Ode to MenInPain.com!

Lights are low. Room is bare. She steps in wearing black leather that creaks when she moves, crop already in her fist. He’s on his knees, arms lashed behind him, shoulders pulling tight, his cock already half-hard from nothing but her stare. She paces once, twice, then snaps the leather across his back. The crack lands loud and quick. He grunts, bites it down, tries to stay quiet. She doesn’t let him. She grabs a fistful of his dark hair, drags his mouth to her boots, tells him to thank her for every stripe she’s about to lay across his skin. He licks the leather clean, tongue working fast, and she laughs—short, low, mean. She yanks him upright, slaps his stiff cock with the crop until it bounces and he shudders, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Sweat slides down his chest. She circles, strikes, circles again, each blow finding fresh meat. His muscles jump and flex, the ache building, yet the harder she hits, the harder he gets. She climbs onto the bench, forces his face between her thighs while the welts throb across his shoulders, and keeps swinging the crop against the backs of his legs until he’s panting into her cunt and leaking onto the floor. Pure, simple, cruel. Exactly how it used to be.