He is lying on my bed, the candlelight playing over his back. The muscles standing out in a dance of light and dark. The hollow of the small of his back beckoning to be touched, kissed, tasted. His red hair makes a beautiful contrast to the cream of the pillowcase. The air is scented by the candles and the smell of sex and heat. This is a moment of quiet reflection before the next wave of passion.

I crawl onto the bed, pausing briefly beside him, my arm moving to embrace him. He makes a little noise but doesn’t move. I begin to stroke his shoulders, lightly, using my fingers to tease the skin. Touching the tattoos on his arms. My finger drawing along the edge of each one. Kissing them in turn. Enjoying the lightly salty taste of his skin. My lips seek his ear, kissing the top letting my tongue touch the curve of it. Close enough to smell his skin. I breathe in his scent, trying to memorize it so later when I’m lying in the dark I can bring him back. Feel his weight, taste his kisses, see the turn of every muscle. He raises his head a little; the tag on his collar jingles like silver bells. His arms out to the sides tied to the corners of the bed, he ceased to pull against the ropes long ago. Such a docile beast now that his passion has been spent. Soon enough that hungry animal will stir again.

My crop lies on the side of the bed near his leg. The stripes I’ve already given him are an angry red in the candlelight, but I know when I finally release him he will hurry to the bathroom to look at each one in the mirror. Trophies of what a good boy he was. The skin on his ass is welted and prickly, soon, when I roll him over the sheet will feel like sandpaper against his tortured flesh. I’m not ready to put him on his back just yet, there are still a few places that are only a little pink. I pick up my black leather crop and give his ass a light slap. His head jerks back woken from his light slumber, the collar jingles again. I lean back to his ear. “I don’t remember telling you that you could sleep, little bitch,” I hiss at him.

“I’m sorry Mistress, forgive me, please.” His voice is low, a combination of the sleep and the hunger he is beginning to feel. He shifts his hips a little, I know that means his cock has stirred back to life.

I lash him again, listening to him grunt. So like a beast. The blow drives his hips down onto the bed, rubbing his prick against the mattress. There will be a wet spot there when I roll him over. I can hear him whisper, “Thank you Mistress,” every time the crop strikes his skin. The redness blooms on his ass and the heat is intense.

I stop with the crop so I can touch his wounded backside. He whimpers a little because my caress is not light. I rub hard, his hips pushing down harder to lessen the pressure on his welts. I lean closer, my mouth brushing the reddened skin. My tongue darts from my mouth to taste his pain. His whimpers have turned to moans, his hips now moving up and down trying to achieve release.

I put my hand under him, clasping his hard on in my