"A piece of fuck furniture," he said, whispering it. She hadn't heard him approach, hadn't felt him, his heat, and hadn’t sensed him leaning down so that his lips were next to her ear. "I think you're a little dusty."

She felt him now, as he stood next to her. She knew what he would do next. He would use one of his hand-made paddles, the one he called "rug beater," two loops of thick, braided rope, the ends bound into a handle with red cord. The first stroke fell, painfully, on her already abused cheek. After that he worked the other, methodically welting her from the top of her buttock to just above the back of her knee, up the inside of her thigh to just below her pussy. The sheet covering her made it impossible to anticipate it, feel the wind of it approaching her. The blows seemed to come out of a mist.

Leah lost track of the number of times the paddle struck her. Her skin was becoming numb to it, the pain settling deeper into her flesh. She felt herself em...

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