More, Mistress

A smile curled Lois Lane's lips. The violet ring on her finger glowed brighter as a shiver of sexual excitement ran through her body. She had never quite understood, before, what BDSM people got out of the whole experience. So little of what they did was actually sex in any kind of boring in-and-out sense. Now, though, she thought she dimly began to get it. The sense of power. Trust. Need. Pain.

The reporter leaned forward and tilted her head, to press her lips against the sorceress's own. Her tongue slid into Circe's mouth, to taste the slightly sweet saliva, still tinged with the flavor of the wine that she had been drinking. When she pulled away, there was a dim light in Circe's hazel eyes...expectation. Need. Adoration.

Lois licked her lips as she drew back. Cracked the energy-whip against the sands. Chose her next words very carefully.

"I'm going to give you the whipping of your miserable life, ****."

The muscles in Circe's body tensed, her whole body leaning forward in her bonds. Held up as she was between the glowing posts, it seemed to Lois that the sorceress was arching her body forward, as if trying to present her cunt for further punishment, even though it was already streaked with red stripes.

The whip arched up, underarm, as fast as Lois could. Like playing tennis. It wasn't about how much ****, the reporter thought. It was speed. She wanted to punish that pussy. To hurt it. Maybe make it bleed. To hear Circe moan and squirm in lust and pain. And then, maybe, when it was all over...

Terrible visions ran through Lois Lane's mind as the whip struck. Circe straightened and quivered, a quiet mewl came from between her teeth as the whip struck.

"More," Circe whispered in pain and ecstasy.

Lois gave it to her.