The Flogging Of Nyssa Nevers

Nyssa Nevers lives for the whip. Leather kisses her skin, slow then sharp, and the collar hugs her throat like a hand that never lets go. She’s already soaked. Her body arches, every stroke pushing heat between her legs, and she can’t keep quiet. Master, she moans, make me come. His crop finds her again, harder this time, then the flogger returns in steady rhythm. Black hair sticks to her damp face. She trembles under the chain of pain and want, begging louder, offering everything. He keeps her there, bound to the edge, until the next strike decides if she gets what she craves.