Mentally Preparing Me For My Whipping
The smartly uniformed Gynarchy police-officer mistress has come to inform me that she will be the one to deliver my sentence of 20 harsh lashes of the female whip, as determined by the female courts, and that she will be doing so at 06:00 A.M sharp tomorrow morning.
She asks me how I feel about that, and I confess to her that I am very afraid. She says that I am right to be afraid as when she whips she whips to cut and she cuts to hurt. She says that she has an advanced police diploma in the application of the whip, and assures me that she intends to reduce me to a blubbering, pain-infused wreck by the time she has finished with me. She emphasises that I will not like it!
She then makes sure to position herself in front of the set of stocks in which I am currently kneeling so as to ensure that I have a close-up and personal view of her uniform boots and socks. She advises me that, come tomorrow, I should try focussing on her boots and socks behind me on the ground whilst I am being whipped, as she thinks this might help to take my mind, or at least some of it, off the pain. Not only that, but by concentrating on her boots and socks I will get a split-second forewarning of each impending cut of the whip, as her boots will move and her socks will crease with each stroke she expertly delivers.
She then shows me the deliberately bulbous tip of her brown leather, single-tailed whip, explaining that it is designed to cause extra pain. She further notes that, like most slaves, I have clearly been whipped before, but she forewarns me that she will make no attempt to avoid the old sores on my back. Her method of whipping, she explains, will be quite methodical. She will begin by delivering the first 5 strokes in a downwards direction across the entire expanse of my back – starting just below the shoulder blades and finishing down amongst my lower ribcage – thereby producing 5 well-spaced-out weals, with plenty of room for 5 more lashes in between them as she makes her way back up my spine with the whip, in slow time – up as far as the shoulder blades again. She will then criss-cross my fresh, new stripes with 5 stinging lashes delivered from the left hand side, followed by 5 from the right (her strongest side). She explains that the criss-crossing stripes will be by far the most painful – especially where the wounds intersect – and she fully expects me to be driven temporarily insane with the pain as the bulbous end of the whip truly bites at such agony-intersections. I will, not to put too fine a point on it, be ‘whipped silly’, and shall lose all sense of dignity.
She then stretches forth her black leather, uniform police boot beneath my face and invites me to kiss it and beg her for mercy – though she also makes it quite clear she nevershows mercy to her whippees!
I nevertheless blubber into her boot, and beg for sweet feminine mercy on the morrow – much to her gleeful satisfaction!
