the antechamber

Mistress entered and smacked her thigh with the riding crop.

• Hurry up, you have half an hour to get ready.

She threw down a leash, a dog collar. A butt plug with a dog tail, a leather mask that obscured her eyes and ears.

The riding crop cracked a second time, leaving a mark across her already mottled thigh. Prue flinched, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink as the pain radiated in hot waves.

"Half an hour." Mistress's voice rang out like a verdict.

Prue grabbed the leash with a trembling hand, the leather cold and heavy against her clammy palm.

The leather of the collar grazed the back of her neck as she hesitantly fastened it, the metal buckle too tight against her larynx. She felt the butt plug before she even saw it—cold, glistening with lube—and her sphincter contracted in painful anticipation as she pressed it against her still-sensitive orifice.

She bit her lip. When it settled into her anus, she looked at herself. She was so horny. She put on the blackout mask and got down on her knees. Now she couldn't see anything and could hear the muffled sounds.

She waited for several minutes, when the leash was pulled.

• Let's get started on the show. A slap of the crop accompanied the words.

The leash jerked taut, briefly constricting her windpipe before Prue lunged forward, her palms scraping the concrete for balance. The butt plug suddenly vibrated, a harsh buzz that elicited a muffled moan from beneath her mask, clearly a punishment for her slowness, accompanied by a slap of the crop.

The whip hissed again, lashing her already mottled buttocks, and Prue crawled forward, guided only by the brutal tension of the leash. The rough concrete scraped her palms, each speck of dust digging into her flesh.