Lois Takes The Lash

Her hand didn't shake as she took the instrument. Warm, soft leather beneath her fingers, wrapped carefully around a core of what felt like wood. Oddly, she remembered that there were craftsmen in Pakistan and India that specialized in making this kind of gear, carpenters and leather-workers that found their trade drying up and so began producing these goods for a jaded Western clientele...

"Rub her pussy," Blaze whispered, the devil in her ear.

Lois blinked, hesitated. At the end of the rod were five or seven strips of leather, little more than hanging strips.

"Go on," Blaze insisted. "Here."

She took the reporter's forearm in her hand and reached out, guiding the reporter so the "head" of the rod, where the individual lashes dangled from, brushed against the smooth, hairless crotch of the woman's pussy. A little thrill went through Lois as she rubbed the head back and forth across the labia. She had never done anything like this with a woman before...

The pale thighs shook, the woman strained against her bonds...at first Lois thought she was trying to pull herself free, but then she saw what the bound woman was actually doing: rubbing herself against Lois Lane's tool.

"She wants it," the enabling voice told her. "She needs a little pleasure, a little pain. Look at her strain and struggle so. It would be cruel not to help her..."

The hand fell away from Lois Lane's arm.

"Help her."

Licking her lips, the reporter raised her arm—and brought it forward with a hard slash, the leather thongs of the lash smacking against the side of the bound woman's belly. She shivered from the light blow, but didn't pull away from it...if anything, the bound woman was leaning forward more fiercely.

"Harder," Blaze ordered.

Lois raised her shoulder and brought the lash down again, applying more strength. Not quite a tennis-racket throw, but hard enough to raise five little white marks on the bound woman's skin, which quickly faded.

"Let your arm follow through," the dungeon mistress told her. "Watch where you're striking. You don't want to cut the skin or damage her—that's extra..."

The reporter wound up her arm, hitting a little harder this time, letting her arm follow through with the blow. It fell rather low on the woman's belly, a line of white marks like the scratch of an animal, the lowest one only an inch above her clit.

Lois realized she was breathing heavy...and that it had nothing to do with the physical exertion.