucking my prick until completion; also,

the dear boy was such a glutton for the taste and feel of a man's come in his mouth that it made him as

happy as I to continue working. I enjoyed, almost as much as the exquisite attainment of orgasm, to allow

him his own particular pleasure. I like to dole out rewards when they are earned, you see.

His attentions softened the prickles of my ire and inclined me to be kind. As he sucked, I petted and

stroked his soft tresses to encourage what I liked. He laved my prick with skilled attention, lavishing my

rod with short licks up the sides, then took a twisting trip downward, neck pivoting sinuously as a

snake's. If I were not so in control of my senses, he would have given me cause to take my leave of

them. He truly did have remarkable skills when it came to the art of satisfying a man with his sweet

mouth. Indeed, he must have been quite the slut before I took charge of his education.

I idly considered punishing him for past transgressions, and I do believe I would have, had he not chosen

that precise moment to break orders and change position. He released his wrist and insinuated one hand

between my thighs to cup and squeeze my sac.

Impudent, presumptuous whore! I remember thinking, as I nearly embarrassed myself by crying out as

he pushed me too far, that if he was not cheekily demanding punishment, he had certainly earned a firm

reprimand. Once he had finished. At the moment, I could do nothing but groan and roll my hips while he

messily gulped what I shot. His slobbery, masticating groans were enough to override my carefully

acquired control. Such a come-slut!

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Finished with guzzling his drink of choice, my Pet sat back on his heels and demurely returned to proper

position, as if he was a shining example of what a slave should be. He breathed far too hard and fast,

though, and I have never been easily fooled. A glance between his creamy thighs to satisfy my own

curiosity showed me that despite application of the leather and chrome restraints I enjoyed seeing on him,

his cock had risen slim and hard, demanding attention. The pale skin had gone dark red, the slit on the

head gaping, expelling sticky, clear strands that trailed from his prick. The drool trailed like perverted rain

down to soil my expensive Oriental rug.

What am I to do with you?I thought, resisting the urge to shake my head in dismay. With his eagerness,

Pet put me in mind, as ever, of an eager puppy. A young hound who had brought a saliva-slimy,

chewed-up ball to his master's feet. He only lacked a physical tail to complete the impression. Had he

been able to claim such a decoration, it would have lashed the carpet in thumping joy. As it was, he

trembled with excitement as he waited for words of praise and approval and possibly even permission to

attend to his own pressing physical needs.

He had so, so much left to learn at that point. Sometimes I despaired of him.

A gentle but well-placed kick to his ribs, the toes of my bare feet curled in so as not to cut him—I am

not heartless, regardless of what you might think—and he went over like ninepins, thumping onto his

back with neither grace nor precision. He forgot himself so far as to rise up on his elbows, staring at me

in baffled wonder.

I thought I spied the very smallest hint of anger, and it was that which decided me on my next course of

action.

I met and held his gaze, giving him to know of my ire at his daring to display such childishness in my

presence. He was skilled enough to know, at least, how he should respond to a master's rebuke. His

cheeks went red instead of white, satisfying me with his embarrassment at such an untrained display. He

even had the sense to scramble back into approved position. His shoulders drooped as would those of a

disappointed urchin.

Indeed, he looked so dejected that he almost moved my heart to pity. That would have been dangerous,

if I had permitted myself the freedom to wallow in such a wasteful emotion. It was not fitting for a man of
my station, a man whose chosen profession was in no way suited for abasement, to say nothing of how it

would have ill-suited a Master.

Still, I deemed that it would do no harm to display patience and gentleness. Despite my occasional

impatience I knew I had to remember he was a novice and could not be expected to have everything

perfect right off the mark. Truth to tell, I would have been unhappy with him if he had shaved off his

rough edges so quickly. Where would the fun be with a perfect slave? I tended to discard my pets when

there were no surprises left to be uncovered. If you ever wish to attain the rank of Mastery, you must

understand this: the challenge lies in shaping and molding, not in admiring a gilded lily.

Not all feel this way. I do. In that respect, as with others, my Pet was perfect for my tastes. He was such

a ripe treasure waiting to be shaped by a Master's hands. He made me more than happy to place him on

my working table for creating whatever art in him I so desired.

"Come,” I said, after sufficient time had passed for Pet to truly begin worrying about what I was thinking

or what I might do to chastise him for his poor manners. “You failed to answer my earlier question."

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He quailed and dipped his head lower, nearly cowering in on himself. Poor lad, so appealingly

concerned with what he accurately perceived to be his failure. “Apologies, Master,” he murmured, the

sound of his voice so sweet and so small that he warmed me with a sense of joy. “Pet's Master asked if

this Pet had ever been whipped. Is this slave correct in what he remembers?"

"Good boy,” I said, not stingy with approval when it was warranted. Honey is so important to coax the

bee. “You are correct."

He perked up a bit, the responsive lad.

"Now answer me. Have you ever been whipped?"

I could not mistake the ripple of excitement in the muscles of his back when he shook his head, shining

hair whipping to and fro. “No, Master. This Pet has never been privileged enough to feel the kiss of a

Master's whip."

A very nice turn of phrase; I approved.

"Would the Master like to whip me?"

"Presumption,” I reproved, inflexibly stern. “You dare to guess what I might or might not want?"

He trembled, cowed. “No, Master."

I toyed with the notion of discarding my forming plan. I did not want to give him ideas. It would have

been better suited to our arrangement and Pet's caste if I had refused him any further contact that evening

and sent him supper-less to bed, with only my come in his stomach to keep him satiated through the

night. His was a lonely and colorless room, yes, but please do not insult me by suggesting I had Pet sleep

in a cage. I am not so heartless as to enjoy the gilded luxury of my own bed while a Pet languishes on

metal bars. Such things are tawdry and smack of far too much pleasure in genuine cruelty.

Besides, they damage the skin.

What I do, I do out of love, of a sort. I was exceedingly fond of my Pet, you see, and it was for his own

good that I was so firm with him.

I drew out the pregnant pause, waiting until Pet's fit of wavering had passed and he had once again

composed himself.

Not until he kneeled perfectly still did I relent to the need rising hard and fast within me. “You may stand.

Keep your head bowed, but go to the wooden chest in the corner of this room and bring me back what

you find inside. It has no key."

Not that I would be fool enough to surrender a key to a Pet, especially that one. I had already needed to

discipline him for making use of a sterling silver plug I had left out to test his subservience. His choice to

play and to penetrate himself had been both disobedient and shameful.

"You have your orders. Go."

Pet dipped his head, hair swaying in its lovely, lithe dance, and rose with barely a whisper of sound. His

bare feet padded with soft cat-steps on the rugs and then the bare golden wood of the floor.

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As he walked away, I leaned back in my padded, comfortable chair and propped my head in the palm
of one hand, enjoying the view of his firm heart-shaped ass presenting itself to me with each sway of his

hips. I decided I should like to see his hair grown long enough to brush and kiss the top of that delectable

ass, long enough for him to wrap around his cock, or mine, for the sake of beauty and titillation. That

would take quite some time, yes, but with this Pet I felt reasonably certain he would be in my care

adequately long enough.

Pet had learned to obey quickly and quietly once he had fixed his flighty mind on a particular set of

orders. He did not run, but progressed with acceptable swiftness, and was soon kneeling before the

specified trunk to raise the carved cedar lid.

There, he stopped. I knew what the problem would be. “You may speak, Pet."

"There are many whips in this trunk, Master. This slave does not know which the Master would prefer.”

He seemed to want to raise his hand to the back of his neck and rub, as a common laborer might do, and

it pleased me to see that he did not. “If the Master is willing, would the Master care to give his Pet

instructions?"

I had had a particular whip in mind, a soft suede flogger with ribbons at the tip—I did not want to mar

his smooth white skin—but the very devil seized hold of my fancy, and I stifled a laugh before saying with

absolute carelessness, “The Pet may choose the one he thinks will best satisfy his personal desires."

Unsaid was the reminder that a Pet's desires were those that would please his Master. I wanted to see if

he would recall that tenet of our relationship and apply it to his choice.

He stiffened in surprise, so very pretty under pressure. His hand rose and lingered over the trunk, caught

in an agony of indecision. I could almost hear his racing thoughts and pounding heartbeat. I could, in fact,

hear the light shallowness of his breaths, in which I took a perverse satisfaction.

I waited to see what Pet would do, and he did not disappoint me. He made his selection and stood,

turning to walk back. What he held carefully and reverently took my breath away. Brave Pet! He had

chosen the biggest and cruelest of all, a heavy rawhide bullwhip which, to be honest, I kept for show and

not for use. The thought of tearing into my slave's supple flesh with the stiff, sharp strands of that

whip—no, that would never do—but I approved of his bravery and desire to please as much as his

addiction to pain, eager to accept the worst physical discipline I might imagine to inflict upon him.

He delighted me so very much that I decided to offer him a special treat. I waited until he had arrived at

my feet, kneeling and presenting the whip in his upraised palms, and then laid my hand atop the crown of

his head. “Good Pet,” I crooned, letting my pleasure show in my voice. I took the whip and ran the

leather through my fingers. “Turn away from me, still on your knees, and face the opposite way. Yes, just

like that. Good Pet. Now, present me with your clasped wrists. Good Pet.” I adjusted his wrists to

precisely the right angle, and swiftly wrapped the trailing end of the whip around them. Not a tight knot,

of course, the leather was far too stiff for such a thing; the makeshift bonds were more of a reminder than
anything else. “Do not let that come loose,” I warned. “Now, on your stomach, if you please, and spread

your legs apart as wide as they will go without damaging your muscles."

My Pet jumped, startled yet again. He half-turned his head, wanting, I knew, to glance over his shoulder

to see if I could possibly be serious. He stopped himself with a swallow so rough I could hear his throat
rasp, nodded, and went down obediently as a lamb. An awkward move to accomplish with both hands

fixed behind his back, but he managed quite adequately, even if he did bump his nose and yelp. Not at all

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bad for his first time.

Once on the rug, poor abused nose buried in its multi-colored fibers, he parted his thighs to a

near-obscene degree and bent his knees to further allow him the split. I could see his cock, now angry

red with arousal, pressed into the rug in what must surely have been a painful position.

I went to my knees in the cradle of his legs, running firm and assessing hands over the taut muscles of his
buttocks. He quivered and gasped so, so prettily that my own prick, which had never dropped to further

than half-mast, rose up full and eager to be encased by his snug hole.

More decided than ever before on my course of action, I dipped a finger into his parted crease. Slow

strokes of my finger circled the ring of muscle I was most pleased to see already glistening with lubricant

and pre-stretched to allow me access. A sluttishly anticipatory initiative, but it suited my purposes, and so

I decided to chastise him later.

At the moment, I wanted to fuck my Pet, and I would let nothing stand in my way.

The first thrust took Pet by surprise; I suppose he had expected some manner of foreplay or perhaps a

kind word, or even some sort of warning. Such is not my preferred approach. I merely set my cock

against his entrance as soon as I had positioned us both and pushed, one hard stroke that seated me as

far in as I could go.

I am weak, on occasion, when first enjoying a new Pet's ass, and had to stop myself to breathe.

Then Pet, the precocious brat, squeezed my cock and I quite lost control. He mewed and gasped as I

fucked him, aware of only that and the scorching snugness. He writhed so beautifully, trembling in every

limb, that he aroused me too far, too fast.

Still, I was pleased. Fucking my Pet was a deliciously wicked source of gratification, and no man could

help but be driven to fuck fast and hard when their slave was so extremely responsive. The soft cries and

long-drawn-out gasps filled my veins with fire. His muscles gripped and strained fit to drive me mad. I

gladly gave myself up to the heady, mindless rapture of fucking and climaxing, drawing my clipped nails

down his back when I passed the point of no return. He liked that very much, back arching and head

arcing back as he mewled hungrily.

When I had come, I withdrew and admired the trickle of come that followed, trailing on one cheek,

dribbling to the floor between his legs. But I was not done yet. He had satisfied my needs so completely

that once again he had earned a reward.

"Turn over,” I ordered with a slap to his hip. “Arms above your head, wrists held."

He said nothing as he obeyed, wriggling onto his back, though I could easily read the shining hope in his

eyes. I honored him with the touch of my hand around his cock—for my own pleasure more than his,

interested in seeing what his prick felt like—and it was a treat, indeed, throbbing in time with his racing

pulse. He shouted, spasmed, and came in messy gouts over my fingers.

I was so pleased I gave him those same fingers, thrust in his mouth, to suck clean. He lapped off every

drops, fellating my thumb until I was filled with the urge to fuck him again, slowly this time.

And perhaps I would use a softer, smaller whip on him as well, kissing his milky chest and shoulders

with temporary but lovely red stripes, far redder than his hair. He would make a gorgeous tiger if he had

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stripes to match his mane of copper.

And after all, he did deserve a lesson for his failure.

"You dropped the whip,” I said, playful. “What is the punishment for disobeying orders?"

His eyes sparkled, and I lost my heart a little more.

My dear Pet.

Contributors’ Bios

Margaret Leigh

Margaret Leigh resides on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia. She shares her home with her

partner, and three cats. She has recently quit the 9-5 grind for a sea change, and to focus more

completely on her writing.

Willa Okati

Willa Okati lives by the quotation: “When I have a little money, I buy books. If there's any left over, I
buy food and clothes". An avid reader since she was able to pick up a book, she spends just as much

time writing stories about men, women, and the fun they get up to together. Physically, she lives in North

Carolina, but mentally thrives in a world where each adventure is bigger and brighter than the next. She is

also owned by far too many cats, but she insists that they serve as emissaries from the Muse and can't

spare a one of them.

Please feel free to visit her web page at www.willsheornillshe.com/

M. Rode

M. Rode loves winter, being a canuck and watching boys of all sorts rub together. M. has edited various

anthologies for Torquere Press.

Vic Winter

Heat in real life is the bane of Vic's life, whose favorite season is winter, and Vic's life is far more

mundane than fiction. When it comes to fiction, the hotter the better is Vic's motto. Make it romantic,

make it sexy, make it erotic, but definitely make it hot. Visit Vic's in progress website at

www.stemsandfeathers.org/vwinter/index.html

Live a Little © 2007 by Margaret Leigh

Whip Kiss © 2007 by Vic Winter

How I Learned to Tease Him © 2007 by Willa Okati

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