I beg for the whip!

I struggled to breathe as Margaret playfully brushed my flinching, clenching bottom cheeks with the business end of the whip.

"Yes," I say quietly.

Miss Margaret is not satisfied. Continuing to tease my bottom with the lash, she demands more. "That's not how **** girls talk to their, Mistresses. We want to make this realistic, don't we?"

To get what I needed, I knew I'd have to play the role she demanded. "Yes-um, Ma'am," I drawl. "I knows I'ze been uppity, Miss Margaret," I say, trying to sound like a **** girl, "and I'm sorry I'za so clumsy outside. Sometimes, it's like my heads just filled with cotton! I knows the fine gentlemen that's fixin' to buy me will wanna know I'ze been disciplined."

"Fortunately, the ceiling is high enough for me to get a good whip crack in," she says. I tense as she takes too steps back, raises her arm, and CRACKS! the whip in the air. My heart skips a beat as it crackles like gunfire!

"So is that what you need, cotton head? Do you need a taste of the whip, right across your naked black bottom."

Miss Margaret is enjoying herself, making me beg for the whip. But as I rub myself on the bench, I realize I'm enjoying myself too. "Yes, Ma'm", I drawl. "I need a good lashing!"

As Miss Margaret is already in position, she doesn't need to position herself, or make a test stroke. I hear a whistle, but not the crack, as my mind is consumed by the sensation of my bottom being lit ablaze.

"My you girls do have lungs on you," Miss Margaret says, but he laughter doesn't stop her from delivering the second stroke. I jerk against my chains, but it is useless. I am buckled down too tightly to do anything but scream, and scream I do.

"One more, just for fun!" she says brightly. The fun is all hers as the lash cuts into my bottom like a knife.

"Oooh, that's PERFECT," she coos. "Your bottom looks just like the one in the catalog. My, I am such an artist. What do you say, Cotton Head?"

"Thank you, Ma'am," I drawl and sob.

A little bell jingles, singling that the buyers have arrived. Margaret leaves me, closing the door behind her. I am bound to the bench legs spread wide, ass split and wide. **** to relieve the pain in my burning bottom, I began rubbing my shamefully wet pussy against the wooden bench, heedless of it's roughness, **** for release. I hear the doorknob turn.

"Come in, ladies and gentlemen," I hear Margaret say. We have some find pieces here, true masterpieces, reminders of our cities golden age." I struggle not to move as I feel Miss Margaret's whip brush my exposed pussy. "Look closely, but don't touch. Each one is scented, with her own unique fragrance. We put natural convection slots in them, so it almost looks as if they're breathing."

My face pressed against the bench, I struggle not to move. A Chinese businessman in a suit but no tie kneels down next to me, examining my motionless face. Smiling, he moves to my exposed pussy, kneels, and smells my wetness."

"Oh, I have to see THIS naughty negro," a woman's voice says. "Come look at this, Jenny. Her pussy actually looks wet."

"Too bad we can't fuck 'em, right Manton?" a voice behind me says. I tense at the familiar name. I can't see him, but I sense his presence, and smell his disgusting pipe. "Of course, if we could do that, what would we need Havenhall for?"

I tense as an important clue is revealed to me, even as behind me, I'm revealing to Manton everything he wants to see.

"I know this bottom," Manton says, looking down at me. "I spent an evening at High Cotton with an ass like this, watching it sway back and forth to the restroom, 50 pounds of cotton in a 40 pound sack. Of course the whip marks really improve it, as does that wet, sloppy beaver of hers. Makes it a real object d'art."

I blush under his withering gaze. Manton sees me! Or does he? With my face hidden, he can't know for sure. I'm not sure he even realizes that I'm (not?) real. A part of me wants to end this charade, but if I do that, I'll have to admit I'm here, I'll have to admit he's looking at my hot, wet pussy.