He stepped back for a moment and then began to touch her. His fingertips traversed her flesh, raising an army of tiny hairs standing like soldiers ready for war. His fingers followed the spaghetti straps down into the swell of her breasts and slid beneath the fabric to warm her skin. He fondled her throbbing nipples with his palms, then violently squeezed them and lifted her breasts with the nubs. The weight of her own flesh worked against her, stretching the length of the nipples even more. He withdrew his hands from within her dress and traveled over her belly, her mons, her thighs. He graced her arms with the backs of his fingers so lightly that the touch hurt like a paper cut. He surprised her completely when he pulled his hands away from her totally and then brought one open hand down harshly on her left breast, the other slapping upward across her right breast.

She gasped and moaned at the assault, what she began to realize would be the first of many. The second time he slapped her skin, he did it horizontally, slapped her tits from side to side. She swayed with the motion, the rope tugging her tummy.

“We’ve got to get you out of that dress,” he said. Her arms bound above her head, she wondered about the possibility of that. The cold blade made quick work of the spaghetti straps, ruining the expensive gift. The top fell over, the rope binding her waist keeping the skirt portion of the dress in place. Her mind’s eye pictured her with her wrists bound above her head, her legs tied to the post, her belly secured to it, unable to move at all. Helpless to him. He cupped her breasts in his palms just below the nipples. “Spit on your nipple,” he commanded her.

“You heard me the first time. I said, spit on your nipple.” His voice had changed, become harsher and deeper with the need to repeat the command.

She bent her mouth down close as she could and dribbled out a string of saliva onto her nipple. She repeated the process for the other. He thumbed away the string that clung to her lower lip and then circled the wetness into the bumpy flesh of her areolae. He then slapped down across the nipple and areolae with his fingers extended, his hand flat. She cringed and felt the shock wave ride through her body, the pain radiating from the center, ripples of warmth following. He repeated the process of having her spit on herself, followed by slapping the moisture into her skin for several minutes. Her nipples hurt so much, ached so hard, throbbed in such a manner that she could think of little else. Blood coursed through the assaulted flesh, reddening it in splotches. Even blinded, she knew her skin had