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She was a good girl, really she was, and because of this Helen was more easy-going than usual. Allowed to stay out on the terrace, taking in the sunshine, she undressed down to her bra and panties. Soon she discarded the bra . . . and why not?
Summoned into the basement, she was chained up to the big T-frame, her superb body exposed. It was not her back that would suffer the lash today, but her firm, round and utterly desirable breasts, She was to be whipped, meticulously, methodically, mechanically.
Patiently she stood, awaiting the first blow. Then the rest of them hit her, fast and furious. She recoiled repeatedly, face and body contorted as she took the blows, all of them, without screaming, without a word of anguish. She was a good girl after all.
When all was done and breasts were red-raw, the dominatrix, the whip-mistress, applied copious amounts of soothing unguent that her injured young body needed and soaked up. This wasn't gratuitous abuse, but careful, caring discipline, the sort all her colleagues accepted as well.
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